The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

A hush settled over the coliseum beneath a sky caught between dusk and true night. The stands, once filled with worried murmurs and tense watchfulness, now hummed with an undercurrent of excitement. Although the brutal second wave had claimed the life of one trainee, fourteen remained, healed by the captains' decision to spare no expense on high-grade potions. Their wounds may have closed, but the atmosphere still felt raw with the memory of that harrowing battle.

In the center of the arena, Melo stood next to a simple wooden podium. Around him, traces of the earlier carnage lingered—dark stains in the sand where wolves and fallen trainees had bled. Yet for all the grimness, a sense of finality and anticipation clung to the air.

Melo waited until the conversations in the stands faded into near-silence. Then he drew in a breath and said, "Trainees, we have reached the last stage of this trial. As you know, it was originally intended to be an assessment for entrance into Éclair, under Captain Yenova Lionhart. However…" He glanced toward a row of captains seated under a canopy—men and women clad in various uniforms. "Due to certain… amendments, all captains here had the right to select from among the survivors of this second wave."

Several of the trainees stood off to one side, exchanging wary glances. Although they were not fully aligned with the abrupt changes, the night's horrors had left them more anxious about being chosen at all.

One captain with a sharp jawline and a battered breastplate nodded at Melo, signaling the readiness of those in the stands. Melo cleared his throat again. "We shall proceed with the selection. Trainees will be called in ascending order of performance during the wave, from the least outstanding to the most. When your name is called, step forward. If any captain wants you in their group, they will raise a hand. You may then choose which group you join—if multiple captains raise their hands. If no one raises a hand…" His voice softened. "…it means you have failed the trial."

A ripple of tension spread among the fourteen, each remembering the fierce wave and how close they had come to joining the single fallen trainee in death.

Melo turned to a sheaf of notes in his hand. "Let us begin."

***

The hush intensified as Melo called out the first name. A stocky boy with trembling shoulders walked forward, halting at the center of the bloodstained arena. His lips drew into a tight line, fear flickering in his eyes. He had fought valiantly but nearly crumbled early in the wave.

Moments passed where no one spoke. The boy's expression twisted with anxiety, as if he half-expected everyone to remain silent. Then, one older captain near the edge raised a hand.

A sigh of relief escaped the trainee's lips. His eyes shone with unexpected tears. "I—I accept," he stammered, bowing awkwardly. Up in the stands, members of that captain's group stood and offered applause, a few cheering words drifting down: "Glad to have you!" and "He's got heart!" The boy seemed stunned by this simple display of warmth.

Watching from a distance, Sarah Margot pressed a hand over her chest. She could still feel her heart pounding from the fight, but some small glow of relief touched her features, seeing that at least the first to be called had not been abandoned. She swore silently that if he could be chosen, maybe everyone else who survived had some hope.

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Melo continued to read off names. The next trainee—a tall, lanky figure—stepped forward with trepidation. This time, a different captain raised a gloved hand. The trainee's expression lit up as he accepted, tears not far behind. Applause rose from the stands again, and one soldier's voice rang out: "This one had guts out there!" Some of the earlier tension began to ease for the remaining trainees.

Several more were summoned in quick succession, each stepping up with varying levels of anxiety. Klaus, arms folded near the back, observed them calmly. He remembered many faces, recalling how valiantly they had fought. One by one, each found at least one captain who signaled interest. For some, it was just a single hand, for others two or three. The newly recruited trainees let out visible sighs of relief, crossing from trembling fear to a kind of hopeful pride.

At some point, a wiry trainee approached the center with a worried look, only to have two captains raise their hands simultaneously. The stands rippled with excitement. Melo gave a small smile. "You may choose which group to join," he reminded the trainee. The young fighter paused—torn for a moment—before picking the second captain, bowing apologetically to the first. Light applause filled the coliseum, underscored by comments like, "He's got promise" and "He showed resilience."

Later in the sequence, a trainee who had battled near Nicholas found himself facing an even more surprising reception. Four captains signaled their approval at once. Gasps fluttered among the watchers, and the newly minted star of the moment took a step back, nearly dropping his sword from shock. He managed to recover enough to bow deeply, then stammer out his choice. All four would-be recruiters clapped politely, and the spectators, impressed at such competition, offered an appreciative cheer.

