The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Lan stood amidst the carnage, the metallic savor of blood thick in the air. The bodies of guards and assassins remained strewn across the cracked road, limbs twisted, faces frozen mid-scream or locked in grim resistance.

Blood soaked into the sunbaked soil, darkening it to a muddy red. The prior ornate royal carriage smoldered behind him, its gilded trim blackened, the wood warped and cracked from fire and arcane residue.

One horse remained.

The lead stallion—its flanks streaked with sweat, its mane tangled with smoke and ash—stomped nervously at the edge of the road. Its wild eyes tracked Lan, nostrils flaring, every muscle ready to flee.

Lan let out a quiet sigh.

"I suppose my grand entrance to the Imperial City is ruined."

He approached the animal slowly, cautious. Every movement he made was calm, measured—no sudden gestures, no sharp noises. The wind tousled his scorched robes, fluttering ash around his boots.

The horse whinnied, backed a step.

Lan raised a hand, letting the beast sniff his soot-stained fingers. Its ears twitched. It didn't bolt.

"Easy," he murmured, running a gentle hand along its neck.

The horse's shudder softened. The tension bled from its posture. Still wary, but no longer on the edge of panic.

Lan worked quickly. He unbuckled the tattered harness, freeing the stallion from the broken shafts of the carriage. Then he turned toward one of the fallen guards—a middle-aged man with a shattered windstaff still clutched in his hand.

His eyes were glassy, his chest unmoving.

Lan crouched beside him, unfastening the belt. The sword, iron-forged and worn from use, slid into its scabbard with a soft click.

He slung it over his shoulder and gave the man a silent nod—less gratitude than recognition.

Then he returned to the carriage.

The door hung ajar on twisted hinges. Inside, the velvet cushions were charred and half-melted, but his satchel still lay in the corner—singed but intact. He retrieved it, slinging the strap across his chest, and secured it to the saddle with a firm knot.

The wind shifted.

Smoke curled up from the wreckage behind him. His gaze swept the battlefield one last time. Dead men, all of them. Broken. Burned. Still.

However, in the distance he could sense them...the one's who watched.

"They don't seem hostile... yet."

He mounted the stallion in one fluid motion, settling into the saddle as though born there. His fingers twitched once on the reins.

The horse obeyed.

With a snort and a surge of muscle, it charged forward—hooves pounding against dirt and stone. The ruined escort, the corpses, the failed ambush—all of it vanished behind them.

———

Half a day later.

The road widened. The landscape changed.

The dust-choked gorge opened onto an elegant stretch of earth unlike anything that had come before.

The Golden Stone Road.

A marvel of imperial excess, the road shone under the sun like it were a vein of gold drawn across the skin of the world. White marble paved its length, traced with glowing gold filigree that glowed faintly beneath Lan's horse with every stride.

On either side stood statues—giant, unmoving monarchs in full regalia, carved from steel stone and pearl, their gazes cast eternally forward. Their shadows stretched long across the lane.

Gardens bloomed between them, untouched by season. Roses that never wilted. Trees whose leaves glittered like crystal. Fountains whispered in soft arcs of water that never spilled or stagnated.

But the beauty was only surface.

The Golden Stone Road was no ornament.

It was a network—an artery of surveillance and subtle power. Every inch of it monitored. Every traveler recorded.

Lan felt it the moment the stallion's hooves met marble.

A shift beneath the skin of reality.

A presence.

A silent voice behind his eyes.

He did not slow.

Waystations dotted the sides of the road, each manned by functionaries in silver-gray robes. Their fingers moving in tight, efficient gestures.

Travelers passed beneath archways of scanning light. None dared to linger.

Lan didn't stop to be questioned.

He rode with purpose, eyes fixed on the horizon.

And ahead, the city rose.

The Imperial Capital—sprawling, glittering, more than alive. A crown of towers and stormlight, its walls veined with golden sigils, its gates tall enough to admit titans.

But before those gates could be reached, a ripple moved through the road ahead.

A company of riders approached.

They wore gleaming barding and bore banners of red and silver, emblazoned with the mark of the imperial guard: the twin-bladed phoenix. They moved in perfect formation—too perfect to be common escorts. This was a statement.

At their front rode a figure in polished silver armor, a phoenix-wing helm masking her features. The riders stopped as one.

She raised a hand.

Lan reined in his mount.

The breeze carried no sound between them, only the thrum of distant magic.

Then, a voice—measured, precise—cut through the silence.

"Prince Lanard Solaris."

Lan met the helm's gaze. "In the flesh."

There was a pause. Then the helm lifted.

Beneath it, sharp features. Midnight-black hair tied back in a soldier's knot. Dark eyes that assessed him like a blade.

"I am Captain Elyria of the Imperial Vanguard," she said. "Princess Iris sends her regards... and her escort."

Lan's fingers twitched on the reins, but he didn't show his distaste.

Of course she did.

The system pinged again behind his vision.

[Quest Update: Banquet of Blades

New Objective: Survive the Imperial Welcome]

Elyria gestured to the road ahead, her tone polite, but hollow. "Shall we?"

Lan exhaled once through his nose and nudged the stallion forward.

Side by side, their procession moved toward the gates.

The capital were like a slumbering god.

As they entered, the city revealed itself in chaotic harmony.

Towers of black and gold spiraled skyward, their heights hidden behind white of enchanted cloud.

Bridges made of reinforced crystal arched between them, pulsing softly with magical energy. The streets were veins of motion—merchant carts, nobles in embroidered palanquins, peddlers hawking spell-ink and beast pelts, oracles whispering from behind silk curtains.

Music played somewhere. The scent of spice and ash filled the air.

Over all of it stood the Imperial Palace—an impossible thing of spires and floating platforms, its upper levels wreathed in constant lightning that never struck, never faded.

Elyria led without speaking, her soldiers forming a wall around him as they passed through market rings and noble districts.

The crowd shifted and parted, murmurs rising like a tide.

"That's him."

"The useless prince."

"The Weakling."

"What's he doing here?"

Lan ignored it all.

His eyes were fixed on the final approach, where the marble steps of the palace rose like a throne carved into the spine of the world.

A figure waited at the top.

Cassian leaned against a pillar with casual elegance, his coat tailored, his hair too perfect. He wore the smile of a man who had read the last page of the book while everyone else still lingered in chapter one.

As Lan dismounted, his boots struck the stone with a hollow echo.

Cassian bowed low, hand to heart.

"Welcome to your funeral, Your Highness."

Lan adjusted the satchel on his shoulder, stepped forward without missing a beat.

"Let's not keep the vultures waiting."

Behind him, the gates sealed shut with a sound like thunder.

Lan exhaled.