The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The third moon since the Emperor's death passed without ceremony.

Across the Empire, tension lingered like a knife above the neck. Roads bustled, markets chattered, noble courts performed their endless theatre of civility—but beneath it all, silence stalked like a predator.

Every Duke and Archmage, every mercenary commander and coin lord waited for the first public blow in the imperial succession. None came.

None dared.

Because Maximus Aregard had not yet moved.

But now, in the deepest corridors of power, the shadow had begun to crawl.

---

A golden raven carved from mana crystal perched on a tall bronze stand inside Maximus's war chamber. Its wings were spread in mock flight, eyes flickering with arcane light. As his fingers brushed its obsidian-tipped beak, it spoke in his brother's voice—clear, clipped, and impatient.

"Maximus. You promised order. And yet I hear whispers of resistance in the lower courts. Handle it. Before I do."

He didn't reply. He rarely did.

Maximus stood motionless before a massive black window, his reflection barely visible in the obsidian glass.

From this high perch, the city beneath looked like a mechanical beast—gears of people and firelight turning endlessly, chewing up the weak and feeding the strong.

His study was quiet, enough for the soft scratch of ink on parchment. Assistants lined the chamber's sides, silent as monks, scribbling letters, burning seals, and dispatching orders to every corner of the realm.

From outer provinces to merchant princes, their fates turned on the smallest twitch of his hand.

In front of Maximus, a large table held a glass map of the Empire. Three hundred shimmering lights hovered above it—marks of soldiers, fleets, treasury wagons, secret caches, and spies.

He moved one—just one.

The light that represented the Third Vizier of Bastonne flickered, then dimmed.

"Assassinated by accident," Maximus murmured, lips barely moving. "His niece inherits the post. She owes me everything. She'll sign the oil routes over within the week."

A steward stepped forward. "Shall we inform the Arch Court?"

Maximus didn't look at him. "No. It's best they learn it late. We want Bastonne to seem uncertain. Pressure builds trust."

He paused, then turned at last to face the room. His robes were immaculate—midnight blue threaded with silver, shoulders heavy with fur, a golden chain wrapped twice around his neck like a collar he had tamed into ornament.

But it was his eyes that held the room still: not cold, but burning with logic. Fire if it were trapped in ice.

"You've all heard the rumors," he said softly. "Rebellions, divine signs, Iris sightings, even whispers of him." A pause. "None matter."

He stepped forward and tapped the glass map once.

"The throne will not be won in chaos. We will win it in silence. Our web is nearly complete. We've already broken half of Xavier's northern alliances. The capital guard reports to me in secret. And the merchant guilds—" he turned to a stack of parchments "—have been promised tax abolishment once I ascend. The gold flows."

Another assistant stepped forward, bowing.

"Shall we move on the Eastern Temple factions?"

Maximus's eyes narrowed. "No. Not yet. We allow their heresies fester. We need every rival looking outward."

He turned again toward the obsidian window.

"And when they look back in... I will already be sitting on the throne."

---

That night, long after the scrolls were sealed and the chamber empty, Maximus walked alone.

His manor on the edge of the southern cliffs looked like a relic from another age. Ancient granite, forgotten gods carved in relief, ivy grown like veins. It was far from the capital and away from every eye.

He descended quietly.

Down the marble stair, beneath the wine cellars, past the alchemical rooms, and into the deep.

This place was carved long ago, before even the Aregard name. Magic still lived here—in the stones, in the roots, in the air like breathless wind.

He passed a dozen iron doors, each one bearing sigils to keep things in. Not out.

When he reached the final one, he placed his hand on the center rune. It read: Truth or Pain.

The door clicked.

The smell hit first. Blood, sweat, old iron, and ash. The kind of air that couldn't be purified. It clung to memory.

Chains rustled faintly.

The room was lit only by a single hanging lantern that swung slightly from a draft that didn't exist. It cast shadows across the far wall—and her.

Princess Iris Aregard.

Her face, once revered in a thousand songs, was smeared with dried blood and bruises. Her raven-black hair was matted with sweat and dust, tangled like roots. Her wrists were shackled above her head, arms pulled taut.

Her robes were torn, old, and soaked with weeks of rot and old wounds.

But her eyes—

They were still her own.

Storm-lit. Unyielding.

She looked up slowly as he approached. Her lip was cracked. She bled from the side of her mouth, and her right cheek was already swollen from some blow. Still, she smiled. A wolfish smile, born of spite.

Maximus stood before her, immaculate as ever, hands folded behind his back.

"You keep doing this to yourself," he said calmly, like a father disappointed in a stubborn child. "Choosing to suffer."

She didn't answer.

"I could end this," he continued. "You know I could. No more daily beatings. No more spell-carving. No more 'accidents' with fire mages and mana shocks."

He paced once around her, footsteps soft.

"I could even make you Grand Vizier," he said. "You always liked power. You were clever enough to earn it, if you'd only stop... clutching ghosts."

He stopped in front of her again.

"All this, just for one answer."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Where's Lanard?"

She stared at him.

For a moment, her jaw tightened. The chains groaned above her as she flexed what little strength she had left, body trembling just to stay upright.

Maximus waited.

The silence grew.

Then, slowly, she spat blood at his feet.

And smiled again, crimson running down her chin.

"Fuck you."

Maximus's face didn't twitch. Not even a flicker of anger crossed his features. He looked down at the blood on the stone floor. Then he sighed. Long, soft, tired.

"I thought you might say that."

He turned and walked away, the lantern swaying behind him.

As the heavy door sealed shut again, her voice whispered from the dark—broken but still sharp.

"I will...kill you...you know that right?"

He said nothing. Only his footsteps echoed up the stairwell, vanishing into shadow.