Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 106: Prisoner (4)

The blade lowered toward his abdomen.

Lindarion closed his eyes.

He didn't pass out.

That was the worst part.

His body wouldn't let him.

Every nerve that should have fried itself quiet—reconnected.

Every reflex that should have died—reset.

The blade slid in just beneath his ribs, smooth and deliberate, until it reached something important. The deepest parts of Lindarion.

The man didn't dig.

He twisted the thing.

And the mana inside Lindarion's core screamed.

But Lindarion didn't.

His body jerked against the restraints, veins glowing faintly under the strain of interrupted mana flow.

Somewhere inside, his Core was thrashing—like a caged animal trying to rip its way out of him just to breathe.

Then—

A quiet click.

The blade was withdrawn.

Blood ran in a clean line down Lindarion's stomach, pooling in his lap. It wasn't a mortal wound. Not yet. That wasn't the point.

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"Still silent," the man mused.

He knelt so they were eye-level.

"You know, I've broken men five times your age with less than this. Generals. Princes. Mages."

Lindarion's eyes opened slowly.

Not defiant.

Just awake.

Just watching.

The Gentleman tilted his head. "And yet here you are. Bleeding. Trembling. And still pretending you're not scared."

'Not pretending,' Lindarion thought dimly. 'Just… too tired for fear at this point..'

His fingers twitched. Barely. There wasn't much he could move.

He couldn't use his skills. His limbs were locked down by binding thread matrices.

Every inch of him was burning, drowning, twitching with delayed response signals.

But the man just smiled.

As if this were a casual evening recital.

"You don't hate me yet," he said.

"That's interesting."

'I do fucking hate you.'

Lindarion's lips were cracked. He could barely breathe.

But his voice—when it came—was dry. Hoarse. Quiet.

"You will die.."

The man blinked.

Then laughed.

It wasn't cruel. That would've been easier. It was genuinely delighted.

"A perfect answer, gentleman. A perfect answer."

He stood again, his gloves slick with blood. "Do you know why I'm doing this?"

Lindarion didn't answer.

Didn't care.

The man didn't seem to mind.

"Because your core isn't stable. Not entirely. You're… fractured. Like something was wedged inside that doesn't belong. You think it's yours. It isn't."

His voice lowered.

"That's why the seal broke when we brought you in. Why the containment fields keep glitching around you. You weren't made for one world, were you?"

Lindarion's head lolled to the side.

He was still listening.

Just not acknowledging.

"I'm going to find out what you are," the man said. "And when I do, we'll rebuild you. Better. Honest."

He moved to the tray again.

Picked up something long and gleaming.

An iron rod—no, a channel spike.

"Next, we're going to talk about your affinities."

The spike sparked blue.

Mana rippled along its edge, shaped for puncture resonance.

Lindarion knew what it was.

It wasn't made to kill.

It was made to interrupt.

Force a mana core to overload.

To miscast.

To unravel.

'If he stabs me with that while I'm channeling…'

His thoughts didn't finish.

The spike drove in.

Just under the collarbone.

And for the first time—

Lindarion screamed.

Not long.

Not loud.

But enough.

His aura flared once—instinctive, panicked—before collapsing into itself.

Too much raw disruption in the core.

The lights above flickered.

The Gentleman looked satisfied.

"You'll get used to the pain," he said gently. "That's what all gentlemen do."

Then he turned.

And left.

No guards.

No words.

Just the hum of mana seals reactivating.

And Lindarion, bleeding, breath rattling, mana spasming in his limbs, hanging alone in the dark.

This wasn't a test anymore.

It was dismantling.

Piece by piece.

—

The chamber was austere—stone walls devoid of ornamentation, a long table at its center surrounded by high-backed chairs.

Generals of the city's defense forces occupied these seats, their expressions a mix of concern and skepticism.

Nyx stood at the head of the table, her posture composed, eyes scanning the room.

The recent incursion had left the city on edge, and the absence of Lindarion, a key figure, only exacerbated the tension.

"We face an unprecedented threat," Nyx began, her voice steady.

"The entities that breached our defenses were not random aggressors, they executed a targeted operation with precision."

General Thorne leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Are you suggesting an internal compromise?"

Nyx met his gaze. "I'm suggesting that our current protocols are insufficient. The enemy exploited weaknesses we were unaware of."

Murmurs spread among the generals. General Elizia, known for her strategic acumen, tapped her fingers on the table. "What do you propose?"

Nyx produced a schematic, projecting it onto the table's surface.

