The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family - Chapter 340

Capítulo 340: The God in the Dungeon

The path to the Imperial Dungeons was a descent not just in altitude, but in moral clarity. Klaus followed Melo, the Emperor’s Shadow, away from the freezing, sterile light of the Throne Room and into the bowels of the Main Estate.

Melo, a figure clad in tight, dark purple and silver, moved with a silent, gliding efficiency. His face was entirely obscured by a black mask, with only two slits for his eyes, which themselves were hidden beneath a deep shadow. He was less a guard and more a trained instinct, a deadly extension of the Emperor’s will.

They bypassed the standard holding cells, where the common criminals, political dissidents, and minor mana smugglers were kept. Even these upper tiers were harsh; the corridors were carved from raw, dripping stone, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of stale blood and the despair of men who had lost everything. The prisoners, mostly clad in tattered, gray rags, stared out through thick iron bars, their eyes vacant and hopeless. Klaus could feel the remnants of countless suppressed mana signatures, the evidence of failed escape attempts and brutal, routine torture.

A necessary evil, Klaus thought, the pragmatic truth of governance settling in his mind. Order demands these sacrifices.

Melo stopped before a nondescript wall, the stone identical to the rest of the corridor. He placed his masked hand against a specific point, and without a sound, a section of the wall—not a door, but a single, solid piece of bedrock—receded into the floor, revealing a staircase descending into absolute darkness.

This was the true dungeon: the secret, lowest level where the worst criminals of the Rikxia Empire were kept. Those deemed too dangerous, too knowledgeable, or too politically sensitive to ever see the light of day again.

The air immediately grew colder, yet denser, choked with a potent array of suppression seals.

As they began their descent, the nature of the prisoners changed. The despairing apathy of the upper levels was replaced by something entirely different: fanaticism.

These were the cultists, the captured remnants of the attack on the Icarus cult temple, the followers of the Icarus Fragment.

As Klaus walked past the cells, several figures, previously huddled in silent exhaustion, stirred and rose. Their eyes, feverish and bright despite the darkness, locked onto Klaus.

The light from the torch Melo carried caught the exposed skin of a prisoner’s back, revealing the crude, scarred marking of the Icarus sun, tattooed in fading crimson.

One man, his face gaunt and pale, pressed himself against the iron bars, his breathing ragged. He fell to his knees in the filth of his cell.

“Lord… Lord Icarus,” he whispered, the sound cracking with desperate reverence.

“He has returned! Our God has returned!” another voice, stronger and more manic, cried out from an adjacent cell.

Soon, the entire corridor was filled with the sounds of shuffling, chains dragging on stone, and hushed, fervent prayers. The cultists prostrated themselves toward Klaus, their arms outstretched, their raspy voices unified in ecstatic worship.

“My God! My God! How may we serve you, Light of the Forgotten?”

They called him ‘God,’ they called him ‘Icarus,’ and their devotion was absolute, frighteningly so. They were tortured, broken men, yet the sight of Klaus—the living vessel of their three-thousand-year-old dogma—filled them with transcendent joy.

Klaus ignored them. He did not waver, his steps measured and steady. He had anticipated this reaction; he carried their fragmented god within his soul, and they sensed it with every fiber of their being. He had to show no acknowledgement, no weakness. He was here for information, not a sermon.

Melo, walking a step ahead of Klaus, was a study in controlled astonishment. He was the Emperor’s Shadow, a man whose duty involved perpetual, brutal interrogation. He knew exactly what it took to break these cultists, yet here they were, sacrificing their dignity for a mere glimpse of the young man beside him.

They reached the deepest, final cell—a compartment of solid, cold iron and stone, reinforced with intricate mana suppression seals designed to hold a high-level Swordmaster captive.

Melo stopped, placing his hand on the final door, and with a soft hiss of releasing pressure, the heavy iron swung open.

The scene inside was brutal.

The prisoner, High Priest Valen, was suspended from the ceiling by thick, enchanted chains locked around his wrists, leaving his feet barely scraping the stone floor. He was shirtless, his gaunt frame a roadmap of recent abuse. The skin on his chest and back was crisscrossed with whip marks, puncture wounds, and cauterized brands. He looked severely malnourished, his ribs showing clearly beneath his pale skin.

Yet, as Klaus stepped into the cell, a flicker of immense, burning joy ignited in the prisoner’s eyes. Despite the pain, the hunger, and the crushing despair of his captivity, a beatific smile stretched across his split lips.

“My… God,” Valen gasped, his voice a dry, raspy whisper, the sound of a man who hadn’t spoken in weeks.

Klaus stood in the center of the tiny cell, the torchlight illuminating the High Priest’s tortured body. Klaus studied him, taking in the years of fanatical devotion etched onto his face and the raw, tangible belief radiating from his shattered core.