Swords clanked in subdued celebration. The stands murmured with a new sense of excitement, praising how these young fighters had proven themselves.

***

Melo called Kurt's name. He exhaled, smoothing the rough edge of his sword hilt. Memories of tearing through Elite Wolves with inhuman fervor played in his mind, and he wondered if that had been enough to attract interest. He advanced into the open space.

A hush settled like a blanket. Then, almost half the captains raised their hands. A ripple of surprise shot through the coliseum crowd. Many of them had witnessed Kurt's raw, bestial power in the ring, but seeing so many captains vie for him was an entirely different validation.

Kurt's face flushed a little, though he masked it by clearing his throat. He searched the rows of captains. For a fleeting second, he dared to hope Captain Yenova Lionhart—leader of Éclair—might be among them. He found her gaze on him, but her hand remained lowered. The sting of that realization flickered across his eyes.

Still, he forced a small, earnest smile. After a moment's thought, he announced which armed group he would join. The captain who received him nodded in satisfaction, while the others gave mild applause and respect. Kurt bowed, though quiet disappointment lingered in the set of his shoulders that Yenova's hand had stayed at rest.

When Sarah's name echoed across the coliseum, she swallowed hard. Her rapier, newly cleaned, dangled at her side. She stepped forward, heart thudding with nerves. She recalled weaving her light yellow aura into her strikes, driving back kobolds and wolves to protect weaker trainees. Had that been enough?

Her gaze swept the captains. Some looked back at her appraisingly, others flicked through their notes. Then, more than half of them raised their hands. A few gasps broke out among the spectators. That was a strong endorsement. She felt a surge of accomplishment wash over her, chest tight with relief. But in the next second, she realized Captain Yenova did not raise her hand, nor did the second or third group Sarah had dreamed of joining.

She hesitated, emotions tangling in her mind. One part of her was grateful—somewhere around thirty captains wanted her. Yet, it hurt that Éclair showed no interest, and the other two groups she had secretly preferred gave no sign. For a heartbeat, she almost considered waiting, but Melo prompted, "You may pick your new captain."@@novelbin@@

Summoning her composure, she forced a cool nod and chose one of the captains who had offered. Applause and calls of "Great pick!" came from that faction's supporters in the stands. Sarah bowed politely, though a flash of disappointment tinted her eyes. She returned to the line, posture calm but heart uneasy.

The tension around the coliseum deepened as Melo read the next name: "Alex Lionhart." Heads turned. Everyone knew he was an exceptional fighter, but the real surprise was that he was called before Nicholas, meaning Nicholas had outperformed him. Alex's expression tightened. The knowledge stung more than any wound had that night. He took a step forward, forcibly masking his wounded pride behind a cold stare.

He inhaled slowly, scanning the captains. A hush descended as they waited. Then the coliseum erupted with a flurry of raised hands. Every single captain claimed him. A collective gasp spread among the stands, and murmurs began to swirl:

"I knew he was impressive."

"He fought like a lion, no pun intended."

"All of them want him?"

Alex's heart hammered. He was torn between satisfaction that he was in demand, and the bitterness from realizing that the order of names implied Nicholas had overshadowed him in the wave. Nevertheless, the sight of every captain's hand up was a potent, surreal moment—one that rattled the entire gathering.

The applause welled up from the stands, along with exclamations of approval: "He truly did handle so many at once!" "That's real Lionhart talent!" "We'd love to have him with us!" The roars and cheers bounced off the coliseum walls.

Alex stood motionless, trying to quell the swirl of frustration, pride, and confusion battling in his chest. He could hear Kurt whisper to Sarah from the side, something like, "Unbelievable…" He forced himself to keep a stone-faced calm, ignoring the raw sting that this meant Nicholas had done better. The crowd's fervor swirled around him, building an anticipation that prickled his skin.

And in that storm of clamor, with every captain in the coliseum raising their hand, the selection process paused. All eyes fell on Alex, waiting to see which group he would choose, while the final names—Nicholas and Klaus—remained unspoken, hanging in the air as a silent promise of even greater tension yet to come.