Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Every ounce of focus was on tearing through the man in front of him. Mana bled from him in great waves, divine affinity coating his strikes in searing brilliance, darkness weaving through his footwork like living chains, blood affinity pumping speed and strength far past his limits.

System Notification: Mana output surpassing sustainable threshold.

The voice was distant, irrelevant.

Veythar's blade flashed, steel blurred faster than most could see. Lindarion caught the strike with a burst of condensed ice, the edge shattering the shield but losing just enough momentum for him to step inside Veythar's guard.

His hand lit with divine light and slammed into the Sword Saint's chest.

A shockwave tore the air apart.

Veythar was thrown back, not far, but enough to dig his heels in and reassess. The faintest grin touched the demon's face.

"That's more like it," he said.

They clashed again, steel against mana, precision against raw destruction. Sparks and embers rained in all directions as the two became a storm. Every step Lindarion took left the ground cracked and blackened. His breathing was ragged, but his speed kept climbing.

A slash of darkness sent Veythar skidding. A lightning bolt followed, curving unnaturally to chase him. He severed it midair, but the moment he did, Lindarion was on him with a blood-fueled kick to the ribs. The impact rang out like a drumbeat.

The Sword Saint staggered for the first time.

Gasps echoed through the crowd.

Lindarion's chest heaved, but his mana didn't slow, it spiked again, flaring dangerously. Divine and darkness intertwined, light and shadow ripping the air between them apart. Ice burst from his left, fire roared from his right, lightning danced along the edges.

The system chimed again, more insistent this time:

Warning: Structural damage to mana channels imminent.

He ignored it.

He had to push further.

Veythar straightened, blade lifting in a two-handed grip. His aura sharpened like a drawn bowstring. Lindarion mirrored the motion, not with form or grace, but with sheer force, every affinity he had coiling around him in a violent halo.

The next collision wasn't just a clash.

It was a detonation.

—

The world turned into white heat and black shadow.

Their strikes met mid-air, Veythar's blade an unbroken arc of perfect form, Lindarion's attack a brutal collision of every affinity he could rip from himself at once.

The shockwave ripped the ground open beneath them, flinging chunks of shattered stone into the air. The nearest demons in the crowd were thrown to the ground, some screaming, others watching in stunned silence.

Lindarion's hand closed around Veythar's blade, ice locking across his palm in jagged ridges to hold it. Lightning burst from his other fist, racing up the metal.

Veythar didn't flinch.

The Sword Saint's crimson aura absorbed the lightning, his movements utterly calm as he shifted his weight, and then Lindarion's chest exploded with pain. He hadn't even seen the knee strike coming.

He stumbled back, coughing blood, divine light flickering erratically along his arms.

System Alert: Mana channels at critical instability.

The voice was louder now, but it was drowned out by the roar in his ears. He surged forward again, darkness flowing around him like a predator's shadow. A blood-fueled dash carried him across the distance, only for Veythar's blade to meet him every time, each strike turning aside his fury.

Then the Sword Saint's rhythm changed.

One clean parry.

A second deflection.

A third, followed by a slash so fast it nearly took Lindarion's head off.

He ducked, but the follow-up kicked his feet out from under him. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, rolled, ice spiking up around him in a desperate wall.

It shattered before it was even fully formed.

Veythar was already inside, blade pressing down against Lindarion's own makeshift weapon, an ice-forged sword crackling with lightning.

The demon's strength was overwhelming, each push forcing Lindarion lower, his arms trembling under the weight.

Mana poured out of him uncontrollably now, divine, darkness, fire, blood, all clashing in chaotic bursts that lit the plaza like a storm.

Veythar didn't look strained.

"You're strong," he said over the grinding of steel. "But you burn too fast."

He shoved forward, and Lindarion felt his knees hit the stone.

In a last, reckless surge, he funneled everything into one blast, a wave of divine light threaded with lightning, darkness in its core. The release tore his own channels apart, the pain blinding, but it forced Veythar back a step.

Just one step.

And then the Sword Saint moved faster than Lindarion's eyes could track. The world blurred, and a crushing blow slammed into his side, sending him skidding across the plaza in a trail of blood. His weapon dissolved in shards of ice.

The crowd roared, not in fear, but in exultation.

Lindarion tried to stand. His legs refused. Mana sputtered and died along his skin.

Veythar approached, sword low, eyes unreadable. "This is over, prince."

The last thing Lindarion saw before his vision swam was the demon's silhouette in the red light, calm, unwavering, utterly victorious.

—

Sound reached him first, muffled, broken, like voices heard underwater.

"…told you he was nothing but an arrogant—"

"—careful. If the noble hears you—"

"—should kill him now, before he gets up again—"

A sharp ring filled his ears, drowning the words. The world tilted when he tried to open his eyes. For a moment he saw only red, stone splattered in it, some of it his own.

Shapes moved in the haze. Armored demons, blades drawn, circling him like wolves around a wounded stag.

Then her voice cut through the noise.

"Enough!"

Nysha pushed through them, her dark robes whispering over the cracked plaza stones. Her eyes burned, not with the smug satisfaction the crowd seemed to wear, but with something far more volatile. She knelt beside him, her fingers brushing the side of his jaw, feeling for breath.

"He's alive," she said flatly. "And he stays that way."

One of the demons snarled, "He destroyed half the district and killed dozens. What justice—"

Nysha's gaze turned on him like a blade. "Since when did you care about justice? Or do you think I can't smell the coin in your purse from selling out your own patrol routes?"