Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

He planted one foot forward, pouring not just darkness into the blade, but fire, lightning, blood, ice, every affinity he could force into it at once. Mana surged like a river breaking through a dam, and the weapon drank it greedily, its edge burning with a shifting spectrum of color under the black.

The hum became a high, resonant scream.

Then he swung.

The cut didn't just travel along the ground this time, it erased what it touched. Stone became dust in an instant, the very air splitting with a roar like the sky itself was tearing apart. The shockwave knocked Nysha from her feet and sent what was left of the temple's outer wall flying outward like shrapnel.

The fissure tore forward for miles, deeper and wider than the last. Trees in its path didn't fall, they simply ceased to be, disintegrated to ash that was pulled upward into the dark clouds now swirling above them.

The air grew colder. A low, unnatural wind spun outward from the path of destruction, curling into the sky and pulling the clouds into a slow, spiraling vortex.

Nysha scrambled to her feet, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Lindarion— you're changing the weather! Stop—!"

He didn't.

Instead, he took another step forward and raised the weapon again, the pull of it now a steady, intoxicating pressure at the back of his mind. He could almost see the next strike in his head, where it would land, how far it would carve, what it would do to the land beyond the horizon.

But even as the power built in his arms, the silver veins along the blade suddenly dimmed, just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

The weapon wasn't exhausted.

It was measuring him.

And in the quiet gap between heartbeats, he realized the truth, the sword wasn't just obeying him. It was testing him.

He lowered it slowly, the tension in the air snapping as the vortex above them began to unravel, clouds drifting back into their natural flow. The fissure still gaped across the land, silent testimony to what the weapon could do.

Nysha walked toward him, visibly shaken, glancing from the sword to the destroyed horizon.

"If you keep swinging that thing, there won't be a continent left to fight for."

Lindarion didn't answer. He was still staring down the blade, the silver veins faintly pulsing, not in hunger this time, but in what almost felt like… amusement.

—

He sheathed the blade slowly, tucking it beneath the folds of his long coat until the silver veins vanished from sight. The weight of it against his side wasn't heavy, not in the normal sense, but it felt present, like it was aware of the decision already forming in his head.

The cut in the earth still steamed in the distance. Nysha was staring at it like she'd just watched the world split apart.

"You're not—" she started, voice tense, "—you're not thinking of—"

"I am," he said, without hesitation.

Her brow furrowed. "You just fought him. You couldn't—"

"I wasn't ready then," Lindarion cut her off, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Now I am."

The image of the Sword Saint's mocking stance burned in his mind, the casual ease, the way his blade moved like a thought, the taste of defeat in his mouth. He felt the sword under his coat hum faintly, a soundless vibration in his bones, as if agreeing with his resolve.

Nysha stepped in front of him, arms spread.

"Lindarion, if you go back there swinging that thing like you just did, you're going to drag the whole city into the fight. Do you have any idea—"

He brushed past her without slowing. "Then they should stay out of the way."

Her hand shot out, grabbing his arm. "You're not listening—"

He stopped only long enough to glance over his shoulder at her, eyes hard. "I've been listening since the day I stepped on this continent. All I've heard is lies, posturing, and cowardice. The Sword Saint humiliated me. That ends today."

Nysha's lips parted like she wanted to argue, but the look on his face made her take a step back.

Lindarion strode toward Ashwing, who had been watching the exchange from a collapsed archway, the dragon's eyes glinting with something between anticipation and approval.

"We're going back?" Ashwing's voice brushed against his mind.

"We're going back," Lindarion confirmed aloud, swinging up into the saddle.

As the dragon's wings spread wide, the ruined temple fell away beneath them, and the fissure in the land stretched out like a scar, pointing almost directly toward the city where the Sword Saint waited.

The sword under his coat pulsed once.

And Lindarion smiled, a thin, dangerous smile that promised the next meeting would not be like the first.

—

The dim chamber smelled faintly of iron and incense. Heavy curtains smothered the light from outside, leaving the room bathed in a dull, reddish gloom.

The Sword Saint knelt on one knee, head bowed, his gauntleted hand resting lightly on the hilt at his side.

"Someone breached the outer grounds yesterday," he said, voice calm and precise, as if reciting the weather. "An outsider. Not one of ours."

From behind the desk, his master leaned forward, fingers steepled. The man's silhouette was vague in the shadow, but the weight of his gaze was like a physical force.

"Describe him."

"Taller than most demons. Wore a hood. Elf—mostly. He used affinities… several of them. Too many." The Sword Saint's lips tightened slightly at the memory. "His control was… rough. Wild. He fights with power first, discipline second."

A faint smirk tugged at the edge of his master's mouth.

"And?"

"I broke him," the Sword Saint said flatly. "Crushed his offense, stripped his defenses. If I'd wanted, he would not have left the estate breathing."

Silence hung between them for a moment. Then, the master leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking.

"You let him go?"

"I didn't need to finish him," the Sword Saint replied. "His presence was already a message, if it was meant to be an assassination, it failed. If it was reconnaissance, then I sent him back limping. Either way, he knows what stands in his way now."

The master's smirk widened, but there was no warmth in it.

"Interesting. Find out where he came from. If he steps into our territory again… you will not show restraint a second time."

The Sword Saint inclined his head. "Understood."

As he rose and turned to leave, his mind replayed the fight in brief flashes, the stubborn defiance in the outsider's eyes, the chaotic clash of multiple affinities in a single heartbeat. It had been reckless. Unrefined.

But behind it… there had been something dangerous.

Something that might return.