The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The summons came at the worst possible moment.

Lan stood shirtless before his chamber's fractured mirror, obsidian-black fingers tracing the new scars latticeworked across his torso—some from the lash, others from the sutra's unforgiving awakening.

The dark qi had settled into his left arm like ink dropped in water, staining him from fingertips to shoulder in swirling patterns that glowed faintly when he called upon them.

Then—the pounding at his door.

"His Majesty demands your presence by first light."

"Understood." Lan stared at his reflection.

---

Morning came.

The throne room stank of perfume and panic.

Lan entered to find the entire royal council assembled. Their jeweled robes and carefully arranged expressions did little to hide their unease. At the center sat King Aldric, his crown gleaming beneath the chandeliers, his expression carved from ice.

And at the foot of the dais—

Tailors.

A dozen of them, arms laden with bolts of fabric in imperial black and silver. Master Tuvell stood foremost, his measuring tape coiled around his neck.

"Ah," Lan murmured, stepping into the light. "We're skipping the pretense of choice, I see."

The king's jaw tightened. "You will be fitted. Here. Now. Where the council can ensure you don't disgrace us."

Lan spread his arms, the faint markings on his left side catching the light. "By all means."

The tailors descended like vultures.

Pins pricked Lan's skin as they worked, their hands trembling whenever they brushed his corrupted arm. He stood motionless, enduring their touches with detached amusement, eyes flicking to the council over their bent heads.

Duke Veyl looked ready to spit venom. His son's killer, standing unpunished and now being draped in imperial colors—it was more than the old wolf could bear.

"Your Majesty," the duke seethed, "this is madness. The princess doesn't want him as a guest—she wants a jester. A weakling to contrast her chosen warriors."

Councilor Braynt nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering. "Imagine the humiliation when he fails some imperial test. When he proves Solaris breeds nothing but—"

"Nothing but what?" Lan interrupted mildly.

The room stilled.

Braynt's face purpled. "You dare—"

"I dare ask what you were about to say, Councilor." Lan tilted his head. A tailor yelped as a pin scraped his neck. "Nothing but…?"

King Aldric slammed his scepter down. "Enough! You stand there with no remorse after nearly getting yourself killed provoking the imperial princess, and you have the gall to—"

"Provoke?" Lan chuckled. "She put a dagger to my throat, Father. I merely reminded her that even princesses must occasionally mind their manners."

A shocked inhale rippled through the court.

Duke Veyl surged forward. "You see? This arrogance will get us all killed! He's not fit to—"

"Not fit to what, Your Grace?" Lan's voice dropped. The shadows in the chamber seemed to deepen. "Not fit to stand where you think your son should have? Not fit to survive what Gareth couldn't?"

The duke recoiled as if struck.

Lan turned back to the king, ignoring the tailor frantically measuring his shoulders.

"You fear embarrassment? Then I'll make you a promise, Father. When I return from that banquet, the only ones humiliated will be those who doubted their very capable prince." A smug smile painted his face as he spoke.

Silence.

Then—

A soft clink.

One of the silver measuring tools slipped from a tailor's grip, striking the marble floor. The sound broke the spell that had gripped the room.

King Aldric exhaled slowly. "Six days left," he said at last. "Prove me wrong."

Lan smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.

"Oh," he murmured, "I intend to."

The fitting concluded with glacial politeness. The tailors fled as soon as they were dismissed. The council dispersed in muttered clusters, shooting glances at Lan like he'd grown a second head.

Only Duke Veyl remained, blocking his path at the doors.

"You think yourself clever," the duke hissed, his breath reeking of wine and rage. "But I've sent word to certain… friends manning the roads to the imperial city. They'll ensure you don't return."

Lan could have punished him then and there. Plotting against a prince and admitting to it—any other royal would have his head for less.

But instead—

Lan considered him. Considered the grief and fury twisting the old warrior's face. Considered how much more rewarding it would be to bring the duke an end far more agonizing than a clean beheading.

So, he leaned close.

"Tell me, Your Grace," he whispered. "Does your wife still visit Gareth's grave at midnight? Does she still whisper how much she misses him?"

The duke froze.

Lan stepped around him. "Give her my regards."

He had barely reached the corridor when the whispers began.

"Since when does he speak like that?"

"Did you see his arm?"

"It's like that's not the prince we knew."

He blinked, flexing his fingers.

No. He wasn't.

And soon—

Very soon—

The entire empire would learn the difference.

Night fell again.

Lan slipped through the palace corridors, quiet and unseen. The moon rose pale yellow over Rehon Forest as he reached the tree line, where the air smelled of pine—and something metallic.

He needed to test his progress.

This was the perfect place for that.

A twig snapped. Lan froze.

Between the gnarled oaks, something moved—a hulking, wolf-like shape with too many joints in its legs. Moonlight glinted off its saliva-coated fangs as it sniffed the air, nostrils flaring at Lan's scent.

Then its head snapped up.

A wolf? Not quite.

But close.

Its eyes burned with unnatural violet fire. Its matted fur gave way to patches of glistening scale along its spine. It crouched, haunches trembling with promised violence.

Lan's eyes narrowed.

He raised a hand.

The beast charged—