The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The tavern was dim, thick with smoke and murmurs. A fire crackled low in the hearth, it painted flickers of gold over stained wood and worn faces. The snow outside piled high against the window, but inside, the air was warm with tension and drink.

Men huddled close around a battered table, tankards in hand, whispers tighter than fists. The walls groaned as the wind outside howled—a cold reminder of the world beyond.

"Ain't it strange," one man said, his breath steaming in the air, "how quiet it's been?"

He was lean, with greying stubble and a coat that had seen too many winters. His eyes—half-shut and half-wary—swept the room before he leaned in closer.

"I thought things were gonna get rough the moment the Emperor dropped dead."

"Aye," another agreed swiftly, slamming his mug down with a soft thunk. "Whole empire was supposed to catch fire by now. But here we are, three months in... and not even a whimper."

A third man, younger, twirled his spoon in a bowl of thick soup. "Maybe it's the calm before the storm."

"Storm should've come already," the greybeard muttered. "The fight for the throne should be blood-deep by now."

The youngest among them—barely older than twenty—glanced sideways before whispering, "Maybe it already has."

The others paused. Turning to look at him eager to hear his thoughts, they knew him for his conspiracies that turned out to be truth more often than not.

He leaned forward, voice barely audible over the creak of the inn's boards. "No one's seen the Princess. Not in almost six months. Not even a whisper. What do you think happened?"

The table went quiet. Then someone muttered, "...You think her brothers killed her?"

"It's not out of the realm of possibility."

"But why?" the stubbled one said, eyebrows raised. "She wasn't the greatest threat. Everyone knows Xavier or Maximus would crush her in a real war."

"She was a threat," the younger one said. "Because of him."

The table stilled. Everyone there knew exactly who "him" was.

One of them, an older drunkard in the corner, scoffed, but his voice carried. "The manaless god of the North."

Silence, thick and reverent.

It was a title more myth than man. Spoken rarely. With weight.

"Haven't heard that name in a long time," someone said.

"He vanished," another added. "Right after the massacre."

"Aye," the greybeard muttered. "Destroyed his kingdom's army. Killed his own brothers. Alone. Just... stood there, the stories say he spared his father's life, but the Solaris king keeps pushing propaganda that it was the other way around. Word is after his victory, he dared the Empire to test him."

"And no one did."

"Would you?" one man whispered. "They said he wasn't even using mana. Just... something else."

They all knew the tale—how Prince Lanard of Solaris, long mocked as a weakling, had returned from exile changed. How he'd turned Ranevia, a forgotten frostbitten wasteland, into a fortress of wealth and power.

How he'd faced down Crown Prince Kael, the First Army, and King Aldric himself—and lived.

No. More than lived. Conquered.

"And remember," the younger man said, voice low and sharp, "he told the whole imperial court he'd build warriors like him. Devoted to the Empire. Loyal only to Iris."

"Then vanished," the greybeard added grimly. "And not long after, she vanished too."

"You really think it's coincidence?"

They didn't answer.

The fire crackled.

"Something shady is going on," someone muttered. "Whole Empire's holding its breath. Like it knows something's watching."

"Do you think he's still alive?"

The tavern seemed to go still.

The oldest of them, who hadn't spoken till now, finally looked up. His voice was rough with drink and years, but clear.

"Gods don't die easy."

---

Somewhere far beyond the reach of snow or fire, beyond city walls and memory—

There was silence.

Not the kind one finds in a forest, or in a crypt, or even in the eye of a storm.

This was a silence so vast, so endless, it seemed to stretch across the skin of creation itself.

A black sea.

Still. Unbroken.

And from that sea, not a ripple stirred—save one.

A lone figure floated just above the still waters, suspended in the infinite. His robes billowed in an invisible wind, dark threads rippling like shadow over moonlight.

Lan.

His eyes were closed, sweat clinging to his brow.

Each breath was hard-won, as if the void itself was resisting his presence.

He opened his eyes.

Grey. Cold. Distant.

"I failed again," he said, voice roughened by pain and long silence. "I failed to enter the Heavenly Realm."

His voice echoed—not aloud, but through the black sea, as if speaking into himself.

A ripple formed.

Across the water, another figure stood.

Xie Wuchen.

Or the depiction of him.

The guiding mirror of a past life, clothed in robes that bled shadow and starlight, eyes like abyssal jade. He stood tall, regal, without warmth.

Xie tilted his head, gaze unreadable.

"You failed," he agreed. "But failure is nothing new."

Lan exhaled, the breath cold. "The realm rejects me. Every time I touch it, it slips away."

"The heavens resist you for a reason," Xie murmured.

Lan's fists clenched. His voice cracked. "Then why do I keep reaching?"

"Because you can not return weak."

Silence stretched between them. Lan floated back to his feet, breath slowing.

"It's been over a year," he said quietly. "Since we fled to the north"

"The things you left behind, will survive," Xie said.

Lan looked down into the sea. Its surface reflected nothing.

"I'm running out of time," he whispered. "If I don't get strong enough to change the tide, everything we built..."

He trailed off.

"It is very often i find, a great suffering is far more than necessary." Xie said. "Do you think yourself abandoned? Look around you, Lanard. This sea—this void—you forged it from your soul. It is your trial. Not mine."

Lan looked up. "Then i have no choice, but to push the Sutra to it's limits."

Xie's eyes narrowed. "You want to do that? knowing what it may cost?"

Lan didn't need contemplation. "I want to enter the Heavenly Realm. No more boundaries. No more seals. Just pure ascent."

Xie paused.

Then—he smiled.

And it was not a kind smile.

"Then perhaps it is time," Xie said softly, "to try something more brutal. Something more... unorthodox."

Lan's breath caught. The void shuddered.

Somewhere in the vastness of his dark Spiritual sea, something begun.