The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The echo of the ritual's ignition still lingered in the air. He could still taste the first wave of copper-sweet energy as it rolled off her.

Not even one minute had passed. And yet she had endured thousands of years of suffering.

There was a long road ahead.

----

Lan opened his eyes.

The cold weight of the physical plane pressed back onto his senses. The scent of stone and candle wax replaced the endless darkness of his spiritual domain. His blade — a length of congealed crimson — still rested deep in Iris's chest.

She was pale, motionless, lips parted as though caught mid-breath. The faint shimmer of spiritual tethering webbed around the wound, threads of energy binding her to something far away.

Lan withdrew his hand from the hilt but did not remove the blade.

"She's stable," he said, voice low.

Seraphine stood across the table, her face unreadable but her hands tense at her sides. The light from the hanging lanterns caught on her golf hair as she stepped closer.

"Stable for how long?"

He turned to her fully. "That depends. She'll wake only if she's strong enough to survive. Until then, she stays like this."

Seraphine's eyes flicked to the blade again. "And the weapon?"

"It's not a weapon," Lan replied. "It's a chain. As long as it's in her heart, she remains tethered to my spiritual realm. Without it…" His gaze sharpened. "She's gone. Completely."

Understanding flashed in Seraphine's expression, but she didn't argue.

"Then it stays. I'll see to it she's kept safe."

"I trust you will," Lan said, and without another word, he turned and left the chamber, his boots ringing softly against the stone floor. The heavy iron-bound door shut behind him with a thud.

---

The Next Morning.

The Northern hideout—a spread of rough-hewn stone and frozen earth, ringed by walls of dark timber and watchtowers crowned with sentries.

The air was sharp with cold, their breath steaming as over a hundred men gathered in rows — bandits, deserters, mercenaries, all now cultivators alike, their armor mismatched but their eyes burning.

Lan stood before them on the raised platform. His black coat billowing faintly in the wind, the crimson insignia at his chest marking him as their commander. He let the silence stretch until every head was turned toward him.

"Over a year ago," he began, voice carrying clear and unyielding across the yard, "the wretched king and his bastard sons marched their army into our lands. Into our territory. And they slaughtered our comrades."

A low rumble spread through the men.

"They killed us, they took our gold," Lan went on, his tone tightening. "And I fought them — I cut through their ranks, I ended two of their princes, I left their banners in the dirt. But in the end, I lost. We all lost. The king drove us north, forced us into hiding in this frozen forest like beaten dogs."

The rumble rose into snarls and curses.

"But today…" Lan's voice rose, sharp as drawn steel, "…today we prepare to take everything they stole from us."

The roar that answered shook the timbers.

He lifted his arm and pointed south. "We will march into Solaris. We will take back our gold. And when the king kneels in his own palace, we will have his head."

The men erupted again, shouting, stomping, slamming weapons against shields. The sound was a war drum of pure rage.

Lan let the noise crest before stepping aside. "Miller," he called.

He stepped forward.

He carried a rolled sheaf of maps under one arm, which he unrolled and pinned against a mounted board.

"Listen up," Miller growled, voice gravel over stone. "Here's stage one."

He tapped the first mark with a gloved finger. "Our base is Ranevia — abandoned wasteland, perfect for mustering without eyes on us. Our goal? Seize the throne by brute force, crush the king's armies, take the capital. No treaties. No truces."

The men leaned in, expressions hungry.

"We strike fast and we strike hard. No time for the king to rally. We burn his food, sink his ships, starve him out before we march on his gates."

---

Territorial Layout

Miller's finger moved from mark to mark.

"North — Ranevia. That's our base. Kharihad stays neutral until we've got the throne."

"West — Westerloch. Farmland, grain reserves. And Ironwater Coast — shipyards and ports."

"South — SouthMarch. Mercenaries in the swamps, tricky ground. Verdelane — nobles, wine, silk, coin."

"East — the capital. Royal palace, mage towers, elite guard. That's the endgame."

---

'Phase One — The Hammer Falls""

Miller jabbed the map. "We start west. Cut the legs out from under the kingdom."

1. Ranevia → Westerloch

"We march straight into the farmlands. Burn or seize every grain reserve. Any resistance — slaughter them. Leave survivors to spread fear. Siege squads use talisman shock waves to blow city gates in minutes."

The crowd growled approval.

2. Westerloch → Ironwater Coast

"Once we have their food, we gut their navy. Destroy every ship in harbor with explosive Qi talismans. Any shipwrights we find — dead or in chains. If a vessel survives, it's ours. No royal navy left."

"Effect?"

"No food. No ships. The capital starts starving before they can blink. No escape. No reinforcement."

Miller stepped back. "That's the hammer. The rest falls after."

Lan returned to the front of the platform, letting the map flap in the wind behind him. His eyes swept the men, measuring them.

"This is only the first blow," he said. "We don't stop until the king's banners burn over his own corpse. Every step forward will be written in blood — theirs and ours. You don't have to like it. You only have to win."

The silence that followed wasn't uncertainty. It was focus — the kind that comes just before a man killed.

Then the roar came again, louder this time, a single word chanted until it was a drumbeat in the air:

"LANARD! LANARD! LANARD!"

He let it roll over him, but his eyes were cold. There was work to be done. And a war to win.