Reincarnated as an Elf Prince
Chapter 260 - 260: Return (2)

The pressure hit like a wall.

No, like the sky itself decided to fold in on the world.

Lindarion stopped mid-step as every window in the palace shattered in unison.

A soundless shatter.

No boom.

No warning.

Just a pressure wave that rolled through the city like a god exhaling.

Guards dropped to one knee in the courtyard.

Servants collapsed in the halls.

Jaren gritted his teeth, fists clenched tight enough that blood ran between his knuckles. His eyes wide, focused, but terrified.

Not of what he saw.

Of what he felt.

And still—

Lindarion kept walking.

'This isn't pressure. This is presence. Something's pushing against the veil.'

Ashwing dropped from the smoke overhead, eyes wild, wings twitching. "It's not here yet. But it feels like it owns the place."

Lindarion didn't stop.

Didn't speak.

He ran, straight toward the central spire, through the back corridors where the guards had already fled, down into the maintenance shafts and hidden stairways that led beneath the palace.

Only one thought beat in time with his steps:

'Too soon. Too fast. The network wasn't supposed to trigger yet.'

But it had.

And he knew why.

He reached the lowest gate, half cracked from the quake, runes flickering along the frame. Old magic. Not recent. Protective. But unraveling.

Beyond it—

a glow.

Sickly. Too red. Too alive.

He pressed forward.

And stepped into the chamber.

The core of the rune was fully lit now.

Massive. A circle cut deep into the ground, pulsing like a heart that didn't understand what a body was supposed to look like.

And at its center—

Edric Kane.

Or what was left of him.

His coat was burned off. His chest was bare, skin torn open, and not from blades. Something inside him had cracked through. His back was arched, eyes wide, arms spread.

He wasn't screaming.

He was smiling.

And in the air above him—

A shape.

Wrong.

Shifting.

Colorless.

A being that refused to be seen in one form for more than a second.

Claws one moment. Wings the next. Smoke the next.

Then, just… eyes.

Endless. Burning.

Watching.

"You're late," Edric said.

Or something wearing Edric's voice.

Lindarion didn't answer.

He stepped to the edge of the platform, fire curling behind his knuckles, lightning primed across his shoulders.

Ashwing crouched low, growling in his mind. "That's not a creature. That's a doorway."

'No. Worse.'

Lindarion stared at the not-Edric.

'That's an invitation.'

Edric's body cracked again. Bones shifting under skin. His arms jerked upward as the energy poured from the rune beneath him, red, black, and something that smelled like rotted stone and burned mana.

"I gave everything," the voice said. "To be worthy."

Lindarion's voice was flat. "You gave yourself up."

Edric, what was left of him, laughed.

And the laugh carried in every direction at once.

Not an echo.

A presence.

Ashwing hissed, "We have to seal it. Now. Before that thing finishes the merge."

But it was already too late.

Because around the chamber, the rune circle cracked again, this time into branching lines.

Leyline fractures.

The air distorted.

And from above—

he could hear the screaming.

The entire city was falling into panic now.

Children. Soldiers. Nobles.

Even the elite.

The pressure was too much for their minds.

Too loud.

Too present.

They weren't being attacked—

They were being erased.

Erased from inside their own thoughts.

Lindarion clenched his jaw.

And kept walking.

One step closer.

Only one person in the room wasn't afraid.

And it wasn't Edric.

It was him.

Because he'd already stood in the void before.

Already seen what waited behind the veil.

Already heard Ouroboros whisper things that could bend stars.

And that meant whatever this thing was?

It was just another pretender trying to take the throne.

Lindarion raised his hand—

And let the fire burn blue.

—

Lindarion didn't see the strike.

He felt it.

One second, he stood firm, fire blooming across his palms.

The next, his ribs exploded in pain, and his back slammed against the far wall hard enough to crack the stone.

Ashwing let out a warning growl, voice roaring through their bond. "Left! Too late!"

The white-haired man from the estate was already standing where Lindarion had been.

Still calm.

Still smiling.

Coat perfectly straight, boots clean, not a trace of exertion on his face.

Only his glasses had slipped slightly down his nose.

He pushed them back up with one finger.

"Good reflexes," he said casually. "Still not good enough."

'You again,' Lindarion thought, dragging himself upright. 'So you're the watchdog.'

The man tilted his head. "I prefer supervisor. Watching implies I don't get my hands dirty."

Lindarion didn't answer. His lungs burned. His shoulder screamed. He ignored both.

The center of the chamber was glowing brighter now, red light flooding out from the rune like a sun being born the wrong way.

And Edric—

No.

Whatever was Edric—

Was changing.

His skin, once pale and sallow, smoothed. Hair darkened slightly at the roots, then brightened again, turning pure silver-white. The years fell from him like dust off old armor.

Muscle returned.

Scars vanished.

And horns broke from the sides of his head, curved, blackened, edged like obsidian blades curling back over his temples.

When his eyes opened again, they weren't Edric's.

They weren't even close.

Solid black. No whites. No iris. No humanity.

And yet—

He looked young.

Twenty, maybe.

Lindarion recognized the face only distantly. A shape pulled from old art. A sketch he'd once seen in Ouroboros' domain, half-faded and buried beneath other forgotten names.

"Something's wrong," Ashwing said. "That's not just a body. That's a vessel."

The white-haired man stepped aside slightly and looked toward the center.

The… thing tilted its head.

Then it spoke.

The voice wasn't monstrous. It wasn't deep, or cracked, or layered with six tones like bad legends claimed.

It was smooth.

Controlled.

Casual.

"You took your time getting here," it said, eyes on Lindarion.

'So it knows me.'

Lindarion didn't flinch. "Who are you?"

The creature smiled faintly. "That depends who you ask. The ancients called me Dythrael. The old kings called me problematic. The Order called me sealed."

It spread its arms slowly.

"I call myself free."

Ashwing's tone went dead quiet. "That's Dythrael?"

"You know it?" Lindarion asked under his breath.

"I've heard whispers. Old ones. From before the Divide. This thing wasn't just sealed. It was erased. From memory. From time. Locked in the deepest arcane vaults under so many failsafes even the dragons stopped looking."

Lindarion's jaw tightened. "What does it want?"

Dythrael raised a brow, almost amused. "Ask me. I'm right here."

Lindarion didn't move.

"Fine," Dythrael said. "I want what I'm owed. Breath. Land. Sky. The right to walk again in a world that forgot me. And if that world has to bleed to remember my name?"

He smiled wider.

"Then let it drown."

He stepped off the rune circle now, and the moment his foot touched the stone floor—

The pressure doubled.

A groan echoed through the city above. The castle cracked in the ceiling. Somewhere, a bell tower collapsed.

Ashwing hissed. "We can't fight him here. Not yet. Not in this form."

'Then we stall,' Lindarion thought. 'Buy time. Find the weak point.'

The white-haired man rolled his shoulder once, watching Lindarion carefully.

Still relaxed.

Still confident.

Dythrael gave a final look around the chamber, then turned to the man beside him.

"You've done well, Maeven."

The white-haired man dipped his head slightly. "I enjoy my work."

Dythrael looked back to Lindarion.

"And you," he said, voice calm, "should start running. Because this was the easy part."

Lindarion's grip tightened.

But his fire didn't fade.

'You've been sealed for thousands of years. You're not the only one who got stronger.'

And the next blow—

He would see coming.