Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Before Lindarion could tear the blade free, Veythar's sword came up in a single, perfect motion. The pommel struck Lindarion in the jaw, hard enough to blur vision, before the edge carved across his chest, ripping through armor and skin alike.

Pain flared. His knees wavered.

He tried to counter, ice blooming from his free hand into a jagged spear, but Veythar's knee drove into his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. He staggered back, his boot catching on loose stone.

Veythar followed without pause.

One strike. Two. Three. Each blow hammered into Lindarion's guard, forcing him to give ground until his back hit the crumbling wall of a half-toppled building.

The fourth blow shattered his sword.

Shards of ice and lightning scattered across the street, fading to nothing before they hit the ground. Lindarion barely had time to bring up his arms in defense before Veythar's next strike tore through his guard and sent him sprawling to the dirt.

The world spun. His body screamed to stay down. His system, the quiet, useless thing it usually was, flickered faintly in the back of his mind, as if aware that collapse was inevitable.

But he pushed up anyway.

Veythar tilted his head, watching as Lindarion staggered to his feet, blood running freely down his side. "Enough," the saint said, not as a command, but as a statement of fact.

Lindarion's response was to call everything he had left.

Blood affinity flooded his limbs, giving him speed. Fire roared across his shoulders, heat distorting the air. Darkness coiled low at his feet, twisting the light around him. Lightning arced across his skin, divine light burning through the exhaustion.

He charged.

Their swords met one last time.

The clash rang out across the city, a sound like stone splitting. Sparks, frost, and ash burst in all directions. For a moment, it felt even, his strength meeting Veythar's without yielding.

Then Lindarion's knees buckled.

Veythar's blade slipped past his guard and drove into his shoulder, the force knocking him flat to the ground. The impact knocked the air from his chest, leaving him staring up at the ashen sky.

Bootsteps approached. Slow. Unhurried.

Veythar stood over him, the tip of his sword resting against Lindarion's throat, not pressing, just there. "You're alive because I choose it," he said. "Remember that."

He stepped back, lowering his weapon. "And when you're strong enough to make me regret it… find me."

Then he turned, walking away as the crowd of demons closed in, murmuring in their own language.

Lindarion stayed on the ground, vision blurring at the edges. He could feel Ashwing trembling in his pocket, but even the little dragon didn't move to heal him, there was nothing left to give.

His last thought before darkness took him was simple.

I'm not done.

—

The dust hadn't even settled when something in Lindarion snapped.

Veythar's back was turned, already walking away, already dismissing him like a sparring dummy that had been knocked down one too many times.

The crowd's muttering swelled, their voices dripping with amusement and condescension even though he couldn't understand their words. He didn't need the translation.

He knew mockery when he heard it.

His hands dug into the dirt, fingers curling so hard they cut the earth. The warm metallic tang of blood filled his mouth from biting his cheek. The humiliation burned hotter than the pain. Hotter than the fire affinity roaring inside him.

Mana surged, wild, raw, and unrestrained.

It didn't care for precision or control. Darkness writhed out from him in jagged tendrils, coiling like living smoke. Lightning crawled across his arms, twitching violently. Ice spiked out of the ground without form or pattern, cracking stone and splitting the nearest wall. Fire burst in uneven flares, scorching the air.

His vision swam, but his body moved on pure rage.

The demons nearest to him stepped back instinctively. He could see their red eyes dart, their hands twitch toward weapons, their posture shift, not with confidence, but with caution.

"Lindarion," Ashwing's tiny voice vibrated from the pocket on his chest. The lizard form trembled, its instincts screaming about what he was doing. "You're—"

"Quiet," Lindarion growled. His voice was low, edged in something that didn't sound entirely like him.

He stepped forward. The ground under his boots hissed as ice and fire collided in his wake, leaving a steaming trail. Blood affinity clawed at his muscles, forcing more speed into every movement. His divine mana flared like a beacon, but it was the wrong kind of light, harsh, almost painful, the purity warped by how recklessly he was pushing it.

The crowd began to back away.

Veythar stopped walking.

He turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder. No expression on his face, none that Lindarion could read, but the shift in his stance was subtle and unmistakable. The Sword Saint no longer saw him as nothing.

"Did I touch a nerve?" Veythar's voice carried easily.

"You think it's over?" Lindarion's steps quickened. "It's not over until I say it's over."

The mana output kept climbing. His body was already screaming at him, joints locking, veins burning under the strain. But stopping wasn't an option. Every second of this fight had dug something deeper into him, and now that it was there, it needed out.

The air warped with the mix of affinities, each one trying to overpower the others, colliding in bursts of heat, cold, and shadow.

Lindarion broke into a sprint.

—

The ground tore under his boots as he launched forward.

Veythar reacted instantly, turning, blade snapping up into a vertical guard. His crimson aura burned brighter, his stance flawless, but Lindarion was already in his face, lightning bursting from his arm like a whip.

The Sword Saint angled his weapon, diverting the strike with surgical precision, only for a spike of ice to explode from the ground at his feet.

Veythar moved, but not fast enough, his left shin grazed the edge of the ice, slicing open the armor. Lindarion's follow-up came before the blood could hit the dirt, an arc of fire compressed into a razor-thin line, forcing Veythar to pivot hard and slash it apart.

The collision threw heat across the plaza.

The crowd roared now, shouts in the demonic tongue, some backing away, others chanting Veythar's name.

Lindarion didn't hear them.

He couldn't.