The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family - Chapter 333

Chapter 333: The Throne Room and the Five Monarchs

The Lionhart Courtyard was swallowed by a silence more profound than any battle cry. It was the crushing weight of a shared, impossible truth, delivered by the Main Butler’s trembling voice and confirmed by the terrified stillness of ten thousand elite soldiers.

The declaration was not merely an act of war; it was an act of continental annihilation.

Every man under the Lionhart banner knew the rigid structure of the Runiya Continent. Its stability was maintained by the terrifying balance of seven sovereign powers, each ruled by a Monarch whose personal might stood above armies. There was the Ocean Monarch, mistress of the global seas; the Wind Monarch, sovereign of the central skies and plains; the mighty Metal Empress, who forged the world’s most devastating war engines; the searing Flame King, whose dominion covered the volcanic south; and the unyielding Stone Monarch, warden of the eastern mountain bastions.

Their own nation was commanded by the Ice Monarch, Roman Lionhart. And above them all, maintaining a terrifying neutrality that kept the continent from devouring itself, was the Beast Emperor, ruler of the wild lands, recognized as the strongest being among the seven—a being whose restraint was the only thing preventing this day from arriving years ago.

Now, Roman Lionhart had decreed that the Rikxia Empire would stand against the Coalition of Five Monarchs: Ocean, Wind, Metal, Flame, and Stone.

The scale of this defiance was staggering, defying all military logic. The combined fleets of the Ocean Monarch would choke every port. The Wind Monarch would unleash airborne magical assaults, turning the very sky into a hostile frontier. The Metal Empress would bring forth her industrial monstrosities and siege armies. The Flame King would render the rich northern lands to ash, and the Stone Monarch would crush supply routes under immovable stone magic.

It was an impossible act. A magnificent, suicidal break with reality. The balance was shattered, and the Rikxia Empire stood alone against the hungry world.

Klaus, still grappling with the knowledge of his maternal grandfather, the formidable Beast Emperor, and the cosmic fragments churning within himself, felt a renewed surge of disbelief. This recklessness transcended Roman Lionhart’s aggressive reputation. This felt personal, desperate, and irrevocably tied to the power residing in his own core and the core of his cousin, Alex. The world is being dragged into the abyss because of us.

The Main Butler, his face a mask of strained formality, fought the visible tremor in his hands. He knew the cost of this decree better than anyone.

“You have heard the Emperor’s will!” The Butler’s voice finally returned, amplified by a fierce application of mana. “This is a moment for iron discipline, not paralyzing fear! All commissioned officers, Captains and Generals, are immediately summoned to the War Council Chamber!”

His gaze then locked onto the small group of nobles by the Hall doors. “All Direct Descendants of the Patriarch are commanded to convene in the Throne Room without a moment’s delay. The mobilized forces will maintain their formations until further instruction!”

A deafening “Yes, Your Excellency!” thundered across the Courtyard, followed by the synchronous clack of ten thousand steel-shod heels—the sound of soldiers accepting a glorious, terrifying fate.

Roland Lionhart, his indifferent facade cracking only to reveal a flicker of possessive interest in Klaus, pivoted. He followed the imposing figure of Melo and the stiff Main Butler toward the Hall.

Before the towering bronze doors could close, Melo turned, his massive presence dominating the space. He found Klaus instantly across the expanse of recovering soldiers.

“Young Master Klaus! The Patriarch requires your attendance in the Throne Room. Immediate attendance is mandatory!” Melo’s voice boomed, silencing the residual murmurs of the courtyard.

Klaus turned to Alexandra, his expression softening to hide the grim reality of the summons.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, attempting a reassuring smile.

“I’m coming too,” Alexandra insisted, her eyes gleaming with inherited Lionhart defiance. “I am the Ice Monarch’s granddaughter. I have a right to be there.”

A moment later, Melo’s voice entered Klaus’s mind via a precise, potent mental transmission, crisp and undeniable.

By ‘Direct Descendants,’ the Butler refers to the Patriarch’s titled children. You and Young Master Alex are the only exceptions. This summons is mandatory for you two, given the peculiar and sensitive nature of this war’s true origin.

The war’s true origin. It was confirmation. The continent was aligning against the Rikxia Empire not for territory or resources, but for the sacred, ancient power that Klaus and Alex had inadvertently brought to the surface. The weight of his guilt was profound.

He looked back at Alexandra, recognizing the danger in the room he was about to enter. “Go to my mother,” he urged, keeping his voice gentle. “She is worried and needs you now more than anyone. Tell her that I am following the Emperor’s command.”

