Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 295: Challanger

Lindarion ducked.

Not dramatically. Not desperate.

Just a slight lean at the waist.

Valen’s punch soared past his temple.

The air hissed.

Lindarion yawned.

Literally.

Then planted a single palm into Valen’s chest and pushed.

Not with magic. Not with lightning or divine mana.

Just force.

Valen stumbled back four full steps and barely kept from falling.

The crowd was no longer silent.

"What is he doing?"

"Is this a joke?"

"Doesn’t look like he’s even trying—"

Valen growled, already charging again.

He dropped low, skidding over the dirt with flame-coated boots, fists glowing orange.

Lindarion raised an eyebrow. ’Fine.’

He stepped forward.

Then vanished.

Not with a spell. Not with chant.

Just speed.

Lightning flashed underfoot, fast and quiet, then he was behind Valen, a hand on the back of his neck.

Valen froze.

"You shouldn’t drop your weight like that when you don’t know my rhythm," Lindarion said casually, his breath just above Valen’s ear.

Valen twisted, trying to strike—

Lindarion kicked the back of his knee.

Gently.

Valen crumpled.

Not unconscious. Just stunned. On one knee. Arms up defensively.

Lindarion stepped back with a small sigh, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his sleeve.

"I’m not here to embarrass you," he said calmly, loud enough for the crowd. "You challenged me. I accepted. But if you still think I’m weak after that..."

He didn’t finish.

Didn’t need to.

Valen’s knuckles dug into the dirt.

Chest heaving.

—

He rose again, breath uneven, blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes didn’t burn with pride anymore, just something bitterer.

Embarrassment.

Maybe even fear.

The kind that made soldiers reckless.

"I didn’t come here for a demonstration," Valen muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That wasn’t a fight."

Lindarion didn’t move. "Then what was it?"

Valen’s jaw flexed. "Try this."

He slammed both palms down into the ground—fire erupted in a short-radius burst, the heat rippling outward in every direction like a shockwave of glass-sharp pressure.

The crowd staggered back.

Ashwing growled from his perch.

Lindarion didn’t flinch.

He stepped into the heat.

He let it wash over him.

Fire flickered against his coat, against his boots, licking up his side, and then it was gone, dissipating in the space around him like the heat simply gave up.

Someone whispered from the crowd, "Did he just, absorb it?"

Lindarion exhaled quietly. ’No. Just canceled it. Fire can’t hurt what it can’t latch onto.’

The air cracked behind Valen.

He spun, swinging wild, but Lindarion wasn’t there.

He was above him.

One hand raised. Lightning threaded through his fingers, not explosive, not destructive, just precise.

He brought his hand down with surgical speed and—

Tap.

Two fingers on Valen’s shoulder. Barely a strike.

But the energy transferred like a pulse.

Valen’s knees folded. He hit the dirt again, jaw clenched so tight it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack.

He didn’t scream. To his credit, he swallowed it.

But Lindarion saw the way his limbs twitched.

The lightning had locked his muscles in place.

He crouched beside him.

"This is pointless," Lindarion said, tone flat but not cruel. "You’re not weak. You just picked the wrong opponent."

Valen said nothing.

Ashwing muttered into the bond, "You going to knock him out or lecture him to death?"

’I’m deciding.’

Valen growled. "You gonna finish it or keep showing off?"

Lindarion met his gaze. "I’m not showing off. If I wanted to finish it—"

He raised one hand again. The crowd tensed.

But instead of attacking, Lindarion extended his hand toward Valen and helped him up.

Even locked muscles eventually yielded.

Valen staggered, balance off, but upright.

"You’re not ready to follow me," Lindarion said calmly. "But this isn’t the battlefield. I’m not here to humiliate you."

The silence was heavier than any roar.

Valen stared at him.

Then, with a quiet nod, he turned, limped two steps back, and said to the watching crowd:

"He’s the real deal."

Then he walked out of the ring.

And the circle exploded with murmurs.

Someone shouted, "He barely even used an affinity—!"

"Didn’t even draw a weapon—"

"Valen’s not weak. I’ve seen him hold a wall by himself."

"Sunblade blood... it’s different."

Lindarion didn’t bask in it.

He just stood there.

Dust settling around him.

And finally, finally, he turned toward the gathered war leaders emerging once more from the tent, brows furrowed, eyes calculating.

They didn’t look smug anymore.

Didn’t look dismissive.

One, a lean woman in silver-dyed armor with faded green tattoos up her neck, nodded once in quiet acknowledgment.

Another, an older elf with an obsidian eye set into his socket, crossed his arms but said nothing.

Lindarion turned and walked off the dueling ground, silent.

Ashwing circled once overhead before landing beside him in a smaller form.

"They believe you now," the dragon said.

’I didn’t want to prove it like that.’

"No. But you had to."

Lindarion looked ahead, toward the forest-line beyond the camp.

’I don’t care about their trust. I need their help.’

Ashwing tilted his head. "You think they’ll give it now?"

Lindarion exhaled, low and tired.

’They better.’

—

The inside of the tent was warmer than it looked.

Stuffy, almost.

Canvas walls thick with condensation, a faint smell of ink and old wine soaking the air. Maps took up most of the long table in the center, stitched leather, stained parchment, old forest charts fraying at the corners.

Seven figures stood around it.

Lindarion walked in with Ashwing at his shoulder and a calm he didn’t feel.

No one stopped him this time.

No one said he didn’t belong.

Jaren was already there, leaning over the eastern border sketches. He gave Lindarion a small nod, quiet, quick, but didn’t speak.

The others were watching.

The elf with the silver-dyed armor from earlier stepped forward first. Her hair was pulled back tight into a coil, streaked with white near the temple, and she had one of those tired faces that didn’t age. Just settled into disappointment.

"Lindarion Sunblade," she said. "I’m General Naelira. I speak for the western outposts."

Lindarion gave a shallow nod. "You’re holding that line?"

"For now. They’ve gone quiet the past two days. Either regrouping, or planning something worse."

Another stepped forward, a younger male with one clouded eye and a prosthetic hand of layered steel. "General Varnel. Northeast watch. We held the Elarin Spire until yesterday. Then we fell back."