Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The black void folded in on itself like paper being crushed in an invisible fist. One moment, Ouroboros was still walking away, her figure disappearing into the shadows, the strange echo of her presence pressing against his skin. The next—

The world snapped.

His stomach dropped, the air punched out of his lungs, and he landed hard on stone. Cold, damp, real stone.

The temple's crumbling ceiling loomed overhead, its familiar cracks and creeping moss strangely comforting after what he'd just witnessed.

"Lindarion!"

He turned sharply. Nysha stood there, red eyes wide, her hands trembling just enough to betray that she'd been worried. The faint scent of incense clung to her robes, she'd clearly been pacing inside, waiting.

She hurried over, stopping just short of touching him.

"Where—what happened? You were gone for hours! And your mana… it's different."

Her gaze darted to the weapon in his hand. The black, curved blade shimmered faintly in the dim light, silver veins glowing as if reacting to her presence. Nysha's pupils narrowed slightly, demons could feel things most others couldn't.

"That's… not from here," she said slowly, her voice dropping. "Who gave that to you?"

Lindarion looked at the sword, then at her.

He could have explained everything, the god Zerathis, the impossible space, Ouroboros' crushing dominance over something divine. But the weight of it pressed against his mind, the memory almost too big to put into words.

And besides…

"Doesn't matter," he said flatly. "It's mine now."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You're keeping secrets."

"Better for both of us."

That shut her up, though she didn't look pleased. She glanced again at the blade, then back to him, clearly deciding not to push further, at least for now.

He brushed past her without another word, moving toward the broken altar at the center of the temple. The place was still abandoned, silent except for the faint wind slipping through cracked walls.

Lindarion set the blade down on the altar's cold surface. Even untouched, it radiated something, not pure malice, not exactly, but a deep, patient hunger. The silver veins pulsed faintly, as if the weapon itself was breathing.

His system flickered.

[Item Analysis: Blade of the Severed Oath]

[Darkness Affinity Amplification: Tier Limit Overridden]

[Status: Purified — Residual Will Detected]

Residual will. Even after Ouroboros had burned Zerathis out of it, something still lingered. Watching. Waiting.

Lindarion rolled his shoulders. "Let's see what you can do."

His hand closed around the hilt.

The altar cracked.

The silver veins flared brighter, and the darkness affinity inside him surged in response, spilling into the air like smoke made of shadow and cold. The temperature in the room dropped instantly, frost crawling across the stone as if eager to follow his command.

Nysha took a step back, eyes narrowing, but she didn't speak.

Lindarion lifted the blade, testing its weight.

The moment he moved, the shadows bent with him, sharpening into jagged shapes that almost looked like claws reaching outward. His grip tightened and the sword seemed to adjust, like it was learning the way he fought.

For the first time since touching it, he smiled, thin, sharp, and without warmth.

The temple walls groaned under the pressure of his mana.

—

The shadows thickened until the air itself felt heavy. Every slow breath drew in cold like he was inhaling winter. The sword hummed faintly, the kind of vibration he could feel more in his bones than in his hand.

The silver veins along the blade pulsed again, in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat.

Nysha's voice was hesitant from behind him.

"You… might want to be careful."

He didn't answer.

Instead, Lindarion let his mana bleed into the weapon, pouring darkness into it until the edges shimmered with a faint astral glint, not from the sword itself, but from his own affinities colliding inside it. The stone under his boots cracked, thin black lines spreading outward like a spider's web.

The hum deepened.

And then—

He moved.

The swing wasn't elaborate, no flourish, no wasted motion. Just a clean, downward strike through empty air.

The world reacted.

A single line of darkness tore forward from the blade, silent at first, then followed by a sharp cracking boom that rattled the ground. The wave didn't just cut through the abandoned temple, it parted it. Stone, columns, and ancient roof tiles split in an impossibly straight line, dust exploding into the air as half the building began to collapse away from the other.

The strike didn't stop there. The line kept going, carving through the earth itself. The ground rumbled beneath them, and the cut ran out of sight, a canyon-like fissure splitting the land beyond the temple's back wall.

Nysha shielded her face from the debris, staring in disbelief.

"That— That wasn't normal darkness mana. What are you wielding?"

Lindarion lowered the blade slowly, watching faint black motes drift from its edge. The silver veins pulsed once more, like a satisfied sigh.

He could feel it, the weapon hadn't just amplified his attack. It had shaped it, sharpened it, guided it like it knew exactly what he wanted to do and executed it perfectly.

But there was something else…

A faint, almost imperceptible pull at the edge of his mind, as if the sword wanted more. More mana. More destruction.

He gripped the hilt tighter.

"Let's see how far you can go."

The ground still trembled from the last cut, the dust of the temple settling around him like mist. The fissure stretched for hundreds of meters, and yet the weapon felt ready, eager for the next blow.

—

The air around the blade was no longer still. It rippled faintly, like heat haze, but colder. The silver veins glowed in a rhythm too fast to match his heartbeat now, pulsing in time with something deeper… older.

Nysha had backed up toward what remained of the temple wall, her voice wary.

"Lindarion… the ground is still shaking from the first one. I think that's enough—"

He ignored her.

The pull from the weapon was stronger now, a whisper threading through the edges of his thoughts. Not words, exactly, just the promise of what would happen if he stopped holding back.