The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Kael's sword whistled through the air, silver steel burning with layered enchantments, aimed for the broken boy kneeling in bloodied snow.

Lan's hand rose—shaking, fingers trembling like snapped bone trying to knit.

He whispered, barely audible:

"I didn't want to use this yet."

The heavens tore open.

The clouds above, blackened with thunder and old wrath, cracked with a thunderclap that silenced the battlefield. From the ruptured sky, something descended—not light, not fire—but the shape of judgment made into shadow.

[Rain of Dark Judgment.]

Thousands of obsidian spears fell like screaming stars. Each one etched with ancient runes that flickered red, trailing lines of dark Qi behind them. They rained like the wrath of dead gods, sharp enough to pierce steel, hot enough to melt plate.

They blooted the sun and made daylight night.

The first impact sent a quake through the valley. The second evaporated three tents and the men within them. The third splintered the ground into a jagged hellscape of glass and ash.

Screams rose. Then died.

Soldiers were impaled mid-charge. Others simply disappeared—burned into smoke by the heat of the Qi. Shields didn't help. Barriers shattered. Even high-circle mages cried out in futile desperation, trying to ward off the rain with fire, ice, stone.

Nothing held.

A spear landed clean through Kael's chest.

The second prince gasped, his blade falling from his hand as the magic carved into him. His armor cracked and his ribs broke. He crumpled beside Lan, still alive, but barely. His eyes were wide, blood streaming from his mouth.

Then silence.

Only steam rising from the craters.

Only the broken wind, crying over the carnage.

Lan fell forward onto his hands, his palms bloody and raw. His body trembled—not fear, but exhaustion. He had nothing left. Every inch of Qi had been burned. Every thread of Sword Intent had snapped. He was out of spiritual will.

Out of tricks. Out of time.

He knelt in the molten snow, his breath shallow, eyes unfocused.

And still—

King Aldric stood.

The flames around his body had diminished, but his presence was towering, suffocating, almost surreal. His golden armor was cracked and scorched black. His white beard was singed at the edges. One side of his face bled freely.

But he stood.

Alive.

Burned—but untouched by death.

"You damnable creature…" the king hissed, his voice hollow and filled with rage. "You murdered your brothers… My sons!"

Lan lifted his head. Blood painted his lips. His voice was low, rough as gravel.

"The weak dies, there is no way around it."

Aldric moved.

In a blur of fury, he was upon him. One massive hand closed around Lan's throat and lifted him into the air like he weighed nothing. His grip was iron. Lan's boots dangled inches from the shattered ground, his spine arching from the strain, throat crushed.

Lan's hands clawed at the king's wrist. He tried to summon Devil's Lie, to whisper for it. Nothing. His spirit was spent. His will was flickering. His sword—the one thing that answered when no one else had—was silent.

The remaining soldiers watched.

Few stood. Most had fallen to the Rain of Judgment. The rest stood in ruined formation, quiet, stunned by what they had seen.

A bastard prince had destroyed armies.

Now, the king would destroy him.

"You will die nameless," Aldric growled, bringing his free hand up. Magic coiled around it—flames twining his wrist, forming a spiral of orange and gold like a sun coiling into his fist.

"A forgotten traitor."

He began to swing.

Lan saw death in that motion. Not just pain—oblivion. He couldn't lift his arms. His vision narrowed. The snow, falling again, blurred into white lines against a storm sky.

Then—

A wind screamed across the battlefield.

It wasn't ordinary wind.

It came like harsh truth —cold, howling, filled with power too old to belong to the king, too regal to belong to soldiers. The air folded inward. Pressure shattered what remained of the sky.

And then a voice, clear and slicing:

"That's enough, Aldric."

The king paused.

His hand, still burning with fire, remained lifted.

Slowly—so slowly—his gaze turned toward the sound.

The storm parted.

A woman stepped into the broken field.

She walked with no fear, her boots crunching against scorched snow, black cloak trailing behind her like a judge's shadow. It snapped in the wind, crimson on the inside—like a wound torn into royalty.

She wore imperial black and gold, polished and untouched. Her hair whipped in the storm, strands of white curling through black like lightning frozen in silk.

And her eyes—storm blue with flecks of gold—carried judgment in them.

Iris Aregard.

Behind her marched her elite Imperial Legion.

Silent. Unshaken. Fifth Circle mages and elite bladesmen in midnight armor, their spears tipped with silver enchantments. Their presence carried weight. Even the snow stopped falling for a moment.

Aldric snarled.

"You have no authority here, girl."

Iris stared. Her gaze fell to the prince in Aldric's grasp—Lan's pale face, his bloodied lips, the hand still limp at his side.

Then she raised her voice—not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the smoke and silence.

"By my decree, any hand lifted against Prince Lanard Solaris is an act of treason against my contend for the Imperial throne. You know what that means, Aldric."

The battlefield froze.

Aldric's flames dimmed. His hand trembled. It was restraint. His knuckles whitened around Lan's neck.

But he did not strike.

"He murdered Kael."

"Kael is not dead," Iris replied coolly. "Not yet. But if you kill Lan here, with me watching—you become the traitor."

Aldric's eyes burned. His face twisted into something that looked more beast than man.

But the weight of Iris's presence—of the Imperial Guard's silence—settled across the field.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Aldric lowered his arm. He dropped Lan to the ground.

Lan hit the snow hard. He didn't move, only coughed weakly, breath rattling in his chest. His fingers curled against the blackened earth.

Aldric turned, fists still shaking.

But he stepped back.

Iris walked forward, her steps precise. She knelt by Lan's side. Her fingers brushed his pulse, checking—confirming—what she already knew.

He was alive.

Barely.

Then she stood and turned, her voice iron and frost.

"This battlefield is under imperial jurisdiction now. All combat ceases. All proceedings will be treated according to the laws of conquest and betrayal."

No one answered.

The final flakes of snow drifted through the smoky air. Fires smoldered where tents had once stood. Black spears still jutted from the ground like forgotten gods' warnings.

And in the heart of it all—Lan lay broken.

Alive.

And the king, flame still in his bones, could only watch as Iris stood guard beside the boy who defied a kingdom.

The wind howled again.

Lan—barely conscious—let out a broken breath as the snow fell with no care for what it had witnessed.