Alexandra hesitated for a heartbeat, then recognized the finality in his gaze. She nodded curtly and turned, moving quickly away from the Hall.

Klaus began his walk. Just as before, the ranks of soldiers instantly separated before him, their movement driven not by order, but by instinctual terror. They opened a path of human flesh, fearing to make eye contact with the being who had just stolen their very breath. Klaus strode down this channel of fear, the silent deference of the army acknowledging the monstrous power he contained.

He stepped across the threshold. The vast, bronze doors of the Main Hall sealed with a resonant, grinding finality.

The interior was a well of shadow, where torchlight struggled to conquer the obsidian walls. Klaus walked the length of the hall, taking his place next to Roland near the gold-plated doors of the Throne Room.

“We await the remaining descendants,” the Main Butler repeated, his face pale against the backdrop of dark stone.

Klaus offered a curt, cold nod. Roland merely shifted his weight, his eyes focused on the doors, dismissing the Butler’s very existence with his posture.

After what felt like an hour, the Hall doors hissed open again. The twelve official sons of Roman Lionhart, the pillars of the Rikxia political elite, filed in. Each was immaculate, yet each carried a tension that bordered on frenzy.

Klaus exchanged a silent nod with Raphael Lionhart—Alexandra’s father and the Empire’s Chief Healer—the only son who had ever shown any measure of warmth toward Klaus’s father, Ludovic. The other eleven stood as a line of living, predatory marble, their gazes filled with decades of bitter, simmering rivalry.

Roland, his temper thin, finally broke the silence. “The twelve scions are here. The bastard’s son is here1. What time-wasting formality holds us now?”

The Main Butler winced at Roland’s cruel summary. “We are still awaiting the presence of Lady Yenova and Young Master Alex, my Lord.”

The mention of Lady Yenova—the youngest, the beautiful daughter whose political influence far outstripped her years and was universally known to be the Patriarch’s most indulged child—caused Roland’s control to snap. His jaw clenched, and a palpable wave of icy resentment radiated from him. The other sons mirrored his rage. The favorite was once again forcing them to wait, underscoring her superior position in the hierarchy of their father’s affections.

Another painful interval of fifteen minutes passed.

Finally, Yenova swept in, draped in a gown of dark, liquid emerald that seemed to shimmer with its own cold light. Alex Lionhart followed her, looking utterly bewildered and small beside her dramatic entrance.

“My sincerest apologies, Father,” Yenova declared, addressing the massive gold doors with theatrical reverence. “I was delayed by the necessity of retrieving my dear nephew, Alex, who seems to believe that war can wait for him to finish studying runes.” She smiled sweetly, a razor-sharp edge beneath the surface.

Alex, seeing his father Raoul, offered a deep, respectful bow. Raoul, unwilling to yield his role as the dignified heir-apparent, offered only a curt, almost imperceptible nod in return.

As Yenova and Alex joined the line, Roman Lionhart’s voice sliced through the silence from the inner room. It was not a man’s voice; it was the raw, metallic grinding of cold, ancient force, stripped of all human warmth.

“Enter. Immediately.”

Roland pushed through the throng, his ambition burning in his eyes. “I lead,” he declared, his chest swelling with predatory pride. “As the eldest and the declared future Patriarch.”

“The title has not been granted!” Raoul hissed, finally allowing his fury to surface. “It is presumption, not decree!”

Roland ignored him with regal disdain, shoving the heavy, gold doors open. He vanished into the Throne Room. The procession followed, one by one, the entire bloodline of the Rikxia Empire filing into the very heart of the state.

The Throne Room was a weapon of architecture. It was designed to crush the will of any monarch who did not belong there. The enormous, roaring Golden Lion Throne dominated the hall, a breathtaking masterpiece of power.

But the figure sitting upon it eclipsed the throne entirely.

Roman Lionhart, the Ice Monarch, was radiating a cold, tangible power that was no longer merely a magical aura. It was a suffocating, gravitational force, the absolute presence of a primordial being. The man on the throne was utterly alien—not the familiar father, nor the shrewd politician, but something ancient, contained, and terrifyingly magnificent. Every one of the fifteen 1descendants froze, their ambition and rivalry instantly forgotten in the face of this cosmic weight.

Klaus, having just felt his own Icarus Fragment flare, recognized the immense, perfectly harnessed power radiating from the throne.

{I take it back,} Greed interjected, his voice deep in Klaus’s mind, strained and echoing with a shock that was entirely new. {He is no longer a weakling, Klaus. He is a genuine, absolute monster.}