Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Steel rang against steel in a staccato rhythm, too fast for the human eye to follow. Every time Lindarion thought he saw an opening, the Sword Saint was already there, intercepting, deflecting, countering.

It wasn't just speed, it was control.

The Saint dictated the tempo, every motion honed by decades, maybe centuries, of combat. Lindarion had fought mages, assassins, beasts the size of mountains, but this was different. The Sword Saint fought like the battlefield belonged to him, as if every step Lindarion took was a trespass.

The Saint turned a parry into a riposte with surgical precision, his blade sliding along Zerathis' darkened edge before twisting into a downward diagonal slash. Lindarion caught it, the shock rippling up his arm hard enough to make his fingers tingle.

"Your strength has grown," the Saint said evenly, pushing down. "But strength without discipline is wasted."

Lindarion's lips curled in frustration. "Discipline won't save you from this."

He shifted, his boot grinding against cracked stone, and shoved the Saint back with a surge of raw power. It wasn't elegant, it was brute force, the kind that could split a city wall in half. Zerathis pulsed in his grip, a low, almost predatory vibration, like the blade itself was impatient to taste flesh.

For a moment, the Saint gave ground. Lindarion seized it.

He darted forward, the world blurring as his astral affinity flooded his limbs. His blade came down in a two-handed vertical strike, enough power behind it to split the courtyard, and it did. The stone screamed and tore apart beneath the blow, a jagged rift running between them.

But the Saint wasn't there.

The wind shifted behind Lindarion.

He spun, but too late, the Saint's blade traced a shallow line across his shoulder. The cut wasn't deep, but it was deliberate, precise enough to let Lindarion know that he could have taken his arm.

The Saint's voice was calm, unhurried. "Powerful… but reckless. You still swing like a man who wants the world to feel his anger, not like a warrior who wants to win."

Lindarion bared his teeth. "I don't need to fight like you to kill you."

Ashwing's growl deepened, claws tearing furrows in the ground. The beast was holding himself back, Lindarion hadn't given the command. Not yet.

The Saint moved again, but this time Lindarion was ready. He met the incoming slash, Zerathis' dark aura erupting in a pulse that forced the Saint to adjust his footing. For the first time, their blades locked long enough for Lindarion to lean in close.

"Your time's almost up," Lindarion hissed.

The Saint didn't flinch. "If you think this is my limit… you're already dead."

With a twist of his wrist, the Saint broke the lock, his blade snapping upward in a rising cut that Lindarion barely dodged, a strand of his hair floating to the ground as proof of how close it had come.

The pressure in the air rose again. This wasn't the Saint fighting seriously yet. This was him… measuring.

And Lindarion knew it.

He tightened his grip on Zerathis. The real fight was only just beginning, and even with the blade, he could feel the yawning gap between them.

—

The Sword Saint shifted his stance.

It was subtle, a minute adjustment of the front foot, a faint roll of the shoulder, yet the air itself seemed to tighten, as though the courtyard had suddenly been drawn into the sphere of his will.

"Enough measuring," he said. "Now you see what separates a swordsman from a man with a sword."

He vanished.

No, not vanished. He moved, but so fast that Lindarion's eyes struggled to track him. The only warning was the faint whisper of displaced air before a line of burning pain scored across his ribs.

Lindarion lashed out instinctively, Zerathis slicing in a wide arc, but the Saint was already gone, appearing to his left. Another strike, this one aimed for Lindarion's knee, forced him to pivot hard, the blade missing by a breath.

Every movement was designed to dismantle him.

The Saint didn't waste motion. He didn't overextend. Each slash, each thrust, each shift of weight was aimed not at killing Lindarion outright, but at breaking him down piece by piece.

The ringing of steel filled the air , clash, clang, snap — and Lindarion found himself falling back, step by grudging step.

"You rely too much on power," the Saint's voice carried between blows, calm but edged with something like disdain. "Affinities, raw mana, artifacts… none of them matter if your sword arm falters."

A sudden horizontal slash came for his neck. Lindarion ducked under it and countered, divine affinity blazing along Zerathis' blade. The courtyard lit up with white fire, and for an instant he thought he'd caught the Saint ,

But the Saint's sword intercepted it cleanly, the divine light guttering against the cold perfection of the block.

Then came the counter.

A downward slash, not heavy, not flashy, but exact. Lindarion brought Zerathis up to catch it, and the impact rattled his bones. His footing slipped, his heel grinding into the shattered stone. The Saint pressed forward, and for the first time, Lindarion's stance broke.

The Saint stepped past him, his blade whispering along Lindarion's side, another shallow cut, another reminder.

"Too slow."

Lindarion's breath came harder now. The sword in his hand felt heavier than it had minutes ago. He could feel Zerathis pulsing, almost impatient, almost… urging him.

Fine.

If discipline and perfect technique weren't enough to win here, then he would burn through everything.

The air around him shimmered as he wove multiple affinities at once, lightning crackled across the courtyard, blood-red mist coiled at his feet, divine light haloed the edge of his blade, and a faint darkness clung to his movements like a shadow given form.

Ashwing roared from the sidelines, the sound splitting the air.

The Saint didn't react. He simply raised his sword again , not as a threat, but as an inevitability.

"Show me, then," he said, voice like iron on stone. "Show me how you plan to kill me."

And then the space between them vanished in a single heartbeat.