The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The new debate was reaching its fourth hour.

Inside the Assembly Hall, words rang louder, and tension clung to every breath.

The seats of the noble houses were occupied now, some with entire families, others by proxies or favored champions.

Xavier's faction was blunt, their speeches sharpened like war blades. Maximus's side, in contrast, wielded subtlety—legalese, historical precedent, whispered obligations cloaked as reason.

It was politics at its most brutal.

Lan watched from the shadows of the upper balcony. Hooded, in a black-trimmed cloak, he passed easily for another minor heir or bored spectator. No one paid him any mind.

Good.

He could feel the currents shifting. The hall felt like a storm about to break—just thunderclouds now, but soon, something would crash through.

Below, a gray-bearded noble rose to speak. Baron Helquist of Eastvale, a longtime supporter of Xavier.

Now speaking after he had Challenged one of Maximus's support.

"We support Crown Prince Xavier not merely because he is the strongest mage of his generation, not because of military feats alone—but because this Empire cannot be led by secrets and shadows," Helquist intoned. "We need strength. Clarity. Not whispers in dark corners."

It was a dig at Maximus, of course.

The crowd rippled. Some nodded, others leaned toward each other in private murmurs.

Lan tilted his head slightly. His eyes, calm and calculating, flicked over the other faction. Maximus hadn't responded yet—but he would.

That man never let a blade swing without planting three more in return.

And right on cue, a slim, young noblewoman rose on Maximus's side.

"If strength alone decided our fates, the Empire would be ruled by beasts, not men. Intelligence is what sustains us. Strategy. Legacy."

She was good. Prepared. But she spoke like a trained falcon—precise, yet restrained.

Lan's fingers twitched slightly at his side.

And then—

[Quest Available]

A quiet shimmer in his vision. A panel, flickering like heat haze in his mind's eye.

---

[Side Quest: Thread the Divide]

Objective: Challenge the current arguments presented by both the Crown Prince Xavier and Prince Maximus's factions. Sow doubt, demand truth. The Assembly must hear another voice. Your voice.

Reward: [Blood Domain Arts: First Vein – Heir of Flowing Death]

Time Limit: Until the Assembly bell tolls.

Note: Upon acceptance, all strategic knowledge and faction secrets relevant to the current political field will be made available to the Host.

Accept Quest?

[Y/N]

---

Lan's pulse slowed.

Blood Domain Arts.

That was more than a technique. It was ancient. Forbidden by the righteous sects in his last world, misunderstood by most.

The Heir of Flowing Death was one of the legendary veins—rumored to give its wielder dominance over the battlefield like a god wading through crimson seas.

He frowned. This was no light Reward.

He glanced around the chamber again.

If he accepted the quest, the System would hand him the keys to destroy their masks.

But he would be heard.

And remembered.

Lan remained still. The storm of voices continued below—speeches rising, accusations flying. A shout. A rebuttal. Half the room clapped. The other half hissed.

He had been hiding well. Carefully. Patiently.

But gods… the Blood Domain Arts.

His breath was calm.

He whispered beneath it.

"…Accept."

A single word. Maybe a mistake.

---

The change was instant. Not external—he didn't glow or shift—but the inside of his mind bloomed. Information filled him like fire pouring into a frozen lake.

He saw corruption—evidence of Maximus's bribery of three judges in the Northern Isles, Xavier's intimidation of neutral houses by dispatching "war training drills" suspiciously close to their lands.

He saw it all. Names. Ledgers. Transcripts.

[Evidence Has Been Added To Your Subspace. ]

A secret tunnel from the southern marshes to the Emperor's own district, used by a certain merchant noble who loudly proclaimed neutrality but funneled gold to Maximus's treasury.

He nearly laughed.

He looked down at his hands. Still. Steady.

He stood.

And he walked.

There was a narrow stair at the back of the Assembly balcony, meant for servants and messengers. No one paid him any mind as he descended. Not yet.

The hall was roaring now. Xavier's right hand, a knight known as Varnel, was calling Maximus a "rat in the shape of a man." Someone else demanded the floor.

And then—

A voice. Not loud. But calm.

"I have a question."

It cut through the noise. Sound that was nothing if not precise.

Heads turned.

A man stepped forward from the crowd. He wore a black mask, lacquered and smooth, no insignia. His cloak bore no house crest. Just simple, dark fabric trimmed in silver.

"I couldn't help but notice," the masked man continued, "You've all done nothing but go on about loyalty. Strength. Legacy. And still not a sliver of honesty can be found amongst you."

A pause.

The air shifted.

"Truth," he said, "is not loyal. It simply is."

A few nobles frowned. Others looked intrigued. Maximus raised one dark eyebrow. Xavier's fingers stilled on the arm of his throne.

"I ask," the masked man said, "do you support Maximus because of strategy? Or because you've invested so deeply in his hidden network that abandoning him would collapse your entire financial existence?"

Murmurs broke out instantly.

The masked man's voice didn't rise. It didn't have to, he spoke with profound clarity.

"To House Velnar, how much gold would you lose if Maximus's banking proxies are exposed?"

The Velnar representative jolted as if slapped.

"And Lady Maestra—how much did your daughter's legal troubles disappear after your last donation to Maximus's cause? Would you still call it loyalty, or is it debt?"

Gasps now.

Several turned toward Maximus's side, faces pale. A few stood abruptly.

Maximus himself remained seated. Still. Watching.

Lan—the masked man—tilted his head just slightly. Not smug or angry.

Just calm.

"Now… I wonder," he said, "how many of you here support Xavier out of faith in his strength—or out of fear of what he might do to your border towns if you don't?"

He raised a single hand.

From his subspace and then the folds of his cloak, a scroll unfurled and floated forward with a flick of spiritual will. It hovered above the crowd, ink burning bright:

"Training Exercises: Northern Sweep Order."

Signed by General Varnel. Target Zones: Near House Ulricht, House Felwan, and House Narg—All Declared Neutral."

There was no denying the stamp.

Whispers became shouts.

"Impossible—!"

"That's a forgery—!"

"We never—!"

From the Imperial dais, a slow, measured knock echoed. The First Priest scepter tapped once. Silence rippled out like shockwaves.

The masked man gave a glance at the supporters.

"I ask again," he said, his voice echoing like a ghost. "Is your loyalty to the Empire, or to your own survival?"

No one answered.