The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The road stretched, a dying serpent through the gorge, its winding path carved into the bones of the world by the Ember River's long retreat.

Dry winds licked at the wheels as Lan's carriage crossed the old bridge—a weather-beaten construct of stone and rune-bound wood that had once hosted the march of empires.

Now, it hosted silence.

The Ember Bridge was behind them, its iron supports groaning in the wind, and the air grew strangely still.

Inside the royal carriage, the curtains were drawn slightly open, allowing shafts of late-day light to spill across Lan's pale features. He sat unmoved, expression carved in stillness, as the wheels churned over gravel and cracked earth.

Ahead, the three guards rode in easy formation. One was recounting a tale from the Mana Rebellion two decades past. The other two chuckled politely, relaxed, shoulders loose, staves resting against saddle loops.

"Too quiet," one finally muttered.

"Don't jinx it," the older one replied, smirking.

They were talking because they were bored. They weren't alert because they didn't expect an attack until the inner roads. They'd crossed the bridge. They thought the worst was past.

They were wrong.

Lan wasn't tense either.

But for entirely different reasons.

He could smell it.

Bloodlust.

Subtle. Distant. Coated in illusion magic and sweat, but unmistakable to someone who'd once tasted battlefield storms. The killing will. That foul anticipation before blades sang. Xie Wuchen's memories.

Lan shifted slightly, just enough to center his weight. The moment was approaching.

And then—

Screaming.

The horses reared and shrieked as arrows split the air, whistling from the trees like sharpened wind. One arrow embedded itself in the shoulder of the leftmost guard's steed; another scraped the iron plating of the front carriage.

The guards cursed and snapped to alert.

"Ambush!"

"Protect the Prince!"

Figures emerged from both sides of the road—six in total, cloaked and masked, wielding curved blades and light armor built for speed.

The screen above Lan's vision pulsed softly.

> Hostile mana detected.

Circle Assessment: 6 Individuals – 2nd Circle Mages

Threat Level: Low

Advantage: Numerical

The guards responded quickly. As professionals, they formed a loose triangle to shield the carriage.

The oldest of them extended a hand. "Harmonic Pulse!"

A wave of concussive mana surged out, hitting two of the attackers square in the chest and sending them tumbling into the brush. But they recovered fast, rolling and reforming ranks. These weren't random raiders.

They were trained. Coordinated. Efficient.

Two of them hurled firebolts low, targeting the horses, while the others split into pairs and flanked the guards. The front of the envoy became a storm of light and movement—spells flashing, blades clashing, blood spraying the dry earth.

The guards held firm.

For the first two minutes, it seemed they might even win. The youngest guard, a wiry man with twin daggers, disarmed one attacker and drove a blade through his ribs. Another guard pinned two enemies back with a rotating cyclone of wind, keeping them from pressing forward.

But the illusion sputtered quickly.

Their attackers weren't trying to survive—they were trying to kill.

One of the assassins chanted something low and fast. A burst of black smoke erupted under the guards' feet—sleep dust. The older guard tried to counter, but his spell fizzled. One of his comrades dropped to a knee, coughing.

A blade found his spine.

He didn't rise again.

The next guard screamed as three blades slashed at once, staggering him into the path of a flame burst. He crumpled, armor smoking, eyes wide and unseeing.

The last guard tried to run for the carriage.

He didn't make it.

A dagger struck him cleanly through the eye before he reached the step.

Lan felt the thud against the wood.

Then silence.

The drivers cracked their whips in a panic. The carriage lurched forward. A foolish instinct—no speed spell, no wards. Just raw fear.

Lan didn't bother looking out.

He already knew.

Two crossbow bolts sang. Two bodies fell.

A heartbeat later, the carriage halted.

Dust drifted in through the slats. Blood pooled under the door.

Then came the creak. The iron latch twisted.

The door swung open.

Lan stepped out.

His boots touched the road with a slow, deliberate sound. He stood in the shadow of the slowly burning escort wagon, eyes scanning the scene without urgency.

Six bodies. Four guards. Two drivers. A wheel still spun weakly in the dirt. The scent of burned flesh and hot iron clung to the wind.

The assassins, still masked, turned toward him.

He glanced at them, then the corpses, then back again.

"…Disappointing."

The word was quiet. Flat. Not angry—just resigned.

One of the masked figures, emboldened by the sight of a lone, unarmed noble boy, took a step forward. His grip tightened on a hooked glaive.

"Prince, today you will di—"

Lan raised a hand.

"Please." His tone was almost bored. "Spare me the foolish declarations."

The assassin paused, confused.

Lan sighed.

He took a step toward the nearest fallen guard and bent, his fingers brushing the blood-slick hilt of a blade. He pulled it free with one clean motion, examining it with mild disapproval—cheap iron, dulled at the edge.

Still, it would do.

Lan turned back to them. His next words were not a threat.

They were a sentence.

"I'd rather you all come meet your end—silently."

[Sword Intent: Active]

[ Weapon Grade: Mundane ]