Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Then it was gone.

Lindarion exhaled slowly, still gripping the weapon. "It's not Maeven's," he said at last. "But it's his kind of power."

Nysha frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It belongs to this continent. And whatever it was made for… it wasn't meant to stay buried."

—

The sword was cold.

Not just metal-in-the-winter cold, something deeper, a chill that crept into the bones and wrapped around the soul like a coil of ice.

His fingers hovered for a moment before he tightened his grip, half expecting the steel to cut him for daring to touch it. The faint hum of mana in its blade wasn't normal. It was wrong. Old. Ancient in a way that made the air feel heavy in his lungs.

The moment his skin met the hilt, the world cracked.

No, not cracked. It folded.

The fortress vanished. Stone, air, light, everything imploded into a void that had no direction, no temperature, no sound. His stomach twisted as if gravity had been pulled from under him, his ears ringing in absolute silence.

Then, something began to exist.

The darkness receded enough to reveal a single black platform beneath his boots, suspended over nothing. Far, far in the distance, or perhaps right behind him, an outline appeared. Tall. Still. And watching him.

His system went berserk.

[WARNING: Unclassified Entity Detected.]

[Threat Level: Unknown.]

[Recommendation: FLEE.]

[WARNING—WARNING—WARNING—]

The words blurred, overlapping. The sound was like dozens of metallic voices shouting at once inside his skull, making him wince.

Then the figure stepped forward.

The man, if he could be called that, was robed in something that looked like woven shadow, stitched together with threads of faint red light. His skin was the color of bleached bone, yet his hair was blacker than the void around them. Eyes, deep crimson, as if molten rubies had been cooled in blood, locked on Lindarion.

When he spoke, his voice wasn't loud, yet it filled the space as if the air itself carried it into Lindarion's mind.

"You touched my sword."

It wasn't a question.

Lindarion tightened his grip on his own weapon but said nothing, keeping his stance defensive.

The man smiled faintly, though it wasn't warm.

"Do you know what that means, little prince?"

His system flashed again.

[Identifying Entity…]

[Result: ??? — Divine Signature Detected]

[Designation: GOD-TIER BEING]

[Classification: Enemy]

A god.

The word slammed into Lindarion's mind like a hammer.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The god took another step forward, the space around his feet rippling like liquid shadow.

"Names…" he mused, tilting his head. "Mortals like names. They think it gives them power. Something to call, something to curse. But power is not in the name, it is in the meaning behind it."

His crimson eyes sharpened.

"Still, you may call me… Zerathis. God of Blades. Patron of the Endless Hunt. Slayer of Kings."

The words didn't feel like boasting. They felt like truth.

"And you," he said, pointing lazily at Lindarion, "are holding my disciple's toy."

Lindarion's grip tightened. "Maeven?"

Zerathis's smile widened, a predator's grin.

"Ah. So you know the little serpent."

His voice was casual, but Lindarion felt a shift in the air, pressure tightening around his body, like invisible chains testing their hold.

"What do you want?" Lindarion asked, forcing his voice steady.

Zerathis chuckled, the sound deep and unsettling.

"Want? I already have what I want. You're here."

The words hung in the air.

"You've walked into my hand, willingly. Now I can see you… test you… measure you. I like to know the pieces on the board before I move them."

Lindarion's mana instinctively stirred, an aura flickering around him. "You think I'm a piece?"

Zerathis's smile didn't fade.

"Oh no. You're not a piece."

"You're a blade someone else is trying to wield. And I intend to see whether you will break before you cut."

The space around them seemed to bend, the black platform stretching, elongating. Shadows coiled at the edges like smoke in water.

"Show me your affinities," Zerathis said, his tone suddenly sharp. "All of them."

"I'm not here to entertain you," Lindarion shot back.

The god tilted his head.

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm here for Maeven and Dythrael."

The name Dythrael made Zerathis's eyes narrow slightly, as if the word was a small, unexpected thorn in his mind.

"Ah… yes. The ambitious little pretender."

"You know where they are," Lindarion pressed.

Zerathis's grin turned sly.

"Of course I do. I know where every drop of blood on this continent has fallen. But knowledge, little prince, comes at a cost."

"I'm not paying you anything."

"You already have," Zerathis murmured, stepping closer until Lindarion could feel the god's presence pressing against his skin like heat from a forge. "When you touched the sword, you invited me into your thread of fate. You can't cut me out now."

The system screamed again.

[ALERT: Hostile Binding Attempt Detected]

[Countermeasure: FAILED]

[User Status: Marked]

Lindarion's pulse spiked. He forced mana into his limbs, ready for an attack, but Zerathis only watched, amused.

"You're interesting," the god said softly. "I can feel… divine, darkness, astral, fire, lightning, blood, ice… and something else. Something older. That's rare."

He leaned in slightly.

"But I've broken rarer things than you."

Lindarion's instincts screamed to strike first, but the weight of the god's presence was suffocating. Every motion felt as if it would be swallowed before it began.

Zerathis's voice dropped lower.

"I could take everything from you. Right here. Right now. Your affinities, your life, your soul."

"Then why don't you?" Lindarion challenged.

The god's grin widened into something monstrous.

"Because… I'm curious how far you'll go before you beg."

The platform beneath them began to crack, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the empty space. Black fissures spread outward, revealing an abyss beneath.

Zerathis's shadow twisted unnaturally behind him, forming shapes, blades, chains, things with too many edges.

Lindarion's system flared again.

[WARNING: Spatial Integrity Failing]

[Ejection Probability: <1%]

Zerathis extended a pale hand toward him.

"Swear fealty to me, little prince. Be my weapon, and I will give you the heads of Maeven and Dythrael."

Lindarion's glare was answer enough.

For the first time, the god's smile faded, slightly.