The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

They had no answer but Lan continued.

The air made tense from the sharp debates that had been slicing the court apart like razors.

Voices rose and fell in a clamor of noble tongues, accusations thrown like stones in a river trying to shape its course. But whenever he spoke again, the court shifted—like an animal catching scent of something unnatural.

Lan continued without hesitation.

He exposed secrets as if peeling away paper—quietly, cleanly, and without emotion.

His words slashed through titles and histories with merciless precision. He named House Erendor's covert dealings with foreign merchant guilds—deals made in quiet to smuggle arms during peacetime.

He mentioned Lord Verrin's secret second wife hidden in the Eastern Isles—a woman with ties to Xavier's court that no one dared speak of.

He called out the falsified temple donations of High Priest Norell, who had boldly proclaimed spiritual loyalty to Maximus just moments ago.

Murmurs swelled. Some of the accused turned pale. One or two fidgeted in their seats. A few wore the expressions of predators suddenly realizing they'd stepped into a trap baited by someone they'd never thought worth fearing.

But then the First Priest raised his hand, and the room obeyed like a beast to its master.

"You," the First Priest said, his voice ringing across the marbled hall, "may not cover your face if you seek to speak on the Assembly floor. Reveal your name. State your allegiance and the support you bring to your contender."

The assembly held its breath. All eyes turned to the masked figure in the center of the grand hall.

Lan stood still for a moment, his mask reflecting the golden light from the high glass dome above. Then he spoke, casually, with the ease of a man unbothered by the power pressing against him.

"What contender do I support?" he said. "Well...The less conniving. The less power-hungry. Iris Aregard."

Then, with one hand, he touched the edge of his mask.

"And as for my identity—"

Silence wrapped the chamber like cloth as everyone leaned forward.

"My name is Lanard Solaris," he said, pulling off the mask.

"Fourth Prince of the Solaris Empire."

The air changed.

Iris, sitting tall upon her throne, did not react. Not visibly. But inside her chest, something fluttered—a flutter of elation and dread intertwined. She had counted on his unpredictability. She'd gambled that his presence would disrupt the balance—but even she hadn't expected this.

The room stayed quiet for an impossible beat of time. Then the sound of disbelief and confusion rippled outward.

"The useless one?"

"A Solaris prince—what's he doing here?"

"Didn't they say he can't even use mana?"

"Is the princess mad? Is that all she could gather to her side?"

"No, no—I heard he once brought lightning down from the sky."

"Rumors. They confirmed that wasn't him. Just tales. Embarrassing! What is she thinking?"

Laughter came from some corners of the hall. Not polite laughter—cruel, mocking laughter.

The type that clawed at reputations and buried dignity beneath noble sneers. And with nothing more than his name, the court had turned from debating princes to dismembering and mocking him.

To the extent it seemed all the allegations he had presented didn't matter since it were brought by someone like him.

But Lan stood unaffected.

Then a thunderous voice cracked through the noise.

"Lanard Solaris, you rat!"

All eyes snapped to the back of the court.

A man strode forward—aged but broad, his body wrapped in the silver-plate of a battalion commander. His voice was hoarse with fury.

Lan vaguely recognized him. He had been one of the first to declare support for Xavier in the assembly, saying he was commander Derrol Kest who led the 31st battalion.

'31st battalion' it was familiar.

"You murdered General Corvin Gallingher with coward's tricks and fled like a thief!"

Then it hit Lan.

Corvin.

That smug Duke's son who had strutted through Iris's banquet and bragged about being the youngest general of the 31st battalion.

"Cunning?" Lan asked, his voice calm. "He died in legal combat."

"Then why," the commander hissed, stepping closer, "did you flee the Imperial City like a dog in the night? Corvin was a prodigy! And you, a nothing. He died because of your cunning, not your strength."

"No," Lan replied, louder now. "He died because he was weak. And foolish. And you sound just as foolish as him."

Gasps echoed around the chamber. Several nobles leaned back in shock. The priesthood blinked, uncertain whether to intervene. The commander's fists clenched, and he took another heavy step toward Lan.

"I invoke the rites of this court," the commander bellowed. "None shall draw a blade in this hall, and yet blood is the most significant offering we can give to the gods who watch us."

His gaze turned toward the First Priest.

"I ask permission to spill blood in the name of Crown Prince Xavier!"

The priest turned to Lan, his expression unreadable.

"Lanard Solaris," he said, "do you accept? Will you offer blood in the name of Princess Iris Aregard?"

For a heartbeat, Lan didn't answer.

They expected him to decline. That was the trap. If he refused, he'd be branded a coward. If he accepted, he would die before the eyes of all.

They thought there was no winning move.

But Lan smiled.

"Yes," he said.

The hall broke into a storm of murmurs again. Some voices gasped. Others whispered curses.

The First Priest nodded. "Then you may proceed."

Commander Kest approached Lan slowly, confidently, barehanded but lethal. His heavy steps thudded like war drums on the polished stone.

"I will avenge Corvin," he said, "and offer your worthless head to Prince Xavier."

Lan exhaled slowly. Then he muttered, "Do you know what your problem is?"

The commander paused.

"Ignorance."

And then—

[Spiritual Pressure – 100%]

The world shifted.

Like a god had set his palm down upon the court, weight pressed into the souls of all present. It was not pain—not exactly—but gravity that pulled on the essence of each being in the room.

Strong mages and warriors trembled.

Servants fell to their knees.

Even Maximus—stoic, unflinching Maximus—gritted his teeth.

"What is this?" he muttered. "What… what is this power?"

Because this was not physical strength.

This was not mana.

This was Spiritual power, something mages lacked.

The commander—who had been only steps away from Lan—collapsed to his knees, unable to lift his head. His armor groaned under pressure it was never meant to withstand. Blood began to drip from his nose and mouth. His knees cracked stone.

"What's wrong?" Lan asked calmly. "Stand up. Avenge your general."

The man couldn't respond. He only trembled, his will breaking under pressure his spirit had never been forged to resist.

Lan looked around, eyes sweeping over the stunned court all pressed down by a pressure not even directed at them.

"It is always better," he said, "to fear what you do not understand… rather than underestimate it."

Gasps rose.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, the pressure vanished.

The commander surged to his feet, desperate for redemption. He lunged forward with a scream.

Lan didn't move.

He only spoke:

"Stop breathing."

[Spiritual Will]

The man dropped mid-stride, collapsing at Lan's feet like a puppet cut from its strings. He clawed at his throat, face turning blue, choking on air that would not enter.

All watched, frozen.

Lan turned his head toward the dais.

"You asked what support I bring to Princess Iris," he said, his voice echoing across the marble floor.

"I bring her a god."

He looked back down at the dying man on the floor.

"Me."

The hall fell utterly silent.