Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The silence didn't last.

It never did.

Lindarion stood at the edge of the chamber, breath slowing, eyes on the dead floor glyph.

No flicker.

No pulse.

Just light.

Then, he felt it.

A shift in pressure. Not outside. Inside.

Like something exhaled from below the chamber, and the air bent to make space for it.

The glyph didn't light up.

It cracked.

Not a fracture.

An invitation.

Lines split from its core, jagged, asymmetrical, running to the edges of the stone like roots through frostbitten glass.

Lindarion took a single step back.

Then the second pulse came.

No light. No roar.

Just emergence.

The floor shattered.

Not explosively.

Systematically.

Like the room had peeled its skin off.

Six new shapes rose from beneath.

Bigger.

Taller.

Wrong.

Not bone. Not flesh. Not anything natural. Their forms pulsed like they were made of mana condensed into solid agony, limbs shifting, claws extending, heads splitting sideways into nothing that resembled mouths.

The first wave had been feral.

These were designed.

Lindarion didn't wait.

He launched forward, fire already licking across his forearms. The air rippled.

He punched the nearest creature mid-charge, flame erupting from his knuckles like a cannonblast.

The thing reeled—

Then survived.

Not untouched.

But unbroken.

It staggered sideways, reforming.

"What—"

Lira appeared beside him, her blade arcing through black mist, darkness trailing behind like an afterimage. She cut deep.

This time, it screamed.

A sharp, angular sound like metal trying to chew its own edge.

Luneth cast a frost spike under another one's foot, tripping it, then pivoted and drove a jagged blade of ice through its side.

It hissed, claws swiping—

And slashed across her arm.

She didn't cry out.

But she dropped to a knee, just for a moment.

"Luneth!" Lindarion shouted.

"I'm fine—!"

Another shape launched at Stitch from the right.

Sylric dove, shoulder-first, intercepting it mid-lunge. His charm belt tore free as they rolled.

Chains cracked across the chamber again, Erebus.

His weapons snapped tight around another monster's arms, yanking it off-balance.

He didn't hesitate.

He dragged it across the floor like a sack of stone and hurled it into the wall.

But even that didn't kill it.

It just got back up.

"Lindarion!" Stitch shouted, ducking behind the cover of a collapsed glyph plate. "These things aren't fading—they're stabilizing!"

"Then destabilize them!" Lindarion growled.

He raised both hands.

Fire surged. Lightning followed.

He slammed his palms together, and a wide shockwave blasted outward. Flame and electricity collided, spiraled, and erupted across the floor in a lashing arc.

Two of the monsters burned, writhing as their outer layers curled away.

The third stepped through the blast.

Still walking.

Still alive.

Lira dropped in behind it and shoved her blade through the back of its neck.

It twitched.

And died.

Finally.

She turned to him. "They learn."

"They're not just constructs."

"No," she said. "They're hunters."

Erebus landed beside them, blood trailing down his sleeve.

He didn't flinch.

Just said, "We're surrounded."

Sylric staggered over, dragging Stitch.

"Four more emerging. Back wall."

Luneth was still up, barely. Ice coated one arm, her shoulder scorched. Her breath fogged with effort.

"We hold position," Lindarion said, voice sharp.

Stitch hissed, "We can't. If this goes another round, we'll lose someone."

Lindarion's eyes locked on the glyph.

It was pulsing again.

Not brighter.

Deeper.

He felt it vibrating under his boots, resonating with his core.

It wasn't done.

"Then we don't wait for the third wave," he said.

"We break it now."

He surged forward, toward the glyph.

Another creature lunged—

He ducked.

Slid across the cracked floor—

Thrust his hand into the glyph.

Not a spell.

Not a technique.

Just power.

Fire and lightning, raw, channeled through skin and bone.

The glyph screamed.

Light burst upward, white, then black, then nothing.

The monsters froze.

Then collapsed.

All of them.

Instantly.

Not in pain.

In failure.

The glyph faded.

Silent.

Still.

Lindarion stood alone in the center.

His coat smoking.

His heart pounding.

The room didn't shake.

It just… exhaled.

Like it was satisfied.

Behind him, the others regrouped.

Bruised.

Wounded.

Alive.

Lira walked up beside him.

She didn't ask how.

She just said:

"Whatever this place is… you passed its second test."

He didn't answer.

He just stared down at the floor.

And waited for the next one.

—

The silence wasn't relief.

It was emptiness.

The kind that followed a killing stroke. The kind that didn't last.

Lindarion stood over the remains of the glyph, breathing hard. His coat still smoked at the seams, partially melted from his own fire. His hands throbbed from channeling too much lightning without enough control.

Across the chamber, the others were still standing.

But just barely.

Lira was crouched beside Luneth, wrapping a strip of cloth around her arm. Blood darkened the edge, seeping between her fingers.

Luneth's eyes stayed open. Sharp. Alert. But she leaned heavier than usual, jaw tight, skin paler than the frost clinging to her boots.

Sylric sat with his back to the wall, muttering under his breath and rotating one shoulder with a wince. "Took a claw to the back. Not deep. Still hurts like a betrayal."

Stitch was rummaging through what was left of his belt kit. Most of his tonics had shattered in the blast—or during the scramble.

He looked up, eyes narrowed. "That thing you just did—burned the glyph."

Lindarion nodded. "Yeah."

"That wasn't… spellwork. Or planned."

"No."

"You just—pushed it."

Lindarion flexed one hand slowly. The nerves were still buzzing.

"I made it stop," he said.

Stitch muttered something about insane fire mages and sat down hard.

Erebus walked back from the far edge of the chamber.

Blood stained one sleeve. His coat had been cut across the ribs, but he didn't seem concerned.

He didn't speak.

Just stood beside Lindarion. Watching him.

Lindarion met his gaze.

No challenge there.

No judgment either.

Just assessment.

"You wanted to see what I could do," Lindarion said.

Erebus nodded. "Now I know."

And nothing else.

Lira approached next, her movements precise despite the cut across her shoulder.

She handed him a flask of cold water.

He drank.

It tasted like metal and smoke.

"Everyone's alive," she said.

"Barely."

"That counts."

He stared at the broken floor where the glyph had been.

It wasn't glowing anymore.

But it wasn't dead.

It had sunk.

Receded.

There was something underneath it now, something they couldn't see. Yet.

Lira sat beside him on the ledge.

Close, but not too close.

"You didn't flinch," she said.

"When?"

"When they kept coming."

He didn't respond.

She didn't wait.

"Most people would've panicked. Even mages. You just kept burning."

"I didn't have a choice."

"You always have a choice," she said.

He glanced at her.

She met his eyes.

And didn't look away.

Then she added, quieter: "And you chose not to fall."

That landed.

Not like praise.

More like fact.

He looked back to the others.