Reincarnated as an Elf Prince
Chapter 191 - 191: Raid (3)

Meren was still at the back, casting minor barriers around civilians trying to flee. His jaw was tight, sweat streaking the dirt on his cheeks.

Ren caught Lindarion's eye between swings.

"We can't hold this line forever."

Lindarion glanced back toward the village. Houses burning low now. Not torched. Just catching from sparks. Friction. Chaos.

The air smelled like sweat, blood, and old wood trying not to die.

He raised both hands.

The fire affinity surged.

Brighter this time. Hotter.

He stepped forward and unleashed it in a wide wave, clearing a path ten meters across. The monsters closest to them scattered or evaporated entirely in a blast of controlled rage.

Ashwing let out a delighted shriek and dove into the gap, gnawing on whatever wasn't ash yet.

Lindarion's chest rose and fell, every breath heavier.

'Still holding.'

Lira stepped up beside him. Her blade dripped, her face unreadable.

"Back them up," she said. "Now."

They ran.

No more waiting.

No more witty lines.

Just fire, steel, and enough monsters to make the gods reconsider their life choices.

And Lindarion?

He didn't hesitate.

Because if they fell here, it wouldn't just be the village.

It would be the beginning of something worse.

—

Lindarion hit the ground hard. Not from a strike. From dodging one.

A monster had flung itself past his shoulder at the last second, clipping his arm and ripping a line through the side of his cloak.

Not skin. Yet.

'Great. That's the second cloak this month. I should start billing the void.'

He rolled, fire already curling in his palm, and sent a blast point-blank into the creature's gut. It exploded in a cloud of steaming black mist and regret.

Ashwing leapt over him mid-spin, smoke trailing from his mouth, tiny wings flared like he thought he was invincible.

Honestly, he was starting to believe it too.

Ren skidded past, heels kicking up frost, her sword dragging behind her before she whipped it up with a flare of ice that froze three monsters in one brutal line. The edges cracked. One of them twitched. She shattered it with her boot.

"Left side's folding!" she shouted.

Ardan responded with steel.

No words. No sound. Just movement that didn't waste anything.

A soldier fell behind him, claw through the gut. Another tried to help and caught a strike to the neck.

Too late.

Too many.

Too fast.

'We're being herded,' Lindarion realized. 'They're driving us inward. Pushing us to break formation.'

He backed toward Lira, who stood in the thick of it like a shadow had given up being subtle and picked up a knife.

Her face was stone. Cold. Focused. She cut down another, no flourish. Just ruthless efficiency.

"They're not trying to kill us fast," he said.

"I know," she replied without turning. "They're waiting for something."

A crack of thunder split the air.

Not real thunder.

Mana.

Dark and sharp. It buzzed in his bones like a scream waiting for a throat.

Lindarion turned.

So did everyone else.

The field fell silent, just for a second. Long enough to feel it.

Cold swept over the village square again, but this wasn't winter. This was something colder.

Wronger.

From the far end of the field, the tree line parted.

Not gently.

Like it had been punched open from the inside.

And through it stepped a figure.

Tall. Towering. Maybe nine feet. Hard to tell through the haze.

It wore a dark cloak, not just black. Blacker. Mana-wrought fabric that ate the light around it.

Its face was hidden under a wide hood, and beneath that, a glint of silver and bone. A mask. Ornate. Etched in runes Lindarion couldn't read and didn't want to.

It held a staff taller than a grown man, topped with a crystal that pulsed once. Deep purple. Alive. Rotten.

The monsters froze.

Every single one.

Then stepped back.

Made room.

Lindarion's fire dimmed without his permission.

He clenched his jaw.

'Nope. Not now. Not a mage.'

Ashwing hissed beside him, body low, wings tight to his sides.

The cloaked figure moved forward.

Slow.

Casual.

Like this was a walk. Like this wasn't war.

Meren made a small, wounded noise. "That's not fair."

Lira's hand tightened on her blade. Her shoulders didn't tense. They settled. Like she was weighing every possible point of entry for her dagger.

Ren stepped up beside Lindarion, voice low. "That's a mage. Big one."

"Understatement," he muttered.

"Any plans?"

"Survive. Look cool. Don't cry."

"Copy."

The figure stopped at the edge of the firelight.

Didn't speak.

Didn't gesture.

Just watched.

Waiting.

Lindarion felt the fire in him churn. Not fear. Not yet. But a warning.

Whatever this was—

It was worse than teeth.

Worse than claws.

It was smart.

And it was here for something. Or someone.

The cold deepened again.

And the air held its breath.

The silence stretched.

Heavy. Suffocating. The kind that didn't just hang in the air, it settled in your chest and tried to convince your lungs to stop being ambitious.

The cloaked figure didn't move.

Didn't need to.

Every monster in the clearing still held position. Even the twitchy ones. Especially the twitchy ones.

Ren clicked her tongue.

"So. He's not shy. He's just dramatic."

Lira took a step forward.

Only one.

But it felt like something important had shifted.

She wasn't staring. She wasn't posturing.

She was studying him. Blade in hand. Shoulders squared.

Waiting for a reason.

The mage finally lifted a hand.

Not fast.

Like he wanted them to see every movement. Every inch of the claw-tipped fingers, pale against the dark of his sleeve.

He pointed.

Not at the soldiers.

Not at the villagers.

Not at Lindarion.

But directly at Lira.

She didn't blink.

Ren muttered, "Oh. Good. You've made a friend."

The figure raised the staff.

Then the wind moved.

But it didn't blow.

It shoved.

A force slammed across the square like a wall of knives and frost. Half the front line staggered. One soldier went down, his helmet clattering off and vanishing into the dark.

Lindarion braced, one hand coming up, fire roaring to life just to hold his ground.

Ashwing skidded backward on all fours, wings spread to keep balance, growling like someone had insulted his bloodline.

And in the middle of it—

Lira didn't move.

The cloak rippled.

The figure raised the staff higher.

Lightning flashed.

No thunder.

Just raw light. No build-up. No chant. Just mana shaped by something ancient.

The bolt lashed out.

Lira blurred.

She didn't dodge.

She moved through.

The lightning bent around where she had been a moment ago, scattering against the frozen dirt in sparks that hissed like angry snakes.

Ren shot past Lindarion like a blue-streaked meteor, blade glowing with frost so bright it cast her face in sharp whites and shadowed blues.

"I've got right," she said, already moving to flank.

"I'll take front," Lira replied, calm as a cut vein.

The mage lifted a second hand.

Both now raised.

The ground split.

Not crumbled. Split. Like it had been waiting for an excuse.

A ring of jagged stone ripped upward, jagged like teeth. A barrier? No. A stage.

Lira reached the edge first.

Then vanished.

Reappeared mid-step.

And brought her dagger across the edge of the mage's robes in a blur of motion.

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