The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family - Chapter 321

Chapter 321: A Fragment’s Truth

Man, I was utterly spent, but I couldn’t let myself drop. I was gripping that black sword, feeling its raw, dark energy vibrating under my fingers like a live wire. The whole tower was wrecked, but my mind was laser-focused, completely disconnected from the noise. I was operating purely on adrenaline and the terrifying knowledge I’d spent the last few minutes confirming.

I’m a guy who deals in facts. Cold, hard, calculated facts. That’s what kept me alive as a mage, and honestly, it’s the only reason I haven’t totally lost it in this weird new life. But lately, the facts just stopped checking out. The reincarnation story—the whole ‘second chance’ thing—felt like a flimsy cover story now. It was too easy, too tidy for the cosmic chaos I was knee-deep in. I kept trying to fit my life into that simple box, but the lid wouldn’t close.

The white hair, Gluttony’s terrifying power, the bizarre memories I snatched from that crushed Icarus fragment… they all screamed one thing. I wasn’t just reborn. I was the result of a massive, cosmic crash. My dead human soul fused with something primal. Something that left the name Arkadius carved into my very core. Every time I thought it, my fragmented mind didn’t just access a memory; it experienced a visceral recognition, like seeing your own face after years of amnesia. It was my true, original title.

Greed, Gluttony, all those guys, they’re the Arkdieu—fractured bits of some supreme being. If they’re just fragments, then the only logical answer is that I’m the nexus. Not a random body they possessed, but the core where all these pieces are supposed to reassemble. It’s a bleak thought, really. It means my life isn’t mine; it’s just a required step in some ancient, predetermined plan by the Primordial or whatever force is running the show. I wasn’t fighting for my life; I was fighting to exist as an independent consciousness within a collapsing, reassembling god-project. I was a tiny, fragile mind caught in a divine recycling process.

I tightened my grip on the blade. Greed’s usual arrogance is annoying, but its current, palpable panic was my best tool. The moment I dropped the name, that booming, mocking voice just vanished. I couldn’t be afraid; I had to push for the truth now, while it was off-balance. My survival depends on figuring out exactly which war I’ve stepped into, and Greed was suddenly the only map I had.

I pushed my consciousness forward, ignoring the burning ache in my core. The exhaustion was secondary; the information was primary. I focused all my remaining willpower on the connection, ignoring the overwhelming sensation of an ancient entity trapped inches from my hand. I had to know what Greed’s panic was rooted in. Was it fear of me, or fear of him?

“I need to know, Greed,” I projected through the mental connection, my voice sharp and demanding despite the mental fatigue. “Tell me what you know about Arkadius.”

The sword’s high-pitched whine immediately cut out. The silence that followed felt heavy, packed with ancient, concentrated hatred. It was the kind of silence that precedes a universe-ending cataclysm, all focused on one question.

{How do you even know that name?} Greed’s voice was a cold, demanding rasp, completely flat, stripped bare of all theatrical pretense. {Answer me! Don’t you dare lie. The Great Me will know the truth. That name… it’s a serious breach. A wound in the cosmic law. Who gave you access to it?}

I kept my mental voice steady, refusing to back down. This was the most vulnerable Greed had ever been, and I wasn’t giving up the advantage.

‘No one told me,’ I asserted. ‘I just remembered it myself. It came up from fragmented consciousness. A part of me… was identified with that name before.’

* * *

That reply absolutely walloped the entity inside the blade. For Greed—the self-proclaimed Great Me—the idea that a temporary human body could recollect that name was a monumental, cosmic offense. It didn’t just fear the name; it feared the implication that the original source of the name was capable of such a clever, self-resurrecting trick. Greed, a consciousness of pure, shattered Emotion, built its entire existence on defying the old cosmic rules. It existed to prove the Primordial’s order was a failure.

Greed is an Arkdieu, created from the Primordial’s feelings, wanting the whole universe. It viewed its existence as a superior, unbound state, a rejection of the original flawed design. Arkadius, on the other hand, was a Celestial, a creature of light and order, one of the seven who guarded the keys to the Arkdieu’s prison. He was the warden, the rival, the ancient enemy. He represented everything Greed hated: structure, duty, and limitations.

The emotional Arkdieu had long ago shoved all memories of Arkadius into the “Past Failures” box. The Celestial was presumed to be long gone, a bureaucratic mess-up that failed to keep them locked up. But the host’s casual claim to the name—a name that should have been sealed away in Vatheron (the prison realm)—ripped that old wound wide open. The humiliation of being imprisoned by a Celestial like Arkadius was a core element of Greed’s identity.

Greed processed the host’s fragmented memories—the pathetic cult, the Icarus fragment, the ‘Ascension Ritual’—and felt only intense disdain. Mortal attempts at godhood? Utterly beneath its notice. It wouldn’t waste ancient memory on such trivialities; they were just background noise.

But the name, that was the key. Greed felt this horrific internal pressure, like its foundational rules were trying to correct themselves. The possibility that this human, this focal point, was actually the self-proclaimed ‘ego’ of the Celestial Arkadius—or even worse, an unintended fusion of the two forces—meant the ancient war was about to kick off again, or reality itself was bending into a pretzel. This wasn’t just a threat to its freedom; it was a threat to its very definition of existence.

Its hostility spiked into a razor-sharp calculation. The last thing Greed needed was the Celestial order returning, especially with a piece of its own mind stuck to the center of the event. The need to dominate the host was instantly replaced by the terrifying need to understand how this return was even possible and, more importantly, how to sabotage it for Greed’s own ultimate benefit. It had to control the narrative.

Greed forced itself to calm down, trading panic for cold, hard strategy. It couldn’t afford to lose this connection now; this insignificant human was the only link to the puzzle pieces, and the Arkdieu were nothing without their ambition.

{That’s a fittingly messy way for a pathetic creature like that to show up, using a human soul as an anchor,} Greed’s mental voice finally cut through the silence, layered with calculated hostility and intense contempt. {Your claims are noted, little ant. You’ve brought up an inconvenient past that absolutely concerns me. The thought of that stiff-backed failure walking again is intolerable.}

The sword pulsed, showing a deep, cynical resignation. Greed hated the idea, but the truth was necessary.

{You want the lowdown on that self-righteous Celestial? A name that smells like stale ambition and broken vows?} Greed paused, pulling its consciousness slightly back into the obsidian blade, conveying massive disdain. {Let’s skip the games and the amateur theatrics. I need to recover a memory to give you the full, unvarnished picture. Bring your hand forward, runt. There’s a second, smaller fragment of me—the rune on your palm—that I need to absorb. I need the clarity only that piece can provide. Do that, and I’ll tell you precisely who Arkadius was, and why his return is the absolute worst thing that could happen to this universe.}

DING

{ The Gluttony trait is resonating with one fragment of ′Greed.′ }

******A/N*****

Sorry for the long hiatus

*****A/N*******