The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Snow greeted Lan's return, in the only way it knew how.

Cold, unwelcoming, wind howling like wolves as he rode through Ranevia's southern pass. His black robes fluttered behind him, the fur-lined mantle over his shoulders heavy with frost. His steed's hooves struck hardened ice, each clop echoing against the stone walls and the broken buildings.

And then… the scent.

Metallic. Wet. Familiar.

Blood.

The road ahead was stained in it—crimson streaks across the white snow. The corpses came into view next. Dozens at first. Then hundreds. Soldiers in black-and-gold Solaris armor standing tall and proud near the smoldering remnants of makeshift barricades.

The fallen were commoners, miners, rebels—men and women of Ranevia. Men and women who were loyal to Lan, who had believed in his vision. Among them, some bore the soul brand marked in their flesh.

The faint glow of Qi still clung to their cooling corpses.

Lan said nothing. His horse carried him forward in solemn silence.

The army did not halt him. They parted, uncertain, their gazes downcast or tense. Whispers followed his passage.

"He came?"

"Prince Lanard..."

"He must've heard."

No banner welcomed him home. Only blood and smoke. And the faint hiss of melting snow on still-warm corpses.

He passed the remnants of his checkpoint, now shattered. Passed the great black iron gate to the mines, which once bore sigils he had carved himself. Now it stood pried open, defiled, with imperial flags driven into the snow like blades.

At the base of the gate, the frost was stained a deeper shade of red, and clustered there—

He froze.

A tangle of hair soaked in blood.

He didn't need to lift the body to know.

Wren.

His jaw tightened. His knuckles turned bone-white as he gripped the reins. But still he said nothing. The storm inside him had not yet found its voice.

Ahead, the tents gleamed like royal tumors. The finest canvas money could buy—royal blue with golden trim. A feast was underway, and music drifted through the flaps.

Laughter. The clinking of goblets. The sickening scent of roasted meat.

He dismounted. His boots crunched across snow and ash. The guards at the tent entrance stiffened, eyes widening as they recognized him, but no one moved to bar his way.

He entered.

Inside, warmth.

A brazier blazed in the center. Wine poured freely. Goblets raised. King Aldric sat on a throne-chair at the far end, robes embroidered with phoenixes, a golden circlet resting atop his greying hair. Beside him, lounging with smug indifference, were the three princes of Solaris.

Kael, the Crown Prince, war general and monster, his armor still bearing the stain of war, grinned when he saw Lan. Zerak, the Second, sharp-eyed and silent, swirled his goblet with faint amusement. Kain, the Third, laughed a little too loudly at some jest and clapped a soldier on the back.

"Lanard!" the king roared, raising his goblet. "Come, join us. Celebrate. Solaris will be rich beyond imagining."

Lan did not answer.

He stepped in, boots dragging snow across the rugs, eyes scanning the feast, then settling on the faces of his family. His gaze was calm. Too calm.

"What riches?" he asked, voice low, measured.

"The mines, of course," Kael replied, grinning like a wolf. "The had be inactive for many years. But now? They yield gold, and a great much of it."

Lan's head tilted slightly.

"Hm."

His voice was a whisper next. "And so… you slaughtered everyone to take it."

"They refused us," the king said without remorse, swirling his goblet. "So we took it by force."

Lan's gaze flicked to Kael. "You killed my people. Because they followed my orders. Because they defended the mines."

"Your people?" the king snapped. "They were criminals. Rebels. We did the realm a favor by ending their pathetic lives."

"Including Miller?" Lan's voice cracked then. "And Seraphine?"

Kael shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. "They joined the traitors. And traitors die. Atleast we even let them flee. Why are you so hostile, brother? You should be proud. Ranevia bore fruit. Gold. Power. The kingdom will be richer than ever."

Lan's breath slowed. Every word a weight on his chest. Snow still clung to the folds of his robe, melting now against the heat of his rage.

He asked, quieter than before. "Was there any gold when you exiled me here?"

"Why dwell on such—" the king began.

"I asked you a fucking question!" Lan's voice roared, shattering the air like thunder.

The tent fell into silence. A soldier dropped his goblet. Kael rose from his seat, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Watch your tongue, Lanard."

The king narrowed his eyes. "You forget yourself. This discovery belongs to Solaris now. You should be grateful. Or... do you also intend to rebel?"

Lan breathed out, slow and long. His hands trembled, but not from fear. Just maddening anger.

"I never cared for the pathetic excuse of a family you claimed us to be," he said. "But never did I think I'd stain my hands with your blood."

Zerak stood. Kain reached for his sword.

And then Lan moved.

From the air itself, as if summoned from nothing, the Devil's Lie slid into his hand—a rusted, old blade that pulsed with impossible energy. Its edge hummed like it remembered the taste of kings.

"I told you," Lan whispered to the sword, "Someday, I'd feed you a king. That day has come."

The king didn't flinch, but his voice turned steel. "Think very carefully before you make your next move."

Around Lan, the Solaris soldiers raised weapons.

But Lan only turned, surveying them.

His eyes flared with an ancient light.

Then he spoke a single word.

"Fall."

[Spiritual Will.]

The air grew thick. Men screamed, dropping their weapons. Half the tent fell at once—soldiers clutching their heads, vomiting, collapsing under the crushing weight of Lan's will.

Their spirits cracked like glass.

And the others—those still standing—stared at Lan as though seeing something not human.

Lan took a step forward.