The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family-Chapter 225: The Harmonizer’s Gambit

"A common misconception," Roman replied, blood dripping from his blade as he advanced toward the Harmonizer. "One your cult will not survive to correct."

Brother Mortus stood his ground as his remaining cultists formed a protective wall before him. Only four members of the Containment Chorus remained standing, their amber armor cracked from Melo's precise strikes. They moved with desperate coordination, their previously perfect synchronization now fracturing under the weight of Roman's relentless advance.

The Ice Monarch's silver hair caught the flickering light as he moved. Even without access to his mana core, his swordsmanship alone represented the pinnacle of physical mastery. Six cultists already lay dead from their encounter in the corridor. Another seven had fallen in this gallery. Yet Brother Mortus showed no fear.

"Your Chorus is broken," Roman stated, his voice colder than winter wind. "Your delay tactics have failed. Surrender now, and I may grant you a clean death."

Mortus spread his arms wide, palms facing the vaulted ceiling. The ritual scars covering his frame began to pulse with amber light, beating in rhythm with his heart.

"The Chorus has served its purpose, Ice Monarch," he replied, resonant voice making the crystal fixtures vibrate throughout the gallery. "Each moment you spend here brings the Worthy One closer to salvation."

Roman's eyes narrowed slightly. "Melo. Finish this."

The white-masked enforcer moved like flowing water, his midnight blade carving elegant arcs through the air. The four remaining cultists intercepted, their amber-enhanced movements attempting to create an impenetrable defense.

Their efforts proved insufficient.

Melo's first strike bypassed a cultist's guard as though it didn't exist, separating head from shoulders in a single fluid motion. The second cultist barely had time to register his companion's fall before Melo's blade opened him from shoulder to hip. The third managed to parry once before a lightning-fast riposte pierced his heart.

The final cultist—a woman whose ritual scars formed a sunburst pattern around her eyes—held her ground with remarkable skill. Her amber daggers left luminescent trails as they intercepted Melo's attacks.

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"For Icarus," she whispered, pouring more energy into her weapons.

Melo offered no response. His white mask revealed nothing as he shifted stance, blade angling in a technique so rare it had no formal name in modern combat manuals. The woman's daggers blurred with enhanced speed, weaving a defensive pattern that should have been impenetrable.

Yet somehow, Melo's blade found its mark, emerging from her back in a spray of blood and amber fluid. She collapsed without a sound, eyes still wide with disbelief.

While Melo dispatched the remaining cultists, Roman closed on Brother Mortus with cold purpose. The Harmonizer made no move to defend himself, his ritual-scarred face showing only calm acceptance as Roman's blade approached his throat.

"Your extraction team stands alone now," Roman stated. "Whatever you hoped to accomplish by delaying us has failed."

Mortus smiled, teeth filed to sharp points catching the light. "Delay? No, Ice Monarch. Positioning."

Roman registered the shift in ambient energy an instant too late. He pivoted sharply, blade already moving to intercept the new threat.

From an alcove at the gallery's edge stepped a figure in ornate amber robes, hood drawn back to reveal an elderly man with intricate ritual scarification forming Icarus's mark upon his features. Unlike the crude scars of lesser cultists, these lines had been carved with surgical precision, inlaid with a substance that made them glow from within.

"High Priest Valen," Brother Mortus acknowledged with reverence.

Roman didn't hesitate. His blade slashed toward the High Priest with lethal intent, aiming to end the threat with a single decisive strike.

Valen moved with surprising agility for his apparent age, avoiding the killing blow by millimeters. From his sleeves emerged a ceremonial dagger that caught Roman's follow-up attack, amber light flaring where the blades met.

"The Ice Monarch," Valen observed, voice carrying practiced resonance. "Your physical prowess is as formidable as legends claim, even without your mana enhancement."

"You will not leave this gallery alive," Roman replied, blade already moving in a complex pattern designed to overwhelm his opponent's guard.

Valen parried each strike with unnatural precision, the ceremonial dagger leaving trails of amber light with each movement. "Death is merely transformation, Ice Monarch. We embrace it as the gateway to true existence."

As they clashed, more cultists emerged from hidden recesses throughout the gallery. Melo engaged them without hesitation, his blade dancing between multiple opponents with lethal grace.

