The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The sky split with flame and snow as the battlefield unfolded.

The tent had long since collapsed, torn apart by a tide of fear and soul pressure. What remained was the open northern field, ringed with burning wagons and scattered corpses, soldiers slipping on frost and blood as they fled the center of the storm.

And in the middle of it all, King Aldric still sat unmoving.

He was still as a carved statue atop his war chair—its frame shaped of black steel and wolfbone. His red-gold armor gleamed, impossibly clean, the lion crest of Solaris burning like a brand across his chest.

His crown was no diadem but a circlet of jagged crimson ore forged in dragon flame, worn low on his brow. He watched with the gaze of a god-king.

Detached. Absolute. Waiting.

Two figures stepped forward from his sides.

Kael Solaris, First Prince—shoulders wide, cloak billowing, flame coiling at his feet. His power was palpable. His breakthrough to the Sixth Circle had not only been recent—it had been loud. He was proud of it. Owned it like a crown of his own making.

Beside him moved Zerak Solaris, the Second Prince—taller, leaner, no less dangerous. His coat was stitched with runes of precision and restraint. Crystal shards orbited him in a perfect ring, each one etched with silver glyphs that hummed softly.

His magic was silent. Measured. Cold.

Between them stood Lan. Blood still wet on his blade. Ash rising from his shoulders. Snow melting beneath his feet.

His pale grey eyes didn't blink as Kael stepped onto the field. The air rippled—Kael's presence was overwhelming, fire-heavy, the scent of sulfur and scorched steel pouring off him.

"You killed Kain," Kael said simply.

Lan tilted his head. "Yes."

Kael didn't roar in devastation or scream in grief. He walked forward, cracking his knuckles, flames blooming at his forearms.

"Then I'll return the favor. Slowly."

That's when Lan realized, this worthless excuse of a family never cared for each other.

Zerak raised a single finger, and the crystal blades behind him began to spin.

No more words. The storm broke.

Kael moved first, a flaming fist tearing through the snow with a thunderclap. The shockwave blew debris into the air, turning the battlefield into a whirl of heat and frost.

Lan ducked, Dark