He remained silent for a long moment, allowing the High Priest to soak in the presence he considered divine.

Valen, despite being chained and tortured, looked ecstatic. The moment he had prayed for, the moment the God Icarus had prophesied for three thousand years, was standing before him.

“How may I serve you, Lord Icarus?” Valen asked, the question ringing with complete sincerity. If the chains had allowed it, he would have collapsed into a prostrate bow at Klaus’s feet.

Klaus finally spoke, his voice cold and devoid of any shared religious ecstasy. “I am Klaus Lionhart. I am not your God, or a God for that matter.”

Valen’s smile never wavered. “For me, you are a God, my God, Oh Lord Icarus. I know what you are. Tell me, how can this unworthy servant find the way to serve the Light?”

Klaus cut straight to the core of his immediate need. “How did you infiltrate the Lionhart Estate and the capital? I want every detail.”

Valen seemed incapable of refusing, his joy too overwhelming to allow for concealment. “There are hidden passages underground, my Lord, prepared by my predecessor generations ago. They connect the deepest tunnels beneath the Rikxia capital to a series of old, forgotten catacombs beneath this very estate. We prepared for three thousand years for your return, Lord Icarus. No mortal defense could stop us from reaching you.”

Klaus digested the information. Secret tunnels, long forgotten by the current Imperial administration, running beneath the heart of the capital and connecting to the Lionhart Estate itself. It confirmed the terrifying vulnerability of the capital.

Klaus moved to his second, more pressing question—the one that concerned the impending continental war.

“Are there similar passages in the other Six Great Nations?” Klaus asked.

Valen smiled, a wide, terrifying grin of triumph. “Of course, Lord Icarus. We are prepared for your arrival and your conquest. There is no place on the Runiya Continent that we cannot access. Every single monarch nation— Every nations on the continent—they all sit atop a network of passages that only your servants know. We are everywhere, ready to prepare the way for your Light.”

Valen spoke as if describing the most wonderful construction project, completely unafraid of his captors or the consequences of sharing state secrets.

Klaus continued, his questions becoming increasingly practical. “Except for all the cultists imprisoned here, are there other followers operating freely out there?”

“Of course, my Lord. You have hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of followers, all across the continent. They await the sign of your coming.”

Melo, who stood just outside the iron door, his black mask giving no quarter to emotion, visibly stiffened. He was the Emperor’s Shadow, privy to the darkest secrets of the Empire, yet he was utterly speechless. He knew this man, Valen, had endured the most inventive, agonizing interrogation the Empire had to offer without uttering a single, useful word. And now, he was cheerfully detailing a continent-spanning network of infiltration to the young man who claimed not to be his god.

“Is there a cultist inside the ruling structure of the Seven Great Nations?” Klaus asked, pressing the most dangerous question of all.

Valen’s smile widened, twisting his scarred lips. “Of course, my Lord. The best shadows must always hide in the brightest light. We have prepared the way for you.”

“Who was the traitor?” Melo suddenly yelled, unable to contain his fury. The spy’s identity was the key to neutralizing the entire domestic threat. He lunged forward, his masked face turning toward the High Priest.

Valen did not even glance at him. His eyes, burning with feverish devotion, remained fixed only on Klaus, the light of his alleged god.

Melo whirled around, his eyes locking onto Klaus. “Please, Young Master,” he implored, forgetting his disciplined demeanor. “Ask him! Ask him who the traitor is! This is the most vital secret!”

Klaus looked at the High Priest. He knew that one word—one name—would give Roman Lionhart the tool to purge his internal enemy. But Klaus no longer cared about the identity of the past traitor. He had the knowledge he came for. He had a continental map of infiltration.

Klaus simply turned his back on Valen, ignoring Melo’s desperate plea. He walked toward the open cell door.

“Young Master!” Melo yelled, his voice laced with shock and frustration as he saw Klaus leaving the cell, the most valuable intelligence asset in the Empire untouched.

Klaus stopped at the threshold, turning his head slightly toward the shadow.

“I’ve already found out all I needed to know,” Klaus stated, his eyes cold and final.

He had the means of continental infiltration, the terrifying scale of the cult’s presence, and the confirmation of internal betrayal across all seven nations. The identity of one dead spy was meaningless compared to the knowledge that every capital, including the Ice Palace he was about to visit, was built on a foundation of Icarus cult tunnels.

He did not need the Emperor’s domestic spy. He needed the Emperor’s enemy—the cult’s network—for his own strategic plan.

He stepped out of the cell, leaving the fanatical High Priest suspended in his chains and the Emperor’s Shadow utterly bewildered by his cold calculus.

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