"You've planned this for some time," Roman observed, noting the precise positioning of the ambush. His strikes intensified, forcing Valen to give ground despite the High Priest's unexpected skill.

"Three thousand years of patience," Valen confirmed, deflecting another attack. "Each generation adding to our knowledge, each sacrifice bringing us closer to Icarus's return."

Roman's blade slipped past Valen's guard, cutting a shallow line across the High Priest's chest. "Your faith is misplaced. Your cult ends tonight."

The High Priest showed no concern for his wound. Instead, his left hand emerged from voluminous sleeves, revealing palm and fingers covered in freshly carved symbols that wept blood onto the gallery's marble floor. Each crimson droplet sizzled upon contact, etching minute patterns into the stone itself.

"The vessel has already been secured, Ice Monarch," Valen stated with absolute certainty. "This encounter is merely... formality."

Roman noticed the spreading design beneath their feet—blood runes propagating outward in complex configurations. His eyes narrowed in recognition. "A spatial disruption array."

"You recognize it," Valen seemed pleased. "Few still remember the old arts."

Roman abandoned restraint. His attacks intensified, sword moving with such precision and speed that the air itself seemed to part before it. The High Priest's ceremonial dagger cracked under the onslaught, amber energy flickering as the blade fractured.

"Mortus!" Valen called, genuine urgency entering his voice for the first time. "The array requires completion!"

Brother Mortus stepped forward, producing a ritual dagger from within his robes. "For Icarus," he intoned, then plunged the blade into his own heart.

Amber energy erupted from the wound, flowing in precise patterns across the floor to connect with the blood runes Valen had initiated. The ambient temperature plummeted as space itself began to warp around them.

Roman immediately disengaged from Valen, pivoting toward Mortus with blade raised to sever the connection. Too late—the dying ritualist's sacrifice had already catalyzed the array, amber light racing along the blood-etched symbols to form a perfect circle beneath Roman's feet.

"The Transposition Gate opens!" Valen announced, arms raised in triumph as Mortus collapsed, his life force powering the final sequence.

Roman attempted to lunge clear of the circle, but space itself seemed to fold around him, light bending in ways that defied natural law. The gallery's solid floor became insubstantial beneath his feet, reality compressing into a single point of blinding amber light.

For a heartbeat that stretched to infinity, Roman experienced dislocation on a fundamental level—his consciousness separated from physical form, awareness spread across multiple points in space simultaneously. Images flashed through his mind: ancient chambers bathed in amber light, ritual spaces where thousands had been sacrificed, a massive obsidian altar awaiting its final vessel.

Then solidity returned with jarring suddenness, and Roman found himself standing on bare rock under open sky.

He oriented himself immediately, taking in the starlit vista around him. The imperial capital spread below, sections still burning from the coordinated attacks. From this elevation, he could see the Lionhart Estate in the northern quarter, a dome of amber energy shimmering above it.

"The eastern ridge," he muttered, calculating the distance. "Five miles from the estate."

A second flash of amber light deposited Melo beside him, the masked enforcer maintaining his balance despite the disorienting transportation.

"The cult has removed us from the battlefield entirely," Melo observed, his golden eyes narrowing behind his mask as he studied the distant estate.

Roman reached inward, seeking connection with his mana core. Where moments before there had been only emptiness, now familiar cold energy responded to his call, flowing through pathways that had channeled his power for decades.

"Our connections to our mana cores have been restored." Roman noted, frost crystallizing around his fingertips as he tested the flow. "The null field's effect is limited to the estate grounds."

"A tactical miscalculation on their part," Melo replied. "They've granted us access to our full abilities while merely increasing our distance."

Roman studied the amber dome covering the estate, its purpose now clear—not to disable all practitioners indefinitely, but to create a controlled environment for the extraction team's operation. The Transposition Gate had been a desperate measure to remove immediate threats from the field.

"Signal the eastern watchtowers," Roman instructed. "We require immediate communication with all Elite Divisions. The situation has escalated beyond containment protocols."

As Melo moved to comply, Roman gathered his restored power. Ice energy swirled around him, frost patterns spreading across the rocky ground as his legendary abilities returned in full force. With mana enhancement once again available, transportation techniques became viable—though even he would need time to prepare for such a complex operation.

