Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The street around them was nearly unrecognizable now, buildings torn apart, stones cracked and smoking, scorch marks tangled with frostbite scars. Spectators, demonic soldiers, merchants, civilians, kept their distance but didn't flee, as if bound by some unspoken rule that witnessing this duel was as important as surviving it.

The saint's blade twitched.

Lindarion barely raised his own in time to catch the strike. The impact rattled his teeth, and before he could steady himself, the saint spun with inhuman precision, bringing the sword around in a low arc that nearly took Lindarion's legs from under him.

He jumped, not up, but forward, into the saint's space.

Fire roared from his boots, propelling him just enough to twist and drive his shoulder into the demon's chest. At the same instant, a jagged spear of ice erupted from his free hand, aimed directly for the saint's face.

For the first time, the saint's composure broke, not from fear, but from the necessity to defend. His sword came up too late to block the spear, but the faint shimmer of a defensive aura, likely his own affinity woven tight around him, caught the blow inches from his skin.

The spear shattered. Lindarion didn't care. He followed through with a crack of lightning from point-blank range, the arc jumping from his palm to the saint's neck.

The demon staggered.

It was slight, barely more than a misstep, but Lindarion felt it.

"Not untouchable after all," Lindarion muttered, though his voice was more breath than sound.

The saint straightened slowly, exhaling in a controlled manner that made it impossible to tell if he was truly hurt or simply recalibrating. His eyes, deep, burning crimson, narrowed.

Then he attacked again.

If the earlier exchanges had been measured, this was a storm. The saint's blade moved in blinding sequences, overhead, reverse slash, upward cut, thrust, each one seamlessly transitioning into the next.

Lindarion parried, dodged, countered when he could, but every defense came at a cost: a cut across his forearm, a shallow slice over his ribs, a line of fire across his cheek.

He could feel his blood affinity whispering at the edge of his control, offering him strength in exchange for… more of himself. He ignored it. For now.

The saint's blade rose high again, this time glowing faintly with the deep, oppressive weight of his own affinity, raw physical force so concentrated it distorted the air. Lindarion met it with darkness, wrapping the space between them in an impenetrable veil.

It lasted less than a second. The saint's blade tore through the darkness like cloth, the force behind it enough to split the cobblestones at Lindarion's feet when he barely sidestepped.

That was when Lindarion stopped thinking about winning.

He let go. Not of his weapon, but of restraint.

Astral energy exploded around him, distorting his silhouette. Fire licked the edges of the distortion, lightning threading through like veins of molten silver. Darkness seeped into the mix, not to hide, but to sharpen, every movement became a strike from nowhere, each blow carried by more than muscle.

The saint adapted instantly, but there was a difference now, Lindarion wasn't aiming for precision anymore. He was overwhelming.

A flurry of blows landed, some glancing, some biting deep. His blade caught the saint in the thigh, divine light searing into the wound before ice crystallized over it, locking muscle in place. Lightning followed, arcing through the frozen path.

The saint roared, not in pain, but in exertion, as he tore free, chunks of ice scattering across the street.

They clashed again, swords grinding, faces inches apart.

"You fight like you have nothing to lose," the saint said.

"I fight," Lindarion growled, "because I have everything to take back."

He forced the saint's blade down with a surge of strength from his blood affinity, the veins in his arm glowing faintly with the rush of power. Then, before the saint could counter, Lindarion drove his palm into the demon's chest, unleashing an unrestrained burst of divine energy.

The street lit up like daylight.

The explosion threw the saint back through a half-collapsed building, rubble raining down in his wake. Dust and smoke swallowed the space between them, and for a moment… silence.

Lindarion's chest heaved. His grip on his blade trembled. Every nerve screamed in protest, but he didn't lower his weapon.

Because through the dust…

The saint stepped out.

His armor was cracked, his sword chipped along the edge, and a thin line of black blood traced down from his mouth. But his eyes… they burned brighter than before.

"You've earned my name," he said, voice steady even now. "Veythar."

Lindarion raised his sword higher. "I don't care."

Veythar smiled again. "Then survive this."

He vanished, faster than Lindarion's eyes could track, and the final clash began.

—

Veythar's presence vanished from sight, but Lindarion didn't need eyes to know where he was. The air bent around the demon's movement, a shift so sharp it made his skin prickle and his instincts flare.

He spun, too slow.

Steel kissed his side. Not a clean slice, no, this was deeper. The kind of wound that didn't just cut muscle, but stole it. His left arm faltered for half a second, but half a second in this fight was an eternity.

Veythar didn't let go of the moment.

A second blow came, angled low. Lindarion barely caught it with his ice-reinforced blade, but the impact split the ice down its core. Lightning surged along his arm, trying to keep his grip steady as cracks spiderwebbed through the weapon.

"Still standing," Veythar said, and there was something almost like respect in the tone. Almost. "But you've peaked."

Lindarion's teeth clenched. "You talk too much."

He struck with everything, fire exploding under his feet to launch him forward, darkness wrapping the space between them to close off escape, lightning drawn into his blade for speed, divine light for force. The sword sang through the air toward Veythar's neck—

—and stopped.

No clang, no block. Just a hand.

Veythar had caught the blade between his palm and fingers. Divine light seared into his skin, lightning crackled over his knuckles, but he didn't let go. The grip was inhuman, unshakable.

"You think your power makes you my equal," Veythar said quietly. "It makes you interesting."