Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Steel met mana. Sparks flew. The cloth didn't tear. But it hissed.

Ren was behind the figure now. Fast. Blade low. Ice crawling up her arms in a spiral pattern like frost was responding to her pulse.

She struck.

The mage turned.

Too late.

The sword hit.

It didn't cut deep.

But it cut.

First blood.

Steam rose from the wound like smoke from old incense.

The mage didn't scream.

He didn't even flinch.

He just turned his mask fully to Ren.

A burst of dark mana exploded from the staff's head, point blank.

Ren went flying. Backward. Through a pile of crates. Wood shattered. Ice mist filled the air. She landed hard, but rolled back up with a wheeze.

"Okay," she coughed. "He hits hard."

"You alright?" Lindarion called, fire already coiled in his hand.

"Absolutely not," she shouted. "But I'm mad now."

Lira used the distraction.

She stepped close again. Too close for spells. Dagger flicking up once, twice, three times in rapid cuts that tried to break through the mage's chest defense. No wasted movement. No wide arcs.

Just pressure.

Every strike forced him back.

Until he stopped moving.

And the staff's base slammed into the ground.

The shockwave didn't ripple out.

It went up.

Dark mist coiled around him like a second cloak. The runes on his mask flared red, then black, then disappeared completely.

The monsters in the field shrieked.

Real shrieks.

Pain. Hunger. Worship.

Then they charged.

Again.

Full force.

The entire square exploded in movement.

Ashwing roared and leapt forward like a summoned meteorite.

Lindarion clenched his fist, felt the fire shudder.

'They're not just buying time. They're defending him.'

Meren screamed from somewhere behind. Possibly in terror. Possibly in protest. He still threw a bolt that hit something important.

Ren dragged herself upright, blood on her lip, eyes narrowed like knives.

Lira crouched low again, one hand extended behind her like she was about to draw another weapon.

The mage finally looked up.

And this time, Lindarion felt it.

Not cold.

Not fear.

Something older.

'…He's not just a mage. He's more like a damned herald.'

Of what?

He didn't want to know.

And definitely not tonight.

He raised both hands. Fire surged like it had teeth.

"Ren," he shouted, "go loud."

She bared her teeth.

"Gladly."

—

Ren didn't wait for a countdown.

She sprinted forward with that same manic precision only possessed by battle freaks and people who'd lost a bet.

Her sword dragged behind her for half a second before she flipped it into a reverse grip and launched herself toward the mage like she'd decided gravity was optional.

The staff flared again.

This time, the light wasn't clean.

It was muddy. Wrong. Like a dream bleeding through the edges of the world.

Lindarion felt it in his molars.

Ren didn't flinch.

She kicked off a chunk of stone midair, twisted like a gymnast with anger issues, and came down swinging.

The sword connected with a sound like ice breaking underwater.

The mage staggered back half a step. Just one.

But it was enough.

Lira was already there.

She hadn't run.

She'd flowed. Her momentum was all knee, shoulder, elbow strikes designed to collapse, not push.

The dagger flicked again. This time, up and angled toward the soft of the neck.

It met the mask.

The runes flared again, absorbing the hit with a hiss like burning silk.

'…That's going to be a problem,' Lindarion thought. 'Note to self: enchanted armor is cheating.'

He didn't wait either.

The monsters had started pouring in from all sides. Dozens. No, hundreds. Climbing the walls, slamming into doorways, ripping up cobblestones like they had a grudge against architecture.

Soldiers were falling fast.

One got dragged backward into the dark by four limbs wrapped in mist. Another shouted and vanished into a cluster of jaws. The snow was already black.

Lindarion raised both hands.

Let the fire rip.

It spiraled outward in a crescent arc, burning three shadow-beasts into nothing and lighting the edge of the battlefield in a sharp orange bloom.

Ashwing was everywhere.

One second, clamped onto a monster's shoulder with little dragon rage. The next, flinging a smoking arm into the frost like a dog playing fetch backwards.

"Hold the line!" Raleth bellowed near the rear. His blade was glowing gold now. Not pretty gold. Functional gold. The kind that hummed with old enchantments and looked like it had opinions.

Lindarion ducked under a clawed swipe, planted his feet, and flared the fire around his arms like armor.

A shadow-beast lunged.

He uppercut it with a burning fist.

The thing turned into a plume of black vapor that smelled like wet mold and regret.

Then another one slammed into his side, claws scraping against the flame coating. He grunted, twisted, and blasted it away with a pulse of fire that left his ears ringing.

Behind him, Ren screamed again, not in pain. In challenge.

"I almost admire him," she said, dodging a staff strike that cratered the stone behind her. "Guy's got flair."

Lira didn't speak. She moved.

Low again. A sweep kick that took the mage's legs out for just long enough to let her dagger bite deeper.

The mask cracked. Slightly.

A fissure near the side.

The mage turned.

For the first time, he retaliated with real force.

Both hands came down, slamming the staff into the ground.

A wave of shadow burst out, pure mana backlash.

Ren got caught in the edge and flung into a half-collapsed cart. She swore. Loudly.

Lira slid back, heels carving two neat lines through the frost.

"Cover!" Lindarion barked, already moving.

He shot a pillar of flame between Lira and the mage just as the figure turned toward her again. The fire didn't do much to him, but it bought her two seconds.

She nodded once in his direction.

That was enough.

Behind him, another soldier fell.

Meren was holding the line with Ardan now—barely. The older warrior's blade was soaked in black mist, hair clinging to his forehead, breaths short but timed like he was counting.

Ashwing was growling constantly now. No rhythm. Just a building storm.

Lindarion dropped low.

His hands hit the stone.

The fire ran into the ground, thin veins of light branching out like cracks in the surface of the world.

They lit a path around the mage.

Ren saw it.

"Now?" she shouted.

"Now."

She leapt again.

Blade first.

The fire reached the outer runes of the spell ring and flared.

The explosion wasn't massive.

But it was close.

It knocked the mage slightly off balance.

Lira lunged.

Her dagger struck the crack in the mask.

It didn't break fully.

But it chipped.

Hard.

The sound that came out of the mage wasn't human.

It wasn't anything.

It just hurt.

A pressure behind the eyes. A frequency that didn't have the decency to be audible.

Lindarion staggered.

So did everyone else.

Ashwing screeched.

And somewhere in the trees, something else screamed back.

Lindarion's stomach dropped.

'…That wasn't him.'

He looked to the north.

The trees were glowing.

Faintly.

Something old was waking up.

The mage raised his staff again, runes flickering, leaking black steam from the wound in his mask.