Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Nysha flinched by the door but didn't try to stop it.

Lindarion's shadow loomed over the man as he grabbed him by the collar and yanked him upright again.

"Black-robed. White-haired. Travels with a man who bends space like it's cloth. Sound familiar?"

The merchant choked. "Maeven—"

"There it is."

Lindarion's fist hovered again.

The merchant threw up his hands.

"Wait—wait—I don't know where they are now. I just know who paid for their arrival. A summoner. Local—sort of. Older blood. Demonic noble house. They're the ones who gave him access to the temple in the first place."

"Name," Lindarion growled.

The merchant wheezed. "House Veyr."

Lindarion let him go.

The man crumpled to the floor with a groan.

Nysha took a careful step forward, voice soft. "That's not a minor name…"

"Good," Lindarion muttered. "Then they'll know I'm coming."

He turned and walked back toward the curtain.

Nysha glanced once at the groaning merchant, then followed.

"Are we going to talk to them?" she asked.

Lindarion didn't look back.

"No."

"Then what are we—?"

"We're going to burn their name off the map."

—

The Veyr estate sat like a tumor at the city's edge.

Black walls. Iron spikes curling outward at the top. Guard towers bristling with crossbows, though the bolts were heavier than any human weapon. The gates were twice the height of an elf, carved with sigils that shifted when you tried to look at them too long.

The air here was different, thicker, hotter, humming faintly like the sound before a storm.

Nysha stood a few paces behind Lindarion, her hood up, eyes scanning the walls. "You… really don't want to just knock?"

Lindarion ignored her and kept walking straight toward the gate.

The guards moved instantly. Their spears lowered, tips glowing faintly with some kind of mana coating.

But they didn't say anything.

Because someone else was walking out.

He didn't look like the rest of them.

The sword on his back was almost as tall as Lindarion himself, its black steel etched with a red vein running the length of the blade.

He didn't wear armor, just a dark cloak that shifted as he moved, revealing muscle carved like stone. His eyes were like molten metal, gold-red and bright enough to burn against his ash-grey skin.

The air grew still.

Nysha whispered behind him. "A saint.."

The demon stopped a few paces from Lindarion, his gaze steady.

"You've made noise," he said. His voice was calm, deep—dangerously calm. "Too much noise. And now you've come to my master's door."

"Your master," Lindarion replied, "harbored someone I'm hunting."

The demon's lips twitched, but it wasn't quite a smile. "And you think I'll just let you pass?"

Lindarion took a step forward.

"No."

The sword saint moved the instant the word left Lindarion's mouth.

The massive blade flashed like black lightning, cutting downward with a speed that didn't match its size.

Lindarion didn't move his feet. His hand came up, divine light coating his palm as he caught the blade flat. The impact shook the ground, sending cracks spiderwebbing under their boots.

The demon's eyes narrowed.

"You're… not slow."

Lindarion shoved the blade back and let his own mana flare, a cold shadow behind a burning sun, darkness and divine layered over one another until the air itself bent.

"Neither are you," Lindarion said. "But I don't have time for you."

Around them, the guards began to retreat from the gate, recognizing what was about to happen.

Nysha pressed herself against the wall, watching with wide eyes.

The sword saint set his stance again, the tip of his blade lowering toward Lindarion's chest.

"Then I'll make it quick."

Lindarion's smile was sharp and humorless.

"Try."

The sword saint didn't vanish.

He didn't blur, didn't flicker, he simply wasn't there anymore, and the next heartbeat he was inside Lindarion's guard, black blade arcing toward his throat.

Lindarion barely twisted his head in time. The edge sang past, close enough to shear a few strands of his hair.

The force of the strike punched the air from his lungs even without touching him.

Lindarion's palm lit with lightning as he aimed for the demon's ribs, but the saint twisted, caught his wrist, and used Lindarion's own momentum to hurl him into the cobblestones.

Stone cracked under Lindarion's back.

The saint's shadow loomed above, his massive sword already descending again, no hesitation, no wasted motion.

Lindarion rolled, the blade biting deep into the ground where he'd been. The shockwave from the impact ripped a trench through the street, scattering guards who'd been watching too closely.

He was fast, too fast for something that size.

Lindarion came up on one knee, ice already forming in the air around his fingers, shards spinning outward like a bloom of frost-laced knives.

The saint stepped once, and the entire storm of ice shattered mid-air, cut apart so fast Lindarion didn't even see the blade move.

"You're mixing affinities," the saint said calmly, eyes fixed on him. "Sloppy. Unrefined."

Lindarion's teeth clenched. The truth of it burned, but the rage burned hotter.

Blood affinity pulsed through him now, muscles tightening, speed flaring. He darted forward, his own blade appearing in his grip in a flare of astral light. His strike came low, aiming for the saint's legs—

—only for the demon to catch the blade between two fingers.

And stop it.

Lindarion felt the pressure in his arms as if he were trying to pull a sword from solid rock.

The saint looked almost bored. "You rely on power. Not precision."

Then his boot slammed into Lindarion's chest.

The world went sideways, and Lindarion felt himself hit a wall hard enough to leave an imprint. The air left his lungs in a violent rush.

Somewhere behind the haze in his vision, he heard Nysha shouting, but her voice was distant, swallowed by the ringing in his ears.

The saint's steps were slow, deliberate, each one echoing against the cracked stone.

"I'll break you here," the demon said quietly, "and scatter whatever's left."

Lindarion spat blood, his vision clearing just enough to see the sword rising again—

—and this time, the saint meant to kill him.