Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 254: Swords

He caught another with a Time flick, nothing dramatic, just a half-second skip in their swing, enough to duck and counter.

Then two came at once from behind.

They were fast. Clean. One went high. The other low.

’Smart.’

Too bad it didn’t matter.

Lindarion dropped to one knee and slammed his palms into the dirt.

A burst of Ice shattered outward in a controlled arc. Not a wave, needles.

Sharp. Dense. Laced with the faintest edge of Water affinity for speed.

Both attackers fell.

The last one stepped back.

"Wait," he said, breath sharp. "You—what even are you?"

Lindarion rose slowly, coat smoking, eyes still unreadable.

"I’m the reason you’re not going home."

The man tried to run.

He got about six feet before Lindarion used Astral again, appearing in front of him mid-stride and punching him clean across the jaw.

The man hit the ground and didn’t move.

Ashwing dropped from a branch. "You know... that was overkill."

"They started it."

"You used seven affinities."

"I held back," Lindarion said. "Didn’t even touch divine."

Ashwing paused. "Fair."

Lindarion crouched next to one of the unconscious attackers and pulled back the mask.

Not familiar. Human. Early twenties. Scar across the brow. Nothing distinct.

He checked the others.

Same story.

’No uniforms. No crests. But same mana trace. Same purpose.’

Ashwing tilted his head. "They knew what you could do."

"They were trained for me."

Lindarion stood again. Quiet. Calm. But the air around him crackled faintly.

"And they still weren’t enough."

—

The bodies were still cooling.

Lindarion stepped over the last one, coat torn at the edge, lightning still fizzing faintly at his fingers. The frost underfoot cracked as he moved forward, toward the road leading back to the royal estate. No theatrics. No stealth.

Just momentum.

Ashwing curled tighter around his shoulders in silence.

"Not going to stop me?" Lindarion asked aloud.

"Not this time," Ashwing said. "You’re walking like someone with a plan."

"I don’t."

"Then you’re walking like someone too pissed off to care."

That was closer to the truth.

He didn’t slow when the paved stones shifted beneath his boots, each one etched with the seal of House Valerian. Didn’t stop when the line of armor appeared at the top of the rise.

Seven figures.

Evenly spaced.

No insignias.

No pageantry.

Just stillness.

Then the one in the middle stepped forward.

She wore no helmet.

Dark skin. Shaved head. Blue cloth wrapped around her right arm, the symbol of her rank woven in clean silver thread.

"Prince Lindarion," she said, voice steady. "You are to stop here."

He did.

Not out of obedience.

Out of instinct.

Because the way the air shifted around these seven wasn’t normal.

Ashwing stiffened.

"These aren’t city guards."

"No," Lindarion muttered. "They’re the King’s Blade."

He recognized the sigils now, faint and carved into the underside of their breastplates. The elite. The seven who handled everything before it reached Leonhardt.

The woman raised her hand. Not aggressively.

Just to be clear.

"You are not permitted beyond this point."

"I have business with the king."

"He has not summoned you."

"I don’t need to be summoned."

"You do today."

Her tone didn’t rise. No threats. No dramatics.

But her hand didn’t lower.

Lindarion took one step forward.

All seven shifted slightly.

Not a threat.

Not a flinch.

Just readiness.

’They’ve fought together. A lot.’

Ashwing whispered into his thoughts. "They’re stronger than you."

"I know."

"You going to push it anyway?"

"I should."

"But?"

"I’d lose."

And he hated that.

He forced himself to exhale. Hands still loose at his sides.

"I was ambushed less than a mile from here," he said. "Ten trained fighters. All wearing suppression gear. They were sent after me—not the city. Not the crown. Me."

"We are aware," the woman said.

That stopped him.

"You knew?"

"We monitored the pulse. We did not intervene because it did not breach the interior wards."

"You let them try to kill me?"

"We let them fail."

Lindarion’s jaw clenched.

Another of the guards stepped forward. Male. Light hair. Scarred cheek. Quiet voice.

"You’re too valuable to the crown for us to ignore," he said. "But too dangerous to let roam unchecked."

"You think I’m the threat."

"We think the threat walks with you."

Their eyes flicked, once, to Ashwing.

The dragon let out a low growl.

"I’m not his pet," Ashwing muttered through the bond. "Say the word."

"No," Lindarion said.

He looked back at the woman.

"I need to speak to Leonhardt. Now."

"You’ll wait until you’re called."

"I don’t wait."

"Then you don’t enter."

Lindarion took another step.

The man on the left shifted his grip.

The woman didn’t move.

"You want to fight us?" she asked. Not angry. Just... verifying.

Lindarion held her gaze.

Then slowly shook his head.

"No."

"Good."

"Because if I fight now, I’ll use everything."

The silence stretched just enough.

Then he turned.

Without another word.

Back toward the woods.

Ashwing exhaled a puff of heat behind his neck. "So what now?"

Lindarion didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Because he didn’t know.

But if the King’s Blade was standing in his way, that meant one thing:

They were afraid of what he’d do next.

And maybe they should be.

—

Lindarion didn’t make it more than six steps before the sound of boots moved behind him, slow, deliberate.

A voice followed. This one was different.

Not cold. Not sharp.

Just calm.

"Wait."

Lindarion turned. No tension. Not yet.

The man who stepped forward stood a little taller than him, maybe six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, but not bulky.

His armor was dark steel with copper accents, polished but clearly worn from actual use. Short brown hair, pushed back casually.

Clean-shaven jaw. Strong nose. Eyes like dusk-gray iron, flat, focused, tired in the way of someone who saw too much and never said anything about it.

He stopped a few paces away, hands still at his sides.

"Name’s Jaren Vell. Captain of the King’s Blade."

Lindarion said nothing.

Jaren didn’t push.

He looked at the scorched trees behind Lindarion. The body-shaped burns. The way the frost hadn’t returned yet where Lindarion’s lightning had split the ground.

Then he looked back.

"You didn’t kill them." freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

"They would’ve killed me."

"I’m not judging. Just saying... most don’t leave ’em breathing."

Lindarion’s jaw tensed. "If you came to tell me to turn around again, don’t waste the air."

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