The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The dungeon was quiet in the way only old stone could be—silent, cold, unmoving. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rust, blood, and the slow decay of forgotten prisoners. Shadows clung to the walls like oil.

Lanard stepped through the arched doorway without hesitation. His boots made no sound on the uneven floor, each step measured, unhurried.

The faint torchlight barely lit the far corner, but he didn't need his eyes to know she was there.

Chains rattled faintly as his presence disturbed the stale air.

She hung there—barely more than a silhouette at first—her body supported only by manacles at her wrists. Her clothes were shredded, her hair matted with blood. Dried crimson streaked down her arms, legs, and face, an ugly testament to months of torment.

Her head hung forward until she sensed him drawing closer. Her voice was hoarse, broken from too many days of screaming and refusing to break.

"You… already know I'm not telling… you… anything," she whispered, each word scraping out like a dying ember. "So why… don't you fuck off…"

Lan's steps didn't slow. He came to stand before her, his shadow falling over her small, fragile form. Without speaking, he lifted one hand and placed it gently against her cheek. Her skin was cold. He tilted her head upward until her bloodshot eyes met his.

She froze.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak.

"I'm sorry," Lan said quietly.

Her gaze didn't waver, but the corner of her mouth twitched, not in a smile—something closer to disbelief. Slowly, she turned her head away, letting it fall back down so that her tangled hair once again hid most of her face.

"What are you apologizing for… Lanard?" she muttered.

The stone floor beneath them was silent except for the faint drip of water. Then, another drop fell—but it wasn't water. It wasn't blood either.

It was the sound of her armor breaking—not steel, but the invisible armor she had worn every day in this cell. For the first time in months, when she didn't have to keep her chin up, didn't have to meet her brother's cruelty with fire, she allowed herself to be weak.

And the imperial princess, who had never bent for anyone, shed a single tear.

---

Elsewhere in the heart of the imperial palace, Maximus Aregard entered his private office. He shut the door behind him, moving toward his desk with the same precise steps he always took—until a voice stopped him.

"It's beautiful, no?"

He turned.

Lanard stood at the wide balcony window, overlooking the capital below. The city sprawled beneath the night sky, its towers rising like teeth from the earth, lights glimmering in a thousand windows.

"This city," Lan continued. "After so many attempts to shape it, to make it a shining example of perfection, it still remains imperfect… rough. And perhaps that's what makes it worth looking at."

Without warning, Maximus pulled a throwing knife from his belt and hurled it across the room. It passed straight through Lan's form and embedded itself in the wooden wall with a dull thunk.

"Really?" Lan sighed. "You're supposed to be the smart one. Don't disappoint me."

Maximus stepped further into the room, eyes narrowing. "You're not actually here."

"No," Lan said, glancing at him briefly. "This is a spiritual projection of my form. Not physical."

"Then where are you?"

"A bold question," Lan replied with a faint smirk. "Albeit a pointless one. Even if I told you, what would you do? Come for me? That would be a foolish decision."

He moved across the room, casually picking up and examining a silver inkwell on Maximus's desk as if he owned it.

"You see, your brother has an army," Lan said. "He has all the armies, if we're being honest. That makes him an inconvenience, at most. But what do you have? Spies? Blackmail? In the courts, that's power. Out there?" Lan gestured vaguely toward no kmown direction. "Where politics are replaced by steel and blood? You're nothing but a conniving little twat."

Maximus's expression didn't change.

"So you're saying you're stronger than me?"

Lan laughed—loud, genuine, and just short of cruel.

"I was stronger than you over a year ago when I stood before the assembly. Now? Now…" He turned back toward the window.

"Let's not waste time on irrelevant comparisons. Put simply, if you show your face before me again, I'll do your brother a favor and end your life. So best to stay away."

Maximus crossed his arms behind him. "You know I can't do that. Not when you threaten my ascension."

"Except I don't," Lan said, voice calm. "I have no interest in your squabble for the throne. I only have one request."

Maximus raised an eyebrow. "And that is?"

"I will take the Solaris Kingdom, and I will rule it. You and your brother may fight for the Empire, but you will not interfere with Solaris. Leave it to me."

"That's all you want?" Maximus asked, eyes narrowing.

"Yes," Lan confirmed. "A reasonable request, I presume."

"And what about Iris? And your support for her ascension?"

"During our conversation," Lan said evenly, "I have retrieved Iris from the dungeon where you kept her. I am tempted to attack your morality, but I have slain my own brothers, so I am not the man to speak on righteousness."

Maximus scoffed. "That's not possible. There's no way you could have found her."

"I feel everyone's presence," Lan said simply. "Even your brother, on the other side of the city. Finding her was no issue, even though her mana signature was nearly gone. As for the guards, I didn't need to raise a hand for them to fall unconscious."

Maximus's eyes flickered with doubt.

"Concerning supporting Iris's ascension," Lan continued, "if she survives, I will persuade her to abandon her ambitions." He stepped closer, his projected form moving like it were real.

"I do hope we've come to a conclusion, Your Imperial Majesty," Lan said. "So the next time we see each other, it won't be because you made a stupid decision."

And then, as if his image were made of smoke, Lanard's projection flickered once, twice—and was gone.

Maximus stood alone, his knife still embedded in the wall, his thoughts tangled.

For the first time in years, he felt the unmistakable weight of having no cards left to play.