Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The smoke hadn't cleared.

And Lindarion's patience had finally cracked.

Ashwing stood like a statue in the center of the square, tail coiled defensively, wings half-unfurled, golden eyes scanning every roof. The stone under his claws was scorched black, the scent of burnt metal thick in the air.

Screams echoed from deeper inside the city, but no one else tried to approach. No soldiers. No resistance. Just more silence.

Then—

Wind shifted.

Lindarion's head snapped up.

From the spire at the far end of the square, past the market stalls and shattered homes, a shape rose. Not jumped. Flew.

It wasn't a casual lift.

It was control.

Like gravity had just politely stepped aside.

They came up slow.

A figure in armor unlike the others, sleek obsidian plates trimmed in deep violet. They hovered above the broken tower with legs straight and arms loosely folded behind their back. Tall. Lean. Skin gray, but not corpse-gray like the others, smooth and almost glossy like polished marble.

Their hair was long and ink-black, drifting behind them unnaturally, like it moved underwater. Two horns swept back from their temples in elegant curves. Not jagged. Not monstrous. Royal.

And red eyes.

But deeper. Brighter. Focused.

Watching him.

The demon didn't speak at first.

Just hovered.

Lindarion didn't wait.

He raised his hand again, divine mana surged instantly through his palm. No build-up. No chant. Just heat. Blinding white and gold snapping through the square like a flare.

"You're late."

The figure tilted their head, like they hadn't expected him to speak first. Their voice, when it came, was deep, but smooth. Polite. Dry.

"Most people announce themselves before slaughtering a market."

Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "Most people don't lie to my face, waste my time, and hide their leaders behind illusion and cowardice."

The demon hovered lower. Still calm. "So you burned the city."

"I burned liars." Lindarion said. "You're next if you don't tell me what I want."

Ashwing shifted beneath him, low growl humming from deep in his chest.

The demon hovered just a few feet above the ruined spire now, arms at their sides.

"And what is it you want, elf?"

"You had someone," Lindarion growled. "Taken from the northern continent. A girl. Luneth Silverleaf."

The demon blinked slowly. "Don't know the name."

Lindarion's hand twitched, mana licked up his forearm, golden-hot.

Ashwing tensed.

"I'm not here to ask nicely," Lindarion said.

"No," the demon agreed, voice still eerily even. "You're here to throw a tantrum."

That was the wrong sentence.

Lindarion's mana spiked, a ripple of divine pressure slamming outward like a shockwave. The square cracked deeper under Ashwing's feet. A nearby archway crumbled completely.

Ashwing growled, "He's gonna snap."

'I already have.'

"I don't know who you are," Lindarion said, voice shaking under the weight of his own restraint, "but you're either going to help me or you're going to bleed."

For the first time, the demon's expression flickered.

Not fear.

Amusement.

"You're emotional."

Lindarion's eyes blazed.

The divine glow in his palm doubled, then shot a spiral of golden light up his shoulder, wrapping around his collarbone like a glowing brand.

"Your entire city is about one scream away from becoming ash."

The demon lifted a single brow. "And yet… you haven't screamed."

That made Lindarion pause.

Just a second.

Then he smiled.

Tight. Bitter. Cold.

"Because I'm not here to scream."

He leapt from Ashwing's back.

Straight toward the demon.

—

The distance between them vanished in less than a blink.

Lindarion shot forward, no fancy footing, no flourish. Just raw speed, divine light wreathing his body like a comet crashing from the heavens. Wind shrieked in his ears. Stone below blurred. Ashwing flared his wings behind, circling wide, waiting.

The demon didn't move.

Not until the last half-second.

Lindarion's fist came for their throat, divine mana condensed tight around his knuckles, glowing white-gold.

The demon shifted to the side like they were moving through water, not air.

Lindarion's strike missed by inches, his shoulder grazed dark armor, heat flaring—

And then something slammed into his gut.

A sharp, precise heel.

He grunted, spun with the momentum, let the blow carry him around in a full arc, twisting midair.

He dropped lower, feet touching rubble—

Only to launch again, this time aiming for the spine.

He didn't hold back. Not even a little.

Divine affinity pulsed like a second heartbeat under his skin.

BURN.

He went in low, then high, then vanished completely for a half-breath. He blinked behind the demon, divine pressure condensing around his blade as it materialized into his hand mid-swing.

They spun at the same time.

Clash.

Sparks screamed through the air, mana cracked like thunder.

His blade met the demon's forearm, bare.

No gauntlet. No shield.

Just skin.

But instead of breaking, bleeding, or snapping back—

The divine blade slid across that glossy skin like glass across polished obsidian.

A line appeared.

Thin.

But not deep enough.

Lindarion narrowed his eyes. "What are you?"

The demon's red gaze didn't blink. "Someone used to restraint."

Then their hand snapped up and black lightning erupted point-blank into Lindarion's chest.

He flew backward, caught himself mid-air with a spiral of divine force, crashed through a ruined stall, rolled once, twice, skidding across the stone square in a blur of sparks.

Ashwing roared above, already circling back.

Lindarion stood before the dust settled.

Not slowly.

Not staggered.

He stood like he refused to stay down.

He spit once.

Steam curled from the blood on his lip.

"Alright," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "You've got tricks."

The demon hovered still, breathing even. One hand smoldered with residual black lightning, the other still behind their back.

"You've got anger," they said. "But anger without aim is just noise."

"I'm not aiming."

"Then you're wasting both of our time."

Lindarion blurred again.

This time he used both hands.

His blade split into two mid-dash, divine affinity blazing as he rained strikes down like falling stars. Slash after slash. Hooks. Elbow. Knee. Reversals. Golden sparks flew with every hit, even when blocked.

The demon deflected with palms and forearms, their feet never touching the ground.

It wasn't defensive.

It was surgical.

They moved like they had practiced this a thousand times, under real stars, against real fire.

But Lindarion had a different rhythm.

Not trained.

Not clean.

Angry.

Unrelenting.

Heavy.

A final strike sent the demon spinning slightly out of stance for half a beat.

Lindarion didn't let up, he twisted both blades down, slammed them into the stone like anchors—

And released a burst of divine force straight up from the square like a geyser of raw light.

The blast shattered the air.

The top of the tower behind them exploded.

The demon grunted, finally. First sound of pain.

And dropped, barely, three feet.

Lindarion was already there to meet them.