Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Lindarion didn't touch the blade.

Didn't move.

Didn't blink.

He stared at it for a long moment, then let his hand fall back to his side.

"I'm not taking it."

His voice didn't echo.

Because this place didn't allow echoes. It absorbed them. Like it ate sound the same way it swallowed light.

Behind him, the veiled figure didn't speak.

Didn't scold him.

Didn't try to change his mind.

It just waited for a while then turned and left without ever saying a word again.

The moment they vanished, the platform beneath Lindarion pulsed once.

That was all the warning he got.

The world snapped sideways.

Like being yanked backward through a tunnel he hadn't seen.

One blink.

Then—

SLAM.

He was back in the same cell as before.

The walls were the same. The unnatural black stone. The humming silence. The fake door that wasn't a door.

He was back where he started.

Only this time, his legs buckled.

He caught himself before he hit the floor—but just barely.

'So that's how they're going to play it.'

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

No injuries. No mana taken. Just fatigue. Artificial. Designed to remind him that saying no wasn't free.

That sword had been real.

That offer, even more so.

And whoever was running this show wasn't interested in convincing him.

They were collecting data.

Testing thresholds.

"What happens when you say no?" he muttered under his breath. "Apparently, you get a round trip…"

The cell didn't respond.

Of course it didn't.

Lindarion sank down against the wall, spine to stone, arms resting loosely on his knees.

He wasn't panicking.

He didn't have the time.

Instead, he reviewed.

Eight armored figures.

Spatial extraction.

A blade that reacted to him specifically.

An entity that wanted something replaced.

And the most important question still unanswered.

'Where is Headmaster Thalorin?'

Because if even he hadn't shown up during a direct assault, then something worse was happening behind the curtain.

Something far bigger than a kidnapped prince.

Lindarion tilted his head back and stared at the black ceiling.

"I'm going to kill whoever put me in here," he said calmly.

Then he closed his eyes.

And waited.

Not for rescue.

Just for the next piece of the game to show itself.

—

Lindarion sat up slowly. His back ached. Ribs worse. No visible damage, but pain bloomed like old ink across his skin.

He wasn't restrained.

Again.

Still not comforting.

They were confident. That was the part he hated most.

'If they were amateurs, they'd overplay their hand. Panic. Show weakness. But this?'

This was deliberate.

The walls didn't hum. They watched. A room made not just to hold him—but to wait.

Then the door opened.

No preamble.

Just space, unfolding.

Beyond it—a new room.

Warm lighting. Polished floors. Velvet armchairs. A lounge designed for diplomacy, not torture.

And people.

Six of them.

All strangers.

Some masked. Some not. All powerful.

He could feel it. In how none of them reached for weapons. In how none of them looked surprised to see him.

They had names. Faces. Histories.

And then—

The man at the end of the room spoke.

"Welcome, gentleman."

Lindarion paused mid-step.

Not because he recognized the voice.

But because he didn't.

It wasn't anyone he knew. Not a professor. Not an agent. Not one of the nobles with too many titles and not enough spine.

Just a man behind a long desk.

Tall, composed, dressed in a pressed vest and black tie. His hair was slicked back neatly, a porcelain-white mask covering his face.

Eyes calm. Smile hidden. Voice warm.

Almost friendly.

"Who are you?" Lindarion asked.

The man tilted his head. "Does it matter?"

"It will."

One of the others laughed softly. A blade spun between their fingers, idle.

The man behind the table chuckled. "So formal. Even now."

"You kidnapped me," Lindarion said flatly. "Formality is generous."

"True," the man allowed. "But we were gentle, were we not?"

No one else in the room reacted. No flinches. No shifts.

They'd had this conversation before—with other people.

Which meant this wasn't personal.

It was a job.

That made it worse.

"Why am I here?" Lindarion asked.

The man reached under the table and placed a file on the table in front of him.

His gloved hand tapped the name on the front.

Typed. Neat. Like a résumé.

"We've been watching you," the man said. "Your progress. Your potential. Your pattern."

"And?"

"And we're still deciding."

Lindarion stared at the folder. Didn't reach for it.

Didn't move.

"What is this place?"

"A test," the woman in white said. "A doorway. A culling."

The cloaked figure near the wall didn't speak, but they tilted their head. Like they were listening for something no one else could hear.

"I don't know any of you," Lindarion said slowly.

The man gave a small bow. "That is, perhaps, why you're still breathing."

That wasn't comforting.

