Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The chamber still smelled of scorched stone and ozone, scars from Lindarion's earlier training carved across every wall. But now, after Nysha's demonstration, the silence felt heavier, not empty, but thick, as though the shadows themselves were listening.

Lindarion stood with Zerathis in hand, the black-red blade thrumming faintly, its edge shimmering as though eager for blood. His stance was rigid, shoulders squared, the air around him still faintly sparking with leftover mana.

Nysha had resumed her seat on the stone, though her posture was straighter now, attentive. Ashwing curled up at her side like a coiled cat, his reptilian eyes narrowed in what almost looked like smug amusement.

Lindarion exhaled slowly. "I don't need you to coddle me. I need to know how to make it obey."

Nysha arched a brow. "It isn't about obedience. Darkness doesn't serve. It waits."

His jaw tightened. "Everything bends if you push hard enough."

"That's exactly why you fail."

The words stung. He hated that they did.

Still, he turned back toward the cracked wall at the far end of the chamber, gripping Zerathis in both hands. Shadows flickered faintly across the sand where the torchlight didn't reach. He reached for that affinity, the same way he called fire, or lightning, or divine light. He forced his mana outward, flooding it with shadow.

Immediately, the blade screamed. A pulse of raw black energy erupted from it, slamming into the wall with enough force to make the entire cavern shudder. Chunks of stone collapsed, dust raining down.

Lindarion stood rigid, shoulders heaving from the release.

"Force," Nysha said behind him. "Always force."

He turned sharply, eyes like stormlight. "It destroyed the wall. What more do you want?"

Nysha didn't flinch. She rose, stepping barefoot across the sand. Her voice was calm, patient, and that patience infuriated him more than any insult.

"You broke a wall. Fire could do that. Lightning. Ice. You made shadow into another hammer. But it isn't meant to announce itself."

He sneered. "You'd rather I what, whisper at my enemies until they fall over?"

Nysha stopped only a few feet away, her red eyes fixed on him. "No. I'd rather you learn to suffocate them without ever raising your voice."

The words lingered in the silence, sharp as blades.

Lindarion's grip on Zerathis tightened. He hated her tone, her quiet certainty. But worse, he hated that something in him knew she was right.

He had power enough to carve continents, but against the Sword Saint, against the gods, brute force hadn't been enough.

"Show me," he said finally. The words were ground out between clenched teeth.

Nysha tilted her head. "Try again."

Lindarion hissed out a breath and faced the chamber once more. His mana surged, shadows gathering around the blade. But this time, instead of pushing, he hesitated. He let the affinity linger, stretch.

The darkness crawled slowly from the sword, not in a burst, but a seep, like spilled ink spreading across the sand. The torchlight above flickered, its edges swallowed.

For a moment, the chamber dimmed.

And then, all at once, the light snapped back, the shadows dispersing. The sword hummed in his grip, not pleased, but not screaming either.

Lindarion's jaw clenched. "It slipped away."

"No," Nysha said. "You let it. That's closer."

Closer. The word burned his pride. He was Lindarion, prince, wielder of countless affinities, bearer of a god-forged blade. "Closer" was a word for children fumbling at lessons, not for him.

He set his stance again, dragging in breath. He reached not with fire, not with lightning, but with that crawling ink. He imagined silence. He imagined the absence of breath, the unseen edge.

The shadows stirred again, crawling farther this time. The torchlight dimmed more deeply, Ashwing shifting on the ground with a low growl as if uneasy. The walls seemed to vanish into black, the cavern shrinking around them.

Nysha's voice came low, almost whispering. "Don't flood it. Starve it."

He narrowed his eyes, letting the shadows deepen instead of explode. The chamber grew darker, quieter, as though sound itself were pulled into the void. For the first time, he felt the edge of what she meant.

The blade didn't scream this time. It purred.

And in that silence, Lindarion's chest tightened. He felt power, but not the kind that scorched or shattered. Power that erased.

The shadows clung to him, rippling faintly.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he lost it. The darkness snapped away like a curtain ripped down, the torches blazing bright again.

Lindarion staggered a half-step, sweat beading at his brow. His teeth ground together.

"Pathetic," he spat at himself.

Nysha shook her head. "Progress."

"Not enough."

"You expect mastery in an hour?"

He turned sharply on her, eyes flashing. "I expect nothing less. I don't have the luxury of slow lessons. My enemies aren't waiting politely while I fumble."

Nysha met his fury with a calm gaze. "Then die proud and stupid. Or learn."

The chamber fell into silence. Ashwing lifted his head, tongue flicking, eyes gleaming as though entertained.

Lindarion stared at Nysha, the words twisting in his chest. He wanted to lash out, to silence her insolence. But behind her calm, there was no mockery, only truth.

Slowly, he dragged in breath, forcing his grip on Zerathis to loosen.

"Again," he muttered.

This time, he didn't summon fire or lightning first. He stood still, letting the silence stretch. He imagined the Sword Saint's blade flashing faster than sight, imagined his own futile slashes. He imagined not matching force, but vanishing, unseen, until the killing stroke came from nowhere.

He breathed into that thought.

The shadows stirred again. Slower. Quieter. But steadier. They crawled along the floor, up the walls, swallowing edges, blurring the torchlight.

The air grew cold.

For a moment, Nysha herself vanished from sight. Her gray form blended into the black so fully that only her eyes remained, faint glints of red.

Lindarion's chest rose and fell with sharp breaths. His eyes narrowed. He could feel the difference, not a weapon swung, but a presence erased.

And then, for an instant, he wasn't there either.

Nysha blinked.

The spot where Lindarion had stood was a ripple of shadow, his form vanishing like smoke. The air shivered, and then he reappeared three steps forward, Zerathis humming in his grip.

Not a teleport. Not movement through space. The shadows had simply erased the moment of transition, concealing him until he was already elsewhere.

Nysha's lips parted slightly. Ashwing's tail flicked with interest.

Lindarion lowered the blade, chest heaving. Sweat gleamed on his skin, his hair clinging damp to his forehead. His expression was hard, but his eyes burned with sharp light.

"Better," Nysha said softly.

He didn't answer. His pride refused it. But for the first time, a corner of his mouth twitched upward, not a smile, but the ghost of satisfaction.

The shadows slowly receded, the chamber brightening again.

Lindarion turned, planting Zerathis point-down in the sand, leaning against it. His voice was low, steady. "Teach me more."

Nysha sat back down, red eyes glinting in the half-light. "Then listen. For once in your life, listen."

And in the silence of the underground chamber, the prince who had thought brute force was everything finally began to learn the art of erasure.