The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The moment Maximus entered the Grand Hall, the air seemed to hold.

He walked without pageantry. No vanguard of banners. No heralds trumpeting his name. He wore a robe of deep black, trimmed not in gold but a flat steel-gray, like the edge of a whetted blade.

Each step was deliberate, echoing like a ticking clock through the marbled vastness.

The courtiers parted for him not out of reverence, but instinct—like leaves fleeing from the path of a shadow they did not see coming.

Maximus did not look to either side as he ascended the central dais. He did not pause at the foot of his throne. He simply sat, the high-backed seat of black crystal swallowing him like a sword returning to its sheath.

It was only then that the others noticed: the silence had already begun.

A heartbeat later, the true silence came.

The First Priest rose.

He did not raise his voice. He did not have to.

"Silence."

It struck like a spell. No court mage moved. No servant dared breathe. Even the torches along the vaulted walls burned smaller, more reverent.

The First Priest of the Empire—hooded, faceless, robed in white and wound in gold thread—stepped forward from behind the Ritual Throne. His voice came not from his lips, but from the stones of the Assembly Hall. It resonated in bones.

"This assembly is a sacred gathering of the highest order," he began, "the first steps toward the decision of a new ruler for the great Aregard Empire."

No one blinked.

"For some, this may be your first time attending this Assembly..." he glanced toward the nobles of the northern border, their cheeks still flushed from travel, "...and for others, perhaps your last."

The First Priest paced, not hurriedly, but like a pendulum—swinging through fate itself.

"Our Emperor, Valerius Aregard—great as he is—is slowly succumbing to his mortality. We pray the gods extend his years. Yet all know... the inevitable falls upon us all. One way or another."

The words landed like tombstones.

"So we gather," he continued, lifting a hand.

From it rose a golden book, humming softly with divine resonance. Its pages turned not by wind but by will.

"In preparation. In preparation for who may next don that crown, sit upon that Ritual Throne, and lead our Empire into a new age."

The book opened. Its pages flickered with light.

"To those unfamiliar with the Rites of Assembly," he said, "the process is simple. For each contender to the throne, their relevant supporters shall make themselves known. Each will state the reason for their allegiance, and what significance their support brings. It is not mere loyalty we seek, but the weight of their offerings. The strength of their voice. The cost of their oath."

He closed the book. Its glow dimmed.

"Any such words, claims, or truths may be challenged. Even the speaker themselves may be called into question. This is sacred law."

A pause.

"No blade shall be drawn within these walls."

Then, quietly, as though whispering to gods only he could see—

"And yet blood... is the most significant offering we can give to the gods who watch us."

Something in the room exhaled. Cold.

With the formalities done, the First Priest turned to the three thrones, set like constellation points before the Ritual Throne.

Each was carved from a different material.

The first, black and spined with gold, for Xavier Aregard.

The second, obsidian-veined and encircled in broken chains, for Maximus Aregard.

And the third—untouched, unlabeled, and clearly newer—was hers.

A throne made of ghoststeel and bloodwood.

"I now speak the names of the contenders," the First Priest intoned. "He who commands the armies and bends war to his will: Xavier Aregard. He who commands the shadows and bends nations without sword or flame: Maximus Aregard. She who bears no blessing but ambition, and walks the thorned road alone: Iris Aregard."

The naming alone felt like judgment.

And then, as if striking a gong—

"We begin… with Xavier Aregard."

There was no fanfare or loud proclamation.

Only the sound of armored boots against polished stone.

A man stepped forward.

Broad, sun-scarred, and covered in the red-and-gold mantle of the eastern command. His breastplate bore the claw mark of a Drake Lord, and his eyes were bright with battlefield zeal.

High Marshal Ulric Ventras.

A legend in his own right. Victor of the Varnhold Campaign. Slayer of the Bone Choir.

He walked as though already convinced of victory.

Facing the Assembly, he bowed—not low, but precisely—and spoke.

"I am Ulric Ventras, High Marshal of the Eastern Legions. My allegiance lies with Xavier Aregard, not entirely because of blood, but because of clarity."

His voice was iron, rough and commanding.

"In the years since the Wars of Collapse, only one has turned defeat into victory. Only one has restored shattered legions, reclaimed the Black Marches, and brought peace to a continent that knows none. That man is Xavier."

Murmurs stirred in the crowd. Nobles exchanged glances. Priests observed with narrowed eyes.

Ulric continued.

"Power must reside with the one who can wield it without compromise. Who speaks not in riddles but in orders. Who sees enemies not as shadows in court, but as armies at the gates."

He turned, slowly, and met the eyes of every seated noble.

"I bring with me the loyalty of thirty-three High Officers. Four legions, sworn by name and blood. And a vow from the eastern satraps to back Xavier with coin and steel."

The weight of that declaration was seismic.

Four legions.

That alone could tip a war, let alone an election.

"I speak not through ideas," Ulric finished, "but reality. The Empire cannot afford philosophy. It needs command. And Xavier Aregard is command in flesh."

He stepped back.

The silence that followed was not imposed. It simply was.

The First Priest raised a hand. His voice, again, echoed.

"Let the offering be acknowledged."

A faint pulse of gold shimmered across the Ritual Throne, as though the gods themselves had tasted the name.

Then—

"Let the next supporter rise."

From the shadows of the hall stepped a figure in a white robe, face veiled, bearing a staff of mirrorstone.

When she spoke, her voice was soft—but beneath it was something vast.

"I speak for Xavier," she said, "as the Voice of the South Temple. We have seen the flames in the bones of the future. And he… he is the flame that does not flicker."

The hall was still.

As her words drifted, a third figure began walking forward—this time a nobleman draped in silver rings and crimson silks, the Chancellor of the Merchant Guilds.

He, too, bowed.

"I offer Xavier the purse of the southern vaults," he said. "And the gates to all seven trade roads. Coin is the lifeblood of empire. He will have ours."

And so it began.

One by one, like pieces falling into place, the supporters of Xavier Aregard stepped forward.

Knights with dragonbone spears.

Warlords who carved their names into the Dust Sea.

Scholars who swore by prophecy.

Merchants who pledged entire fleets.

It became clear, swiftly, that Xavier had not come merely as a man.

He had come as a storm.

And behind him, an empire of steel.

When the last of his supporters stepped back into silence, the First Priest lifted the golden book once more.

"Let all here acknowledge the offerings."

Again, that ripple of divine gold across the Ritual Throne.

And then—

"We proceed."

The Priest's gaze shifted to the darkened seat of chains and shadow.

"Let the supporters of Maximus Aregard now come forth."