His thoughts turned to Klaus, still lying unconscious in the Frost Chamber. Whatever purpose the Icarus cult had for his grandson, Roman would ensure they failed utterly. The extraction team had bought themselves minutes at most—a temporary advantage that would soon become their undoing.

"The cult will not leave the capital with my grandson," Roman stated, cold determination hardening his voice. "Whatever the cost, we return. Now."

*

*

*

Nicholas Davoss sprinted across the rooftops of the northern district, lightning energy propelling him forward in short, controlled bursts. His lean frame had grown stronger over the past year, red eyes reflecting clarity and purpose as he surveyed the burning capital below.

The pattern of destruction was unmistakable to someone who had lived through this moment before—coordinated attacks designed to divide imperial forces while an extraction team secured their true objective. The amber dome visible over the Lionhart Estate confirmed his suspicions.

"The Icarus cult," he whispered, memories from his second life rising to the surface.

He recalled ritual chambers illuminated by amber light, the High Priest declaring Nicholas the vessel for Icarus's return, months suspended in chains while cultists performed their ceremonies. In that life, Nicholas had manipulated their reverence, using half the cult to prevent House Lionhart's fall. When his influence grew too threatening, the High Priest had taken his life.

Now they had identified a new vessel: Klaus Lionhart.

Lightning crackled around Nicholas as he pushed his enhancement to its limits. Each leap carried him closer to the estate, his mind calculating possible scenarios. The systematic pattern of explosions throughout the capital was precisely calibrated—designed to draw defenders away from the Frost Chamber where Klaus lay vulnerable.

As he approached the estate's perimeter, three hooded figures emerged from concealment along his path—support elements positioned to intercept reinforcements.

"In Icarus's name, halt!" commanded a woman with elaborate scarification across her forehead, amber energy gathering at her fingertips.

Nicholas didn't slow. Instead, his lightning aura intensified, becoming a crackling field that distorted the air around him. The cultist launched her energy attack—a beam that would have reduced ordinary flesh to ash.

A lightning-step maneuver left an afterimage exactly where the beam struck, while Nicholas himself materialized three paces to the left. Before the cultists could track his movement, he was among them, his blade severing the woman's arm at the shoulder.

The second cultist managed to raise his ritual dagger in defense, but Nicholas was already past the blade, his palm pressing against the man's chest.

"Lightning Pulse," he whispered.

The cultist convulsed as lightning energy surged through his heart, stopping it instantly. The third opponent, recognizing his imminent death, turned to flee.

Nicholas could have let him go. The man posed no immediate threat to his mission. Yet Nicholas flicked his wrist, sending a thin bolt of precision lightning that pierced the cultist's spine at the base of his skull.

No witnesses. No survivors. The stakes were too high for mercy.

As the body crumpled, Nicholas knelt beside the female cultist, who still clung to life despite her severed arm. He grasped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"The vessel," he demanded. "Where is the extraction team taking him?"

Her eyes widened in momentary surprise before ritual conditioning reasserted itself. "Destruction... brings... salvation," she gasped, amber fluid leaking from her mouth alongside blood.

Nicholas's expression hardened. "The Final Sanctuary location. Tell me."

A pained smile twisted her scarred features. "The Worthy One... will cleanse... creation..."

She would reveal nothing. Nicholas had seen this level of fanaticism before—cultists who would endure any torture rather than betray their sacred purpose. He ended her suffering with a quick blade across the throat.

Three cultists fell within seconds, their enhanced abilities insufficient against Nicholas's techniques. As he continued toward the estate, his thoughts turned to what he knew of the cult's extraction protocols. Standard procedure required a seven-day purification ritual before the vessel could be presented for Icarus's manifestation.

Seven days to locate their sanctuary. Seven days to prevent the unspeakable fate awaiting Klaus if the cult succeeded.

The amber dome loomed before him, its boundary shimmering with subtle energy distortions. Nicholas knew his lightning enhancement would fail the moment he crossed that threshold. Yet he had prepared for this scenario, implementing contingencies based on knowledge preserved from previous lives.

Without hesitation, Nicholas approached the boundary. He had traversed too many lifetimes to falter now. Whatever awaited him within the null field's effect, he would face it—because Nicholas knew what happened to vessels of Icarus, having narrowly escaped that fate himself.

His eyes narrowed with grim determination as he stepped into the amber light, one thought burning in his mind: Not this time.