The Youngest Swordmaster (2)

The moment Klaus stepped into the ballroom, a hush fell over the gathered crowd. Conversations halted, the orchestra's melody seemed to falter, and all eyes turned toward the young man framed in the golden glow of the grand entrance. Klaus Lionhart, the youngest Swordmaster in the continent's history, had arrived.

The room was a tapestry of opulence: gilded chandeliers bathed the hall in soft light, reflecting off polished marble floors and cascading down to the dazzling gowns and tailored suits of the assembled nobility. Banners bearing the Lionhart sigil—two roaring lions flanking a crossed sword—hung proudly from the high ceilings. The air was heavy with the scent of exotic flowers and the unmistakable undertone of ambition.

Klaus's entrance was like a spark to dry tinder. Whispers rippled through the crowd, each murmur carrying fragments of his name and deeds.

"He's even younger than I expected."