The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

The air in the shattered Eastern Tower chamber crackled, not with the lingering scent of destruction from Klaus's earlier sparring, but with a new, raw energy that vibrated deep in the bones. Dust motes, suspended in the faint moonlight, danced frantically, caught in the invisible currents of power. Klaus stood at the epicenter, his body a taut conduit, every nerve alight as he poured the boundless arcane energy from his core into the unassuming ring clasped in his hand. This wasn't a gentle coaxing; it was a furious, desperate demand, a torrent of pure will and power aimed at waking the ancient Arkdieu fragment.

The ring, once cold and inert, now pulsed with a furious, hungry light. It wasn't a soft glow, but a consuming flicker of obsidian and deep violet, like a miniature, contained supernova. The very metal began to writhe, losing its rigid form, becoming fluid and alive under the relentless, overwhelming influx of arcane energy. It stretched, elongated, and twisted, a miniature vortex of raw power contained within the confines of Klaus's grip. He felt an ancient, insatiable hunger radiating from it, a familiar, terrifying presence that had been dormant for too long.

A low, guttural growl tore through the chamber, not from Klaus, nor from any physical throat, but from the very air itself, a sound that seemed to rip at the fabric of silence. It was the primal roar of an ancient consciousness breaking free, shaking off the profound quietude it had endured since the Northwatch incident had forced its condensation into this inert form. The ring, now a pulsating core of black and violet light, bucked and shuddered in Klaus's grip, as if fighting its own re-emergence even as Klaus demanded it. He felt the vast, hungry will of the Arkdieu fragment straining against its confines, its arrogance burning through the torrent of arcane energy, ready to reclaim its place in the world.

The transformation accelerated with a terrifying, almost violent grace. The rippling metal expanded rapidly, coalescing into a more defined, menacing shape. First, the hilt formed, sleek and dark, perfectly molded to Klaus's hand, as if it had always belonged there, an extension of his own arm, his very soul. Then, with a sudden, explosive surge of energy, a blade erupted from the hilt. It was black as the deepest void, yet with a terrifying, razor-sharp edge that seemed to drink the very moonlight filtering through the shattered ceiling. It stretched, long and elegantly curved, tapering to a needle-fine point, its surface shimmering with an oily, obsidian sheen that promised oblivion to anything it touched. Runes, ancient and arcane, flared to life along its length, etched in a pulsating, malevolent violet that seemed to writhe with a life of its own, a silent scream of primordial power. This was the true form of Greed, the Founding Ancestor's sword, the very image of power and insatiable hunger.

Klaus gritted his teeth, a thin bead of sweat trickling down his temple, blurring his vision. The arcane energy flowed from him like a river bursting its banks, an endless current that threatened to hollow him out, to leave him an empty husk, despite his immense reserves. He felt the familiar, arrogant consciousness of Greed begin to coalesce, a vast, ancient mind struggling to re-orient itself, like a slumbering beast slowly stretching its limbs after an age. Memories, sharp and fragmented, flashed through his mind – the sword's biting wit, its disdain for weakness, its insatiable desire for power, and the grudging respect it had shown him during their shared battles. He remembered the thrill of wielding it, the perfect synergy of arcane energy and blade, the way Greed had amplified his own destructive intent. He had genuinely missed that unique companionship, the presence of a being that, for all its flaws, understood power on a fundamental level.

The chamber groaned under the strain. Cracks spider-webbed further across the walls, dust and small pebbles raining down from the ceiling. The air grew thick with a scent like ozone and ancient dust, mixed with a faint, metallic tang that hinted at the raw power being unleashed. The temperature in the room plummeted, then spiked, as if reality itself was struggling to contain the fluctuating energies. Klaus's vision blurred at the edges, his crystalline eyes straining to maintain focus. He pushed past the pain, past the exhaustion, his will a singular, unyielding force. He needed answers. Answers about Arkadius, about his true self, about the cosmic game he was unwillingly part of. Greed, as an Arkdieu fragment, was his best, perhaps only, direct link to that deeper knowledge.

The transformation reached its climax. With a final, explosive surge, the last vestiges of the ring dissolved, replaced entirely by the magnificent, terrifying form of the sword. It hummed in his hand, a deep, resonant song of power and ancient hunger. The black blade seemed to absorb all light, making the chamber darker, yet the violet runes pulsed with an even fiercer intensity, casting an unholy glow on Klaus's strained face. The hilt felt perfectly balanced, an extension of his own arm, a familiar weight that promised immense power.

A voice, ancient and resonant, yet laced with a familiar, arrogant drawl, echoed directly in Klaus's mind, bypassing his ears entirely. It was the voice of Greed, filled with a profound, almost mocking satisfaction. {Ah, the little runt finally remembers what true power feels like. Took you long enough, boy.}

The connection, once a mere thread, was now a roaring current, a direct conduit between Klaus's mind and the Arkdieu fragment. He felt the surge of Greed's vast, ancient consciousness, its memories, its hunger, its unique perception of the world. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of information and sensation, but Klaus, honed by the Singularity Principle and his own fragmented nature, was able to withstand it. He felt Greed's awareness of the surrounding world, its keen perception of the arcane energy that still permeated the chamber, and its immediate, insatiable desire for more.

The sword pulsed in his hand, a living entity, its presence now undeniable, its connection fully re-established. Klaus felt a profound sense of relief, mixed with the familiar unease that always accompanied Greed's presence. He had done it. The first fragment of Greed was awake.

Just as the last echoes of Greed's voice settled in his mind, a series of familiar, crisp notifications flashed before Klaus's eyes, cutting through the haze of arcane energy and the lingering strain.

*DING

[The Gluttony trait is resonating with one fragment of 'Greed.']

[Connection Restablished.]