Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The courtyard lay silent after the gates slammed shut. Broken stone, streaks of scorched earth, and the acrid stench of charred air were all that remained of the battle.

Lindarion stood in the middle of it, swaying like a man one breath from collapse. His hair clung to his face in blood-soaked strands. Each breath tore through his chest like broken glass.

The Sword Saint's final words still echoed in his skull. This is mercy. Next time, I won't give it.

Mercy.

The word tasted like poison. He wanted to spit it out, crush it, erase it from existence.

He clenched Zerathis in his trembling grip. The blade's faint hum vibrated through his palm, steady, unyielding. The weapon hadn't failed him. He had failed the weapon.

His knees buckled. He caught himself on one arm, growling low in his throat. The world blurred around the edges, his vision narrowing to pinpricks of light.

Then a voice broke the silence.

"—Lindarion!"

He stiffened. For a heartbeat, he thought the Sword Saint had returned. His instincts flared, divine light sparking at the edge of his battered mana pool.

But no, the figure running toward him was smaller, lighter. A girl in plain robes, her long black hair loose, her grey-tinged skin unmistakable under the moonlight.

Nysha.

She skidded to a stop beside him, her chest heaving as she looked him over. Her red eyes widened in horror. "By the abyss, what did you do? You're—" she reached for his shoulder but froze when her hand came away slick with blood. "—you're barely standing!"

"I'm standing enough," Lindarion rasped, forcing himself upright, though every muscle screamed at him to stay down.

"You call this standing?" Nysha snapped, her voice sharp with panic. "You look like a corpse trying to remember how to move."

He didn't answer. His jaw tightened. He turned his gaze toward the closed gates of the estate.

"Don't," Nysha said immediately, following his eyes. She grabbed his arm, small fingers pressing into blood and bruises, but she didn't let go. "Don't even think about it. If you try to go back in there, you'll die."

"Then I'll die fighting."

The words came out low, guttural, a growl dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.

Nysha's grip tightened. "And what will that solve? You think throwing yourself against him again, broken as you are, will change the outcome? He'll cut you down like you're nothing, and all you'll prove is that he was right."

Her words pierced sharper than he expected. His teeth ground together. "I won't be nothing."

Nysha flinched at the heat in his voice, but she didn't step back. Instead, she leaned closer, her red eyes locking onto his. "You already aren't nothing. You walked into this city, you tore its streets apart, you fought a man no one in their right mind would even dare to face. Do you know what people are whispering right now?"

Lindarion said nothing.

"They're whispering your name," Nysha whispered, softer now, almost desperate. "Or whatever they think your name is. They're calling you the Sword Prince, the outsider, the mad one who challenged the Saint. You've carved yourself into their stories whether you won or lost."

The words pressed against him, but they slid off the wall of his rage. He could feel it still, burning in his chest like an unquenchable fire.

Lindarion looked down at Zerathis. The blade pulsed faintly again, as though it too was waiting, expectant. The memory of Ouroboros's cold, knowing voice lingered in the back of his mind.

Nysha followed his gaze to the weapon, and her expression tightened. "That sword… it's not normal. I can feel it just standing near you. It's wrong. Dangerous."

"It's mine."

"You say that," she hissed, "but is it truly yours? Or are you its? Weapons like that don't come without chains."

He ignored her. His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened. "It will be the blade that kills him."

Nysha stared at him for a long moment, her expression caught between fear and frustration. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "You're impossible."

She knelt beside him, pulling a small satchel from her robes. From it, she drew vials of thick green liquid, strips of cloth, and small charms carved from bone. "Hold still."

"I don't need—"

"You do," she snapped, cutting him off with rare sharpness. "You may have affinities, but your body isn't invincible. If you bleed out on this ground because of your pride, then everything you're fighting for dies with you."

Reluctantly, he let her work.

Nysha's hands moved quickly, surprisingly steady. She cleaned the gash along his ribs with the foul-smelling liquid, ignoring his hiss of pain. She pressed herbs into the wound, then bound it tightly.

The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of cloth tearing and her muttered instructions to "stay still" whenever he twitched.

Finally, she spoke again, her voice quieter now. "Why? Why risk yourself like this? You speak of enemies, of some Maeven, of a Dythrael. But throwing yourself at demons here, what if it's not the same fight?"

"It's always the same fight," Lindarion muttered.

Nysha glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. "You mean to rule it all, don't you? To drag every enemy into the light, no matter where they hide."

He didn't answer, but his silence was enough.

She sighed, sitting back on her heels. "Then you need patience. A dead prince can't conquer anything."

For a long moment, the two of them simply sat in the wreckage. The crowd had long since dispersed, whispers fading into the night. Only the broken stones bore witness to their words.

Finally, Lindarion forced himself to his feet. His body protested, but he ignored it. He sheathed Zerathis under his coat, concealing the faint pulse of light that still emanated from its edge.

Nysha rose beside him, frowning. "Where are you going?"

"Not back," he said, though his eyes lingered on the estate gates. His voice was low, dangerous. "Not yet."

"Good," she muttered. "You'd only prove the Saint's point if you tried."

But he didn't look away from the gates until the shadows of the estate were swallowed by distance.

–

They walked in silence through the city, its streets still faintly glowing from the fires he had unleashed days before. The red-eyed people of this land watched him from alleys and doorways, fear etched into their strange faces.

Every step was a reminder of his loss.

Every whisper was a reminder of his humiliation.

But beneath the rage, something else pulsed, a cold, unyielding determination.

The Sword Saint had won.

But victory was temporary.

Next time, Lindarion thought as his hand brushed the hilt of Zerathis, feeling its faint heartbeat. Next time, the Saint bleeds.