The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The sky had no stars.

No clouds.

No wind.

Only an oppressive stillness, as if time had ceased to breathe.

Lan stood waist-deep in black water that shimmered like spilled ink. It stretched forever in every direction, an ocean without shores or sound. Each ripple against his skin felt like the echo of thoughts not yet formed—memories waiting to be reborn.

He exhaled. The sound barely made a mark in the still air.

Then, a ripple. Not from him.

Footsteps. Across water.

Xie Wuchen walked toward him—barefoot, his spectral reflection gliding just above the surface as though refusing to acknowledge the laws of this plane.

His black robes fluttered despite the windless void. His face was sharper now, clearer than usual—no longer a whisper of memory but something nearer to truth. Or inevitability.

They stood side by side, twin silhouettes beneath a sky that had never known light.

Silence bound them.

Until Wuchen spoke, voice like polished obsidian slicing through stillness:

"You are now more than a man breaking limits. You are a soul seeking to defy creation."

Lan did not speak. Something about this place had stripped away the need for language. Yet words still held power here—ancient, symbolic, final.

Wuchen glanced down at the dark sea.

"This is you. The self, distilled. Not your body. Not even your mind. This place is your truth."

Lan's throat was dry. "Then why does it feel so empty?"

Wuchen tilted his head. "Because you are still alive."

The answer lingered like a curse.

They walked deeper, further into the sea, though the depth never changed. Always waist-deep. Always still.

Wuchen began his lesson not with theory, but with a gesture.

He raised his hand—and from the sky, a mirror fell.

It crashed into the sea and did not shatter. Instead, it floated between them, a perfect pane of silver glass. Lan looked down into it—and saw not his reflection, but bones. Ash. Rot.

Wuchen pointed. "The mortal soul is caged. By bone, by flesh, by memory. It knows how to die. It expects to. And so, when death comes, it yields."

The mirror rippled.

"But to reach Soul Transformation is to stand before that mirror and refuse. To scream back into the void and say—no. I will not fade."

The mirror cracked.

Wuchen looked at him. "It is not a step forward, Lan. It is rebellion. A crime against creation."

Lan frowned. "And the heavens?"

"The heavens?" Wuchen laughed—a hollow, terrible thing. "They do not negotiate. They do not forgive. They were not made to serve us. Every step you've taken until now has been defying the heavens. But what comes next…" His eyes narrowed. "Is to threaten it's destruction."

Lan stared down at the mirror as it dissolved into black foam.

"If my whole cultivation path is to defy the heavens, then why chase it?" he whispered.

"Because it is the only path left for men like us."

Wuchen raised both hands.

From the depths of the sea rose a golden sphere—Lan's core—glowing dimly beneath layers of spiritual strain. Cracks laced its surface, and blood-colored light pulsed from within.

"This is your cage," Wuchen said. "This is the gift the world gave you. A system of order. A boundary."

Lan watched as ghostly chains coiled around the core. One bore the shape of his mother's hand. Another was a crown of molten silver. Another, a battlefield soaked in blood.

"You never failed because you were weak. You failed because the world demanded it. Destiny."

Wuchen turned to him, voice softening with something almost like sorrow. "You know your path—our Sutra—it is not ascend like the others. It does not climb the heavens."

He raised a finger. The sky above trembled.

"It devours it."

Now came the revelation.

Wuchen gestured once more—and the waters began to churn, ever so slightly, as if remembering motion after an age of stillness.

"We will destroy this sea," he said. "Burn it. Every drop. Every echo of memory and meaning."

Lan's eyes narrowed. "You're talking about killing my foundation."

Wuchen nodded. "And more."

Golden veins in the sea began to surface—like roots, like meridians—then twisted into smoke and scattered.

"We will shatter your core, dissolve your meridians, and force your soul to emerge—not by growth, but by survival. Not by will, but by wrath."

Lan's breath caught. "You want me to die."

"I want your self to survive death," Wuchen corrected. "To refuse the silence."

He stepped forward. The sea responded—rising now to their chests, restless and uncertain.

"This is the method. Forbidden. Irreversible. We will kill you… so your soul might live."

The black sky began to swirl above them, like an eye opening.

"You will burn your essence as fuel. You will reject every tether that holds you together. And if you succeed—if you endure—then what rises will no longer be a man."

Lan whispered, "And if I fail?"

Wuchen met his gaze. "Then you will vanish."

The stars did not return.

But the waters grew darker still—like ink fed by ink, black on black, until it was difficult to know where Lan ended and the sea began.

His limbs felt weightless. Heavy. Hollow. Every breath seemed louder now, deeper, as if the air itself braced for a funeral.

He looked to Wuchen. "How long will it take?"

Wuchen shrugged. "Time has no meaning here. Only resolve."

"And pain?"

"Oh," he smiled. "Plenty of that."

Lan closed his eyes.

He thought of Seraphine's hands, always warm, even when trembling. He thought of Venom's half-broken loyalty, Miller's silent strength, Iris cynical eyes.

He thought of the mines. The broken kingdom. The wolves gathering at his door.

Then he thought of his own heartbeat. And how quiet it had become.

He opened his eyes.

"I'm ready."

A terrible silence fell—so complete it seemed even thought had been exiled. Then Wuchen whispered the final truth:

"If you falter, you will not just die. You will vanish. Even I will forget you."

The sea began to surge.

The sky cracked.

And Lan began to burn.