Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Ashwing stirred against Lindarion's neck, his voice rushing into his thoughts like a child half-awed, half-afraid. 'Lin… she means it. This isn't just some blessing. She's offering to change you.'

Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "Change me how?"

Elyndra didn't flinch. "You will become more than what you are now. Your affinities, already vast, will deepen. Your core will strengthen beyond the mortal scales of measure. But power always comes with weight, Lindarion. If you accept this, you will walk a path from which there is no return."

Silence stretched.

The golden flame swayed in her palm, filling the chamber with a low hum, like the heartbeat of the Tree itself. The carvings of the Dracyn glowed brighter, their wings spreading wide, shadows of a people lost but not forgotten.

Lindarion's pulse thundered in his ears. He thought of the humans chanting his name in the caverns, desperate and blind.

He thought of Nysha's crimson eyes, warning him of the cost of faith. He thought of his father, Eldrin, scarred and broken, somewhere out there in the dark.

And then he thought of Dythrael, silver eyes gleaming like a blade poised over the world.

"Strength…" Lindarion muttered, his voice low. His gaze locked with Elyndra's. "And what of the price?"

For the first time, her expression softened. "That, only you will discover. The Tree gives freely, but it does not bend for those who falter. If you take this power, you must endure it. Or it will consume you."

Ashwing whispered again, small and uncertain. 'Lin… what if it's too much? What if it's like the sword?'

Lindarion exhaled slowly, steady, resolute. "Then I'll master it. Like I have everything else."

Elyndra inclined her head, as though his answer had been inevitable. The golden flame in her hand flared brighter, threads of light spiraling toward him.

"Then prepare yourself, Lindarion Sunblade," she said, her voice carrying both warning and promise. "For when the Tree bestows its strength, it does not give half-measures."

The roots beneath them pulsed, glowing veins spreading outward like rivers of gold. The chamber throbbed with power, building, gathering, waiting.

And in that suspended moment, Lindarion understood: the next step would change everything.

The chamber shuddered as Elyndra lifted her hand higher, the golden flame unfurling like a living sun.

The roots around them groaned, mana rushing through them in torrents, converging toward Lindarion as though the entire Tree had fixed its gaze upon him.

Elyndra's voice rang clear, woven with power. "The World Tree has chosen you, Lindarion Sunblade. You who carry the blood of Eldrin, you who walk with dragon and shadow alike. From this day forth, you are bound not only by heritage, but by the roots of creation itself. Accept its breath, its weight, its truth."

The flame collapsed inward and then exploded into him.

Lindarion staggered, every vein seared with golden fire. His knees nearly buckled as his mana core convulsed, expanding, cracking, reshaping under the weight of the gift. His breath tore ragged from his chest, each exhale a gust of glowing vapor.

[System notice: Core advancement in progress…]

[Stage unlocked: Transcendent Core.]

[Warning: Stability at risk. Integration required.]

Ashwing cried out inside his mind, panic flaring. 'Lin! Stay with me! Don't let it burn you out—!'

The roots coiled upward, wrapping around Lindarion like living chains. They pressed against his skin, forcing the golden current deeper, past flesh, past bone, into the very marrow of his being.

His hair, once golden streaked, blazed white under the torrent of light, each strand gleaming like moonfire. His eyes, long flecked with silver and gold, surrendered completely, the irises transmuting into molten gold, radiant and unyielding.

His heart thundered with a rhythm that was no longer his alone. It beat with the pulse of the World Tree itself.

The pain should have been unbearable. Instead, he felt clarity, as if every thread of existence had sharpened into focus.

He could hear the whispers of mana in the air, taste the weight of time in the roots, sense the unseen rivers of power flowing beneath the world.

[System notice: Blessing of the World Tree obtained.]

[Effect: All affinities enhanced. Mana regeneration doubled. Core resilience permanently fortified.]

But the messages were drowned by Elyndra's voice, now both around him and inside him.

"You are no longer merely prince of Eldorath. You are heir to more than crowns. You are lifeblood and flame, shadow and light. You are the branch that defies the storm."

Her hand touched his chest, and for a heartbeat he saw not the chamber, not even the Tree, but endless skies split with light and shadow, dragons wheeling between stars, titans locked in war beneath oceans of fire.

When the vision faded, he collapsed to one knee, sweat slick on his skin, golden hair spilling forward as he gasped for breath.

Ashwing pressed tighter against his neck, voice trembling. 'Lin… your eyes. Your hair… you look… different.'

Lindarion lifted his head slowly. The golden irises glowed faintly in the dark, not a reflection, but a light of their own. He flexed his fingers, sparks of mana dripping from his skin like embers.

"I feel…" His voice rasped, then steadied. "Alive. More than I ever have."

Elyndra regarded him with solemn calm, though her gaze softened at the edges. "The Tree has accepted you. Its breath flows through your veins. But remember, Lindarion, strength is not a gift. It is a burden. Do not mistake it for salvation."

He pushed himself to his feet, sword steady in his hand despite the tremor still lingering in his bones. "I didn't ask for salvation." His golden eyes burned like twin suns in the chamber's glow. "I asked for strength."

The chamber's light dimmed, roots withdrawing, leaving the faint thrum of mana humming in the silence.

And Lindarion knew, as he stood amidst the roots of the World Tree, that nothing would ever see him the same way again.

—

The night in Lorienya was still, painted silver by the canopy-filtered moonlight. Within the high branches of the Ironbark Council Hall, King Vaelthorn sat alone, his calloused fingers resting against the roots entwined in the stone floor.

The council had long since dispersed, his queen retired, yet he remained, as he often did, listening.

The World Tree whispered always. Not in words, but in a deep resonance that only those attuned to its breath could feel. For centuries, it had been constant, enduring, ancient, unchanging.

Tonight, it was not constant.

The pulse struck him suddenly, a thunderclap rolling not through air but through bone and blood. Vaelthorn gasped, gripping the roots as they thrummed with impossible force. His chair scraped against the wood as he half-rose, heart hammering in his chest.

"What… is this?"