The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The silence after Lan's command was short-lived.

The tent shattered.

Like a dam ruptured from within, the concussive wave of raw Spiritual Will erupted outward—crushing, grinding, suffocating.

The air had turned to lead. Screams tore through the night as half the soldiers in the tent continues to drop like cut marionettes, limbs spasming, weapons falling from nerveless fingers.

Men clutched at their skulls, bleeding from ears, mouths, eyes. A captain tried to cast a spell—his sigil burst in his hand with a wet pop. Another simply fell, eyes rolled back, choking on his own breath.

The survivors—those who remained upright—were the hardened few. The elite. Captains with blood on their hands, mages wrapped in glowing runes, knights bearing the banners of Solaris with pride stitched into their cloaks.

But even they shook.

Prince Kain, youngest of Lan's three brothers, stepped forward, his crimson cloak soaked from spilled wine. His hand trembled as it gripped his sword, and his voice broke the tense stillness.

"S-stand your ground! He's alone! Hold the line!"

No one moved.

Lanard walked forward with measured steps, each crunch of snow and ash beneath his boots like a war drum.

The Devil's Lie hung from his right hand, its rusted blade dragging a ragged scar across the earth. It hissed, faintly, as though tasting the scent of blood already in the air.

He only walked—and it was like the air shifted with him.

The first wave came. Soldiers who had seen war, who had bled for the throne. Third Circle mages conjured lances of stone, fire, and light. Knights in steel surged with practiced formation, blades out.

Lan moved with quiet and yet devastating precision.

A downward parry disarmed the first. A pivot brought him behind another. His blade pierced between ribs without resistance, slid out clean. A feint to the right, a slash left—arteries opened, a man staggered, gurgling.

There was not a trace of anger in Lan's face.

Just focus.

The next trio lunged—one from behind, two in front. Lan stepped back once, then turned, shifting his grip—and buried Devil's Lie in the stomach of the rear attacker before spinning and slashing through the side of the leftmost knight.

Blood sprayed like mist.

Still they charged.

Lan vanished.

[Dark Step.]

One heartbeat, he was gone. The next, he materialized behind a group mid-swing. They didn't even have time to scream. His sword carved through them—necks, torsos, legs cleaved apart. Steel met flesh, and flesh gave way like paper. One knight spun wildly, trying to block—and lost his arm at the shoulder.

Before he landed, Lan flared his Qi.

His palm opened. Fingers danced with red light.

Qi Blades.

Dozens. Hundreds. Each a razor-sharp crimson crescent, shaped from his own essence.

They ripped through the air.

A shield shattered. A mage screamed as his barrier collapsed. Men fell, gasping, bleeding from new holes they didn't have a moment before.

A fire wall burst into life ahead—bright, roaring, trying to trap him.

Lan stepped forward.

Placed his hand against the flame.

[Severance Touch]

The fire collapsed inward like it had been swallowed by the void. Not extinguished—devoured. Panic took hold. One soldier dropped his spear and ran.

Another followed.

But still, the commanders pressed forward. Kain shouted again, louder, voice cracking with both desperation and defiance.

"Hold him! Circle around!"

And then—the final wave came.

Kain himself, face twisted in fury, charged with his sword raised.

Beside him: Two elite Solaris commanders. One a mage-knight with a glowing gauntlet; the other a brute wielding a hammer that cracked the earth with each step.

They came together. Three against one.

Lan met them.

The mage-knight lunged with a lightning-infused jab—Lan slipped under it, blade rising. Sparks met steel. The hammer came down with a thunderclap—Lan rolled, countering with a rising cut that opened the brute's thigh.

Then Kain was there.

Their swords clashed.

Unlike the others, Kain had trained. He was fast. Precise. And he knew Lan's style—he'd thought he did, afterall it was the same Solaris swordsmanship they had all learned?

Wrong.

Their blades danced in the ruined tent, steel against steel, each blow ringing like a funeral bell.

Lan retreated two steps.

Then three.

Blood leaked from a shallow cut on his arm. For a moment, it looked even. Then Lan exhaled.

He whispered a single word.

[Sword Intent.]

The world shifted. The air split open.

He swung once. Just once.

A wide arc of pressure, invisible but felt. It didn't shimmer or shine—it tore.

The wave burst forward like a judgment.

Ten men died instantly. Limbs gone. Chests opened. One was sliced clean in half, a look of confusion frozen on his face.

A marble support pillar at the rear of the tent cracked, then shattered. Kain was flung backward, crashing into a wooden table with a grunt, coughing blood.

Silence again.

Lan stood amid the carnage, blood dripping from his sword. His breathing slow. Controlled.

Kain groaned, pushing himself up. His armor was dented, his left arm broken. But he rose, dragging himself upright.

He stared at Lan with hatred, desperation, and disbelief.

"You... you always envied me," he spat. "You wanted our respect. But you were never one of us."

Lan walked forward.

His voice was soft.

"No," he said. "I was always better."

He thrust the Devil's Lie forward, driving it through Kain's chest. The blade pierced clean. No scream. Only a gasp.

The sword glowed—a black-red hum, low and cold. Like it was feeding.

Lan didn't look at him as he fell.

He turned.

The rest of the tent was ruined. Half-burned banners. Collapsed beams. Blood pooled like wine. Kael, the Crown Prince, had been standing now, sword drawn. His golden armor gleamed with light-infused enchantments.

Beside him, Second Prince Zerak had already activated a ward—a shimmering web of glassy runes dancing around his body like a spider's cocoon.

And the king remained seated.

A constant.

King Aldric Solaris.

His crown gone, his robes fluttering, but his gaze still sharp with that same cold, imperious steel that had condemned Lan to exile.

"You've made your choice," the king said, with a calmness that belittled the death of one of his sons.

Lan didn't respond.

Kael raised his sword. "You are no longer a prince of Solaris. You are no longer family."

Lan lowered Devil's Lie to his side.

"I never was," he said.

The wind picked up outside, snow swirling through the torn seams of the tent like spirits come to watch.

And still Lan stood.

Alone.

But yet to be truly challenged.