The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

The assassins stared, confusion etched deep into the angles of their expressions behind black cloth and hardened eyes.

One of them — broader-shouldered than the rest, twin daggers strapped to either hip — turned to his companions with a snort of amusement.

"He really is different," the man said, chuckling. "Look at that smug face—even with no guards, no defense, he thinks he's some kind of reaper."

He rolled his shoulder and stepped forward. "Unfortunately, Prince, you can't order any guards to behead us. Since they're already dead."

Lan stayed still. His eyes didn't even register the man as a threat.

Instead, they tracked the flow of mana — how it spiraled and pooled in the man's chest, forming a weak, unsteady core. The structure was crude, riddled with microfractures.

Like cracks in glass.

"I don't know if I should be insulted by the Duke's actions..." Lan mused aloud. He stepped forward lazily, almost as if he were walking through a garden, not his planned graveyard. "Sending such a pathetic lot for the job."

He turned his gaze slowly over the rest of them — Six in total. Each carried their mana differently. Some wild and unstable. Some rigid. All inefficient.

"...But I suppose I can't blame him. A while ago, this would've been enough. But now?"

His eyes narrowed.

The dust hadn't even settled when Lan moved.

The sword in his hand was nothing special—dull, scratched, ordinary steel. But the weight behind it wasn't in the metal. It was in the silence. In the stillness. In the look on his face that told the six masked assassins one undeniable truth:

They just might die.

The nearest attacker lunged, a two-handed axe swinging in a wide arc meant to cleave Lan from shoulder to hip. Brutal. Predictable. Confident in superior reach.

But not fast enough.

[Dark Step.]

Lan vanished—nothing more than a flicker of shadow. He reappeared behind the axeman three meters away, low and close, already moving.

The sword in his hand whispered across flesh and tendon.

Slash.

Not deep. Not deadly.

But it didn't need to be.

The assassin stumbled, blinking, and then screamed as his mana surged violently—then collapsed.

Black marks spiderwebbed across his skin, veins pulsing like worms under the flesh. The axe dropped from his fingers.

[ Dark Ki Applied: Target's Mana Flow disrupted ]

[ Target's spellcasting disabled for 12 seconds ]

Lan pivoted, not even watching the man fall. A second assassin charged from his flank, blade-first, but he was too wild. Too eager.

Lan stepped into the attack. Steel screeched past his ribs.

He let it graze him.

Pain bloomed—but so did Mana Leech.

His left hand flicked out, fingertips brushing the attacker's chest—right over the heart.

"Unfortunate."

Black threads pulsed from his palm, feeding, siphoning.

The assassin's eyes widened.

"W-what—?!"

Lan twisted his blade in a tight arc and buried it through the man's stomach. Blood coughed free, but the scream never came. His mana was already collapsing, vanishing into Lan like smoke drawn into a vacuum.

[ Mana Leech Active ]

+4% Vitality Restored

+3.2% Strength for 15 seconds

He turned again. Now they understood.

Now there were four.

Their formation tightened.

Caution replaced confidence. The third and fourth stepped back-to-back, murmuring quick incantations. One was conjuring a fire ward. The other, wind enhancement to boost speed and reaction.

Lan advanced.

Sword low.

One of them flung a firebolt. Sloppy.

He parried—not with the blade, but with his intent.

A whisper of pressure rippled out from him, barely noticeable. His Sword Intent was pitiful. 0.0001%—the most fragile embryonic stirrings of a force that could one day cut through reality.

But even a drop of poison in water changes the taste.

The firebolt hesitated mid-air, stalling for a heartbeat.

That was all he needed.

Lan rolled beneath it, dirt kicking up around him. He came up beneath the ward-caster, sliced upward—not a killing blow, but a diagonal cut from hip to ribs.

The caster gasped and staggered—more dark ki fed in.

His ward shattered like brittle glass.

The wind-boosted one dashed in, faster now, blade spinning toward Lan's throat in a deadly slice. Her eyes were wide—determined, desperate.

Lan exhaled.

And stepped sideways—precisely.

Her blade passed through empty air. Lan let go of his sword with one hand, caught her wrist mid-strike, and twisted.

Snap.

Her scream tore across the gorge.

Then his blade slid into her side. Not deep.

Just enough.

[ Dark Ki Applied ]

Mana Core destabilized

Mana Leech siphoning active: +2% vitality | +4% stamina ]

Now only two remained.

The last pair had stayed at a distance, watching everything.

One dropped his illusion—their leader. Clean-shaven, gold-plated vambraces, blade drawn with cautious reverence. Second Circle, yes. But not a fool.

The other—taller, with mismatched gloves—hadn't moved yet.

"Something is wrong,," said the leader. "You shouldn't be this strong."

Lan tilted his head.

"You're right."

They lunged together, a perfect pincer movement.

Predictable.

Lan moved forward, not away.

Straight into the leader's path.

The leader hesitated—just for a breath—but that was the breath that killed him.

Lan ducked under the man's slash and stabbed into his thigh, twisting his blade. The man screamed and retaliated—but too late.

Lan's free hand locked onto his chest again.

Mana Leech.

Power flooded into him.

The second man struck from behind—finally—swinging with a curved glaive enhanced with kinetic enchantment.

Lan let the body fall. The glaive passed through air again.

Dark Step.

Lan reappeared to the man's right, upside his blind spot.

And drove the sword through the man's back.

[Combat Concluded!]

Victory Conditions Met

Rewards:

- XP +1300

---

The silence returned.

A heavy, reverent stillness.

Lan stood amidst the carnage, sword dripping, breath steady. Blood marked his sleeves. Black ki still coiled lazily from the bodies, rising like steam.

He wiped the blade clean on one of their cloaks, inspecting the scene. Six attackers. None escaped. None even made it to the carriage.

He glanced back at the wreckage.

One wheel was splintered, the horses dead but one. The guards were already cooling.

But he was standing.

Stronger. Fed. Alive.

Lan exhaled once, slowly.

Then muttered under his breath:

"Disappointing."

---

Far above, in the cliff shadows, two robed observers watched from a high perch.

One raised a spyglass. "He killed all six. Alone."

The other, wrapped in red with a bone-carved mark on her shoulder, didn't respond at first.

Then:

"I guess they were right afterall, let's return to the imperial city."