"We need to recalibrate our defense matrix, focusing on adaptive response mechanisms. Additionally, we must initiate a comprehensive audit of our internal systems to identify potential vulnerabilities."

General Malik raised an eyebrow. "And what about the prince? Lindarion Sunblade?"

A brief pause. "His retrieval is of outmost importance. However, we must ensure the city's stability to support any recovery efforts."

The room fell silent, the weight of the situation settling over its occupants. Nyx's gaze remained unwavering. "We must act decisively. Our response will determine the city's resilience against future incursions."

The generals exchanged glances, the gravity of the moment evident. General Elizia nodded slowly. "Then let's proceed."

—

The final sigil dimmed on the projection slate. Silence settled across the table—not hesitation, but the kind that came after decisions were made and before consequences arrived.

Nyx exhaled through her nose, slowly. Controlled. Not tired. Never tired.

She gathered the rest of the schematic, flicking the pieces into storage with a twist of her mana. "Then you'll begin reinforcement along the northern districts. General Elizia—your mages are to triple-seal the astral corridor near the Spire Archives. If there's a breach point there, it won't remain open again."

Elizia nodded. "Already dispatched a team. Quietly. No public statements."

'Good.'

The last thing they needed now was panic.

Or worse—curiosity.

Across the table, General Thorne leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. "And what of the royal family?" he asked. "Surely they'll take the boy's disappearance as an act of provocation."

"Not 'take,'" Nyx said evenly. "They already have."

That silenced the room again.

She continued before anyone else could try threading theory from panic. "Their message arrived an hour ago. They're demanding answers. And blood."

"Whose?"

Nyx tilted her head slightly. "That's what I intend to find out."

General Malik frowned. "You're not suggesting someone in the faculty—"

"I'm suggesting someone let them in," Nyx said.

Not loud.

But enough.

"Whether it was a weakness in the wards, a blind spot in surveillance, or a lapse in discipline—it doesn't matter. There's no version of this attack that succeeds without help."

General Elizia's fingers tapped again. A beat slower now. "And the headmaster?"

No one asked it aloud.

But they all thought it.

Where is he?

Why hasn't he returned?

Why did Thalorin vanish the same moment the boy was taken?

Nyx stared down at the faintly flickering seal at the center of the table.

It had stopped moving twenty minutes ago.

She didn't lie.

She didn't answer either.

Instead, she shifted the conversation with purpose.

"We have three priorities," she said. "Containment. Control. And contingency."

"And the fourth?" Elizia asked softly.

Nyx met her gaze.

"Hunting."

—

Fifteen minutes later, Nyx stepped out into the moonlit corridor alone.

Her boots echoed on the polished blackstone. Students and soldiers alike avoided her path. Not out of fear—but precision.

She passed three sets of enchanted doors, four silent sentinels, and one boy who hadn't stopped shaking since the evacuation.

She didn't stop.

She didn't slow.

Because she knew what waited at the end of the hallway.

Because some truths couldn't be said out loud—not even to generals.

Not even to herself.

Nyx stepped into her office and sealed the door behind her with three layered locks and a fourth no one else knew how to break.

She stood there for a long moment, unmoving.

Then whispered, "Activate personal relay."

The wall lit up. A pale cube of condensed light unfolded in front of her.

It pulsed.

Then flickered into shape.

A face.

Sharp features. Pale eyes. Robes etched in sigils from a language long gone.

Thalorin.

He wasn't smiling.

He never did.

"You know," he said calmly, "you shouldn't have woken this channel."

"You shouldn't have disappeared during an invasion," Nyx replied.

A pause.

Thalorin tilted his head.

"I didn't disappear," he said. "I was taken. Briefly."

Nyx's fists clenched behind her back.

"And now you're fine."

"No," he said. "I'm just not dead."

Another pause.

He added, "They weren't after me."

"I know," Nyx said.

"The boy—?"

"Gone. But alive."

Thalorin exhaled. "Then it begins."

Nyx's voice lowered. "Did you see who led them?"

A longer silence.

Thalorin's gaze flicked to something off-screen.

Then, quietly, like a priest muttering a curse.

"The Man did."

Nyx's mouth thinned.

She didn't speak for a long time.

Then.

"So the pieces are moving again."

"They never stopped," Thalorin said. "We just forgot how to look."

The cube dimmed.

Connection severed.

Nyx stood in the dark, surrounded by shelves of old grimoires and a thousand unspoken wars.

And in the silence that followed, she whispered the name once more.

Not as a title.

But as a warning.

"The Man huh?"