It was a warning.

A different man—broad shoulders, too many rings—sighed. "Why are we wasting time? He's not ready."

"We said we'd let him see," the woman countered.

Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "See what?"

The man smiled beneath the mask.

"Choice."

He gestured.

A blade appeared on the table.

The same one as before.

Still humming faintly. Still pulsing like it had a heartbeat that didn't belong to it.

Lindarion didn't step forward.

Didn't reach for it.

Didn't speak.

After a long pause, he said one word.

"No."

The man tapped his gloved fingers once. Twice.

Then turned away.

"No is fine," he said. "No is honest."

He snapped his fingers.

And the world bent.

—

Lindarion hit the stone again. However this time his hands and legs were sealed.

He was in the same cell.

Same silence. Aline again.

Except now—

He knew this wasn't about ransom.

This wasn't about power.

This was about recruitment.

And he'd just failed the first round.

But the worst part?

He still didn't know who they were.

And they knew everything about him.

'I'm fucked.'

—

The cell wasn't cold anymore.

It was something worse.

Warm. Still. Oppressive. The kind of heat that didn't come from fire but from breath. Breath too close, too long, too familiar.

'What do I do..'

Lindarion's hands were bound at the wrist—each tether sealed with layered spell rings that sapped movement without cutting circulation.

His legs had been similarly dealt with. The room had no corners, no shadows to retreat into. A dome of polished stone, lit by a single floating crystal above.

There was no clock.

But time passed anyway.

The door opened.

No warning. No footsteps. Just an open door and a man in a mask stepping inside with the poise of someone entering a theater.

"Good evening, gentleman."

His voice was calm. Pleased. That same tone nobles used when congratulating each other for surviving social suicide at a formal dinner.

He wore a well-pressed black vest over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. A long, bone-handled case swung loosely in his grip, bumping against his thigh like a satchel full of casual cruelty.

'Fuck this guy.'

Lindarion didn't speak.

He didn't even have any idea what to say at this point. This all felt like a fever dream.

The man crouched before him, set the case on the floor, and unlatched it with a click.

Inside was a toolkit.

Not surgical. Not enchanted. Just tools.

A hammer. A branding spike. Pliers. A jagged rod etched with looping glyphs. A flask of something that hissed when uncapped. A long iron needle—longer than his forearm.

The man selected the hammer first.

"You've been very quiet, gentleman. Admirable."

No response.

The man smiled behind the mask. You could tell by the way his voice curved upward.

"But silence doesn't help me learn, you see. And I do so like to learn."

He tapped the hammer gently against Lindarion's knee.

Once. Twice.

Then drove it in.

Bone cracked.

'FUCK!'

Lindarion's jaw clenched. His spine arched, breath exploding out of his lungs—but still no scream.

"Hm. You're going to make this quite difficult."

He set the hammer down.

Picked up the needle.

The runes along it pulsed faintly. Not from mana—but from use.

"Do you know what this does, gentleman?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

The needle slid into the flesh below Lindarion's collarbone.

Not deep. Just enough to rest between nerve clusters.

Then the runes activated.

Lindarion's body convulsed.

Electricity. Cold fire. Agony that didn't scream so much as crawl across the inside of his skin like rats under glass.

"You can't pass out," the Gentleman said conversationally. "That's the enchantment. Fascinating craftsmanship, really. You'll stay quite awake."

The pain didn't stop.

He turned the needle.

The burning followed.

"You see, your core resisted binding. That's very impressive. Dangerous. Curious." He leaned forward slightly. "So we'll see if it resists exposure."

'Fucking hell…this is hell.'

Lindarion's mouth tasted of iron. He'd bitten his tongue. Blood ran down his chin and dripped to the floor.

The Gentleman watched it like a man watching wine stain silk.

Then he pulled the needle out—slowly.

"Now then," he said, withdrawing the flask and pouring a few drops of the hissing liquid onto the still-bleeding spot.

Lindarion screamed.

"AAAAAAAAH!"

Finally.

His voice scraped out like a blade across tile.

Not from the wound—but from the way the liquid didn't burn.

It hollowed.

It stripped mana from the tissue. Raw, ragged strands of his affinity ripped loose and writhing before disappearing into the air like ash.

"Ah. There you are."

The man smiled again.

It was audible.

"This many affinities? My, my. What an inheritance. You are way better than we thought!"

He stood.

Wiped the needle clean on a white handkerchief that had never seen sin before today.