Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Ashwing groaned from the edge of the circle. "They're gonna regret that."

Lindarion didn't smile.

"Alright," he said. "Name and affinity."

"Kelris," said the tall one. "Fire."

"Torven," said the short one. "Earth."

Lindarion nodded once, stepping back a pace.

"Come at me."

They moved instantly.

Kelris was faster, hot-blooded, like most fire users. His fingers flicked as he moved, flames catching along his knuckles without fuss. No theatrics, just practiced speed.

A quick arc of fire came straight toward Lindarion's chest.

He tilted his body half a step, letting it slide past his shoulder, and raised his palm flat.

Kelris went for a follow-up strike.

But the moment his boot hit the dirt, Torven followed.

The ground under Lindarion's feet pulsed.

'There.'

He let his feet leave the ground early, jumping just before the shock hit. Earth cracked in a ring around where he'd stood, like something had punched upward from below.

Not bad. They were coordinating.

As he came down, he twisted, landing directly behind Kelris.

He didn't strike. Just stood.

Kelris spun too slow, instinctive, no plan. Lindarion grabbed his coat by the collar and gently pressed him to the ground, almost polite.

Torven blinked.

The next second, he got a palm of lightning straight to his gut, not enough to harm, just jolt.

He hit the dirt with a heavy exhale.

Kelris groaned under his elbow. "You… moved behind me?"

"I did."

"When?"

"You weren't looking."

A few laughs from the crowd this time.

Not mocking. Just impressed.

Lindarion stood and offered a hand to both.

They took it.

"You're not bad," he said, brushing his coat off. "But you assume too much. Fire and earth pair well, but not if you don't stay ahead of each other. Predictable beats power."

Kelris grunted. "You say that like it's easy."

"It is," Lindarion said simply, "when you've been hit by worse."

Ashwing snorted. "Like Maeven?"

'Don't remind me.'

Lindarion turned back toward the field.

"Next."

Only a few stepped up now.

A wiry elf with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, no weapons, no armor. Long white hair tied back in a hunter's knot. Quiet eyes.

"Name?"

"Eiran."

"Affinity?"

"Wind."

Second wind user so far.

Lindarion didn't say anything.

He just motioned him forward.

Eiran moved like smoke. No bravado, no sharp bursts. His first strike was a faint, a sweep of wind toward Lindarion's knees, not to trip him, just distract.

Smart.

Then came the second, an angled pressure from above, invisible until it hit like a sudden downburst of air.

Lindarion absorbed it with a slight shift in stance. Wind wouldn't stagger him unless it was serious. He let his own lightning flicker again, barely a spark. Just enough to mark his patience.

Eiran didn't overextend. He backed off, circled.

'Disciplined,' Lindarion thought. 'Not fast enough to land a hit, but smart enough to avoid one.'

He gave it a minute.

Just movement. Watching.

Then stepped forward once, just one pace, and Eiran stopped moving.

Frozen in place.

He knew.

Lindarion wasn't toying. That one step was enough.

Eiran exhaled. "That's enough for me."

He walked back without drama.

Ashwing tilted his head. "You didn't hit him."

"I didn't need to."

"Gonna tell them that?"

"No."

The murmurs were louder now.

Not chaotic, but audible.

A few younger soldiers were whispering to each other. One of the officers was taking notes, probably on who performed best. A few scouts were hanging back near the trees, half-interested, half-nervous.

Lindarion didn't break focus.

"Last one."

The last to step forward was taller than the rest. Not bulky. Just lean, built like a duelist.

Dark bronze skin, pointed jaw, long black hair tied back tight.

He didn't look smug. He looked bored.

"Name?"

"Caeryn Valelir."

"Affinity?"

"Fire."

Lindarion raised an eyebrow. "Another one."

Caeryn shrugged. "Born lucky."

He didn't wait for a start.

The first flare of fire came fast, too fast for a new recruit. It arced up into the sky, not toward Lindarion at all, but above him.

'Distraction.'

Then came the real strike, a low whip of flame sweeping the field, dragging dry dirt with it.

Lindarion raised a hand, not to block—

But to redirect.

He caught the fire mid-spin and twisted it upward, stealing the heat with a flick of his own affinity. His lightning sparked once in his palm, burning white-hot, and the fire collapsed into a puff of steam.

He took one step forward.

Caeryn raised both arms again, readying another attack.

Lindarion moved first.

Just a flicker of electricity, a blink of speed.

He was behind Caeryn before the second strike landed.

The back of his palm tapped the elf lightly between the shoulders.

"Dead."

Caeryn sighed. "You don't fight fair."

"Neither does the world."

He let the silence stretch a beat.

Then turned to the watching soldiers.

"That's enough for today."

—

Sharp silver arcs between clouds. Campfires flickered in patches beyond the field. Elves lined the edges of the packed earth ring, some sitting cross-legged, others standing with arms crossed. No one looked bored anymore.

The quiet that had crept in during the second round was gone.

Now it was murmurs.

Nervous ones. Focused ones.

They weren't waiting for a show anymore.

They were waiting to see what they could learn.

Lindarion rolled one shoulder as he scanned the handful of names still scribbled onto the parchment next to the weapons rack. Fewer volunteers now. That was expected.

"Three more," he called out. "Then we're done."

A thin figure stepped into the ring, barely taller than Lindarion's shoulder. Slim frame. Pale complexion. Blonde hair pulled into a single braid that trailed across the front of her coat.

She didn't bow.

Just nodded once.

"Name?" Lindarion asked.

"Enya Serel."

"Affinity?"

"Water."

The murmur returned behind him, softer this time.

Rare. Water affinities were rare in the camp. Fickle, unstable. Powerful, if you had the control.

He motioned her forward.

Enya didn't flare her mana. She didn't even adjust her stance. She moved like someone walking through an orchard, calm, light-footed.

Lindarion braced, ready for a wide spread or mistwork.

Instead, the air between them shifted.

Not visibly.

Just enough to notice.

His boots sank a fraction. Not mud, moisture. The dirt under him softened without warning.

'She's cheating the ground.'

Smart.

The next step she took caused a high-speed arc of water to whip up from the left, like it had been waiting underground for the right second to strike.

He twisted his left wrist, sending a sharp pulse of static outward.

The water hissed.

Then collapsed before it reached him.

He moved forward, slow.

Testing.