The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The bells rang twelve times.

No more.

A low hum swept across the imperial capital—a resonance of ancient spellwork embedded into the stonework of the city, reverberating from the spires down to the hidden veins of the earth.

The entire city shifted. Streets cleared. Windows shut. Even the birds knew to fall silent.

The Absolute Imperial Court Assembly had begun.

Atop the floating platform known as Heaven's Oath, a monolithic obsidian disc that hovered miles above the heart of the city, preparations had already been made.

It was no ordinary hall. The ground was layered with starlight-forged glass, so that every footstep shimmered as if one walked across the night sky.

Giant arches of gold and void-crystal rose into the open air, inscribed with the decrees of emperors long dead. Hovering lanterns of blue flame floated above the chamber like minor moons.

The Court of Stars, they called it. And only the most dangerous names in the empire walked its floor.

The first to arrive were the clergy—a procession of priests and oracles draped in white, their eyes covered in golden veils, feet bare upon the star-glass.

They murmured hymns to the Unseen Flame, carrying censers that leaked thin strands of gold smoke. As they took their place at the western circle of the hall, a silence descended like a curtain.

Next came the Magisterium Delegation, their presence like the coiling of pressure in the air. Ten Archmages walked side by side, each in robes that shimmered with illusions of storm and ruin.

Behind them floated their familiars—creatures bound by pact and pain. One, a three-headed phoenix. Another, a clockwork wyvern whose wings ticked softly. At their head was Archmagister Velian, a pale man whose eyes were black voids rimmed with blue fire.

He did not bow.

He merely nodded, and time itself seemed to bend slightly around him.

Then came the Heads of the Ten Main Noble Houses, each escorted by a cadre of guards in armor so refined it could've passed for art.

The House of Aven, known for its airships and wind-runed blades. The House of Kol, whose strength was in its endless gold. The House of Mareth, draped in mourning veils, whose family line included three emperors and seventeen assassins.

One by one, they took their seats. Thrones of floating stone adjusted to their height and presence. They exchanged brief nods, veiled threats behind every blink.

A horn sounded—low and guttural. It rolled over the sky like thunder.

The Imperial Legions had arrived.

General Vakar, commander of the First Army, entered clad in full regalia—black and silver armor etched with flames.

His sword was unsheathed, held reversed at his side in salute. Behind him marched commanders and colonels from every front of the Empire's reach. War-beasts bound in mana-chains were held at bay by masked handlers.

These were the Empire's fangs, its shield, its hunger.

But none among them commanded more attention than the man who followed at the rear.

Xavier Aregard, First Prince of the Empire.

The God of War.

He strode forward like gravity answered to him alone. Clad in black and gold armor shaped like a dragon's skeleton, his presence swallowed the air. He bore no weapons. He needed none. His every breath crackled faintly with power.

Where he stepped, the ground thickened.

Xavier did not look left or right. He did not offer greetings. He moved to his seat—one that looked like it were carved from what remained of a fallen star—and sat as if it had always belonged to him.

And perhaps it had.

He closed his eyes, listening. Not to the voices of the court, but to the subtle shifts in aura. Every heartbeat. Every flinch. Every flicker of weakness.

He noted who clenched their jaws when they saw him. Who smiled too long. Who failed to look at him at all.

And yet, only one absence occupied his thoughts.

Maximus.

He hadn't arrived.

Xavier's jaw twitched slightly. Not in worry. In calculation.

Maximus Aregard, the Second Prince, was no soldier. No warrior. But he was the most dangerous man Xavier had ever met. Not because of what he could do—but because of what he could undo.

Empires were built with blades and fire. But they were unmade by whispers and debts and names no one remembered until it was too late.

Maximus played no games. He played wars. Wars behind curtains.

Xavier had scoured four provinces before returning to the capital, crushing rebellions with frightening ease. He'd burned traitors, hung governors by their tongues, and conquered the Outlands in seventy-one days.

He returned with the blessings of the generals and the loyalty of the armies.

And yet none of that mattered if Maximus had already moved the court beneath his feet.

A voice rang out.

"Announcing the arrival of Her Imperial Grace, Princess Iris Aregard, Daughter of Flame and Steel."

Xavier opened his eyes.

Iris entered without fanfare. No guards. No entourage. Only one woman followed her—a tall one-eyed knight in black and silver armor.

Iris herself wore deep crimson traced with violet—a political statement. Not the white of the clergy, nor the black of war. But a color long associated with independence and rebellion.

Bold.

Xavier watched as she strode across the Court and seated herself on the lowest throne—a seat traditionally left empty.

Every head turned.

Xavier tilted his head slightly. Clever, he thought. Claim the weakest seat. Make them underestimate you. False humility.

Iris's eyes met his.

For a breath, the Court quieted.

Then a loud thrum echoed from above.

A figure descended slowly, veiled in white light.

The Emperor.

But not the one anyone could touch.

A projection only—an ancient spell maintained by the imperial regents. The real Emperor had not been seen in three years.

Still, the figure spoke.

"By the decree of the Ever-Flame, the Absolute Imperial Assembly is hereby opened. Let no lie cross this floor. Let no hand draw blade. Let no soul forget where they stand."

The light pulsed. The projection vanished.

The Court erupted.

Nobles whispered. Generals straightened. Magisters adjusted their enchantments.

Xavier leaned back on his throne, watching it all unfold.

Where are you, Maximus?

His eyes scanned the hall once more.

Then, almost too softly to register, a servant approached one of the nobles from House Kol. Whispered something. Passed a sealed scroll.

Moments later, another servant approached House Mareth.

And then another, this time to the High Cleric.

Each scroll bore the same mark: a serpent wrapped around a crown.

Maximus had arrived.

Not through the door. But through the paper. Through the decisions that would ripple across the hall before his face ever appeared.

Xavier's smile was thin.

Of course.

And then, as if by fate, a shadow moved at the edge of the assembly. Someone new. Unseen. Eyes hidden behind a ceremonial mask. A figure few recognized—because they were never meant to.

But Xavier did not turn.

He didn't need to see the boy to know who he was.

He simply closed his eyes again, the faintest whisper in the dark recesses of his mind:

Let the games begin.