The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Lan walked slowly into the bathing chamber, letting the rot of the day peel from his body with each step.

The room was warm, fragrant with enchanted steam, its walls carved from pearl-veined stone. A large tub of polished blackwood sat at the corner, faint wisps rising from it, and beside it rested a basin carved from the same wood and inlaid with silver runes.

Above it, a curved nozzle shaped like a serpent's mouth jutted from the wall.

He reached for it, and the moment his fingers brushed the rune embedded at its base, the mouth gurgled and opened.

A stream of water, crystal clear and faintly glowing, poured into the bowl.

Lan dipped his hands beneath it and splashed it over his face. Again. And again. Water soaked through his hair, matted it down over his forehead, clung to his skin.

He lifted his gaze to the mirror.

His reflection stared back—wet strands of hair hanging in front of sharp grey eyes, pale skin kissed faintly red from the heat. There was a quiet stillness in his face, a hollowness behind the eyes.

He looked like someone between lives.

A breath escaped him, low and tired.

Then he turned and left the chamber, droplets trailing behind him as he stepped barefoot across the marble tiles.

Back in the center of the suite, the fire still crackled in the hearth. Silk curtains billowed softly from the open window.

Lan moved to the middle of the room and sank down cross-legged onto the carpet.

"Let's get to work," he murmured.

He placed his hands on his knees and closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath.

Dark qi stirred in him. It had grown since Rehon Forest. Since the wolves. It seems the mana he absorbed from the assassin aided.

He had made progress.

But not nearly enough.

Lan could feel it in his bones—how far the summit still was. The difference between what he had and what he needed to survive this banquet, this palace, this empire.

Time was not on his side.

But that was precisely why he'd chosen the Sutra of the Severed Heaven.

A path that spat in the face of linear cultivation. That rejected order, logic, and divine law.

That tore truth apart until all that remained was power.

As the breath in his lungs steadied, the darkness inside him began to shift—and coalesced.

A flicker of light flared before him. Ghostly and pale.

Xie Wuchen's figure emerged again, robed in black, a crown of severed jade shards hovering above his head. He said nothing at first. Only watched as Lan's breathing deepened, as the boy's presence sank further into stillness.

The room dimmed. The world quieted. Thought gave way to sensation.

Lan slipped deeper into meditation. And the deeper he went, the more the dark qi surged, a tide, cold and formless—pressing against the bounds of his dantian.

He could feel it clearly now.

He had stabilized at the late stages of Qi Condensation Stage I. He had compressed his qi. Hardened his will. Synchronized his spirit to the rhythm of the Sutra.

He could break into Stage II.

But even that wouldn't be enough.

That's when Xie Wuchen's voice finally spoke.

"Do you understand now?" he asked.

Lan didn't answer aloud. But inwardly, his focus sharpened.

Xie continued.

"Ordinary cultivation relies on the Law of Sequential Ascension. A lie. A leash. Each stage grants a cultivator more refined qi, a broader dantian, stronger roots. But all of it follows the divine ladder—one rung at a time."

The ghost of the ancient god folded his hands behind his back.

"But your cultivation path... it doesn't climb."

Lan breathed slowly, deeply, feeling the words sink into him.

"Your Void Dantian and your dark qi are anti-structural," Xie Wuchen said. "They don't refine—they destruct. They consume, not contain."

He raised a hand, and above it, a swirl of ordinary qi took shape—a neat spiral, glowing gold.

"This is what Heaven allows," he said.

Then with a twitch of his finger, the qi spiral dissolved, reduced to smoky threads.

"And this is what you do."

Lan's body pulsed with resonance. He felt his qi flex in response. Not spiraling, not cycling—but collapsing in, feeding on itself, devouring every old pattern until only raw, mutable power remained.

"You do not just cultivate forward," Xie Wuchen whispered. "You cut away the illusion of stages that Heaven imposed."

The words echoed like thunder in Lan's mind.

And then—something broke.

A single line across reality. Unseen, until now.

[New Law Restriction Broken: "Law of Sequential Ascension"]

(The fundamental rule that a cultivator must pass through each stage in direct order.)

Lan's eyes snapped open for a moment—then fell shut again.

His dantian was trembling.

His dark qi surged. The Void within him began to churn more violently, spiraling in unnatural motions.

"Progress means nothing if it is only motion in a cage," Xie Wuchen said calmly. "And this world has made a cage out of every cultivation level."

Lan breathed in, long and slow.

He focused.

He let his dantian scream.

And slowly, the cage began to split apart.

Hours passed. One. Two. Maybe more.

The fire in the hearth burned low. The city quieted beyond the curtains. Time lost meaning.

Within him, qi screamed.

Roots that should have grown downwards tore sideways.

Channels that should have solidified began to invert, folding into spirals that couldn't exist in standard formations.

The dantian—the Void core—began to collapse inward.

His body convulsed once, but he didn't move.

Then again.

Xie Wuchen watched silently.

Lan was now teetering on the brink of something utterly foreign.

Stage II should have been the next step.

But Lan saw it for what it was now. A deception. A pre-approved destination along a divine leash.

So he reached for something else.

Xie Wuchen's voice came one last time, calm, resolute.

"Do it. Now."

Lan lifted his right hand and carved the next word of the sutra into the air—not with ink or blood, but with pure intent.

A symbol glowing black, written into reality.

"Leap."

The effect was immediate.

A scream—not from Lan's mouth, but from the fabric of qi around him.

It tore.

Not just his body. Not just his dantian.

The logic of cultivation cracked.

His bones felt like they were being rewritten, every nerve flaring with heatless fire.

And at the center of it all—

The Void Dantian caved inward.

Then—

Ignited.

Flames blacker than shadow spilled from his skin. His spine arched.

A ring of darkness spread outward, so dense it seemed to warp the shape of the room.

Curtains flared. The enchanted shelves trembled.

The runes in the walls hissed in response to his existence.

And then:

[Qi Condensation Stage II & III: Refused]

[Dark Qi Conversion Efficiency Reached: 33%]

[Void Core Mutation: Black Foundation Formed]

[New Realm Achieved: Foundation Establishment – Severed Variant]

Lan gasped.

It felt like breathing air that had never existed before.

The qi inside him no longer obeyed rules. It felt free. Wildly. Not as fire, or water, or wind—but as dark possibility.

He had not climbed higher. He had cut deeper. He opened his eyes.

His shadow had grown long against the far wall, curling into strange shapes.

Xie Wuchen was gone.

The room was still.

Lan sat motionless, his breath slow, chest rising and falling.

A dull grin traced his lips.

[ Five New Learnable Techniques ]