The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Spiritual strength.

It was not mana or spellwork. Not even Qi in its rawest, most primal form.

It was the weight behind will—the hidden core of self that most never touched, never trained, never truly understood. It was the thread that tied consciousness to command, thought to impact, intention to reality.

A cultivator's domain.

Mages—brilliant as they were, with their runes and circles and latticework of arcane theorems—rarely trained it. Not because they couldn't, but because they didn't have to.

Mana obeyed formulas. Spirits obeyed contracts. Enchantments obeyed structure. And so they grew powerful, yes—but like lords locked in ivory towers, their strength lay in the external.

But cultivators?

They bled for strength.

They broke themselves to find truth.

They turned inward, again and again, grinding the soul against fire until it shone like steel.

And that process—merciless, sacred, inhuman—awoke something deeper: a refined spiritual will capable of exerting pressure, influence, and dominance without spell or blade.

That was why, even now—just ten percent of Lan's spiritual strength could bend the air in a room and make even a Ninth Circle mage falter in breath.

Not because he was stronger by mana. But because what he possessed was rarer—more potent. It was presence born of suffering, forged by a path mages had long forgotten, if they'd ever known it at all.

His spiritual pressure wasn't something one could counter with shields or incantations. It clawed at the nerves. It stirred memory. It spoke directly to the soul, whispering a truth that broke arrogance:

Your soul is weak.

And with effort—concentration honed by weeks in silent meditation, by the pain of shattered cores and clawing through death—Lan could narrow that spiritual will into a soul command.

Not a suggestion. Not a spell. A direct pressure of intent that could alter a Fifth Circle mage's action entirely.

One thought, shaped by the soul, pressed into another.

A command like:

Kneel.

Forget the spell.

Stop breathing.

Such commands didn't always work—not without resistance. Not without backlash. They demanded razor-sharp focus and a heart devoid of hesitation. The stronger the target mana strength or willpower, the more likely the command would fail or warp.

But even that risk was a weapon. Because no one in the empire expected such pressure from someone they still thought of as unable.

No one imagined a figure so forgotten—so publicly weak—could speak directly to their soul and force them to yield.

———

In the assembly hall.

The whispers erupted like fire.

"What was that?"

"Was that magic?"

"Did you feel that pressure?"

"He commanded the commander to stop breathing and he just… did?"

"He called himself a god. Could it really be true?"

Voices tangled in panic and awe. Some mouths moved without sound, others choked on fear. The Assembly Hall, sacred and orderly just moments ago, now churned with confusion.

Even the seasoned soldiers of the commander's battalion shifted on their feet, uncertain whether to attack or fall to their knees.

And in the center of it all—unmasked, unashamed—Lan stood, basking in the ruin of their certainty.

Unflinching.

Unmoved.

His presence was heavy, as though the weight of some greater truth had wrapped itself around him. The light caught in his eyes—eyes gleaming with eerie calm.

And then, for the first time since the Assembly had begun, a voice rose that cut through the noise.

Xavier Aregard.

"A god..." The Crown Prince spoke, measured and low, yet his voice carried effortlessly through the chamber. There was no need for volume—only presence. "That's a bold claim."

The tension in the room grew.

Lan didn't feel it.

"And yet," he said, voice clear and sharp as mountain air, "a true one."

A few nobles flinched, but many leaned in, drawn not just by curiosity—but by fear.

"You all know it. My story." Lan's voice no longer needed to shout. The silence in the room made it thunder. "The weak prince. Manaless. Worthless. Forgotten. Laughed at, discarded, and the most entertaining topics for your gossips."

He took a step forward.

"And yet… here I am. Possessing strength none of you can grasp. Or understand. I know, the best of you have noticed...you still can't feel any mana from me."

His gaze wandered, not toward Xavier, but the rest. The true audience. The ones whose opinions had once shaped his worth.

"Why do you think that is?"

The question hung in the air like a curse.

"No," Lan continued, stopping mid-step, "better yet… what do you think that will yield? Such rapid growth in power without mana."

The hall didn't breathe.

"I ask you all to imagine," he said, voice suddenly soft, dangerous. "What if I could make more like me? What if I could take a bandit, a beggar, a broken thing—and make them into titans?"

"What if I could make worthless men...into gods?"

Eyes widened. A few nobles glanced at each other, the same thought taking root behind guarded expressions.

"What if I can raise an army—"

His tone sharpened, every word a deliberate hammer blow.

"—an army possessing strength this world has never known, nor can comprehend."

His next pause was short but suffocating.

"An army loyal only to me."

There it was. The promise. The threat. The prophecy. All delivered in one.

Xavier remained still, but for the first time, his calm expression flickered—just a tremor—but to those trained in court reading, it was as loud as a scream.

"And if such an army were to exist…" Lan's eyes swept across the assembly, "…what would it stand for? Who would it protect?"

The answer came like thunder from his mouth.

"It will be In support of this great Empire."

His voice softened again, becoming strangely reverent.

"In support of its future ruler… Iris Aregard."

Every soul in the hall froze.

Every thought collapsed into disbelief.

The Emperor shifted on his high throne but did not speak. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as if trying to remember when the tide had turned. When this—the forgotten prince—had walked in with nothing and now stood as the most significant player in this game.

Lan continued, voice echoing with finality.

"A new age is coming. And it is inevitable."

He turned then, the hem of his dark cloak trailing behind.

"And with Iris Aregard as its ruler," he said, not looking back, "the great Aregard Empire shall bask in the glory of it."

A stillness more absolute than silence followed.

The Fourth Prince was gone.

And for the first time since the Assembly had begun, Iris Aregard moved.

From the throne where she had sat blank—stone-faced, unreadable—she shifted. One hand rested lightly on the armrest.

And then, barely noticeable—

She smiled.

The faintest, most dangerous smile anyone had ever seen.

And below her, in the rows of the great assembly—from high noble to servant, from prince to page—not a soul could believe what they had just witnessed.

A forgotten prince.

A self proclaimed god.

A throne shaking.

And a smile that would be remembered in dreams and nightmares for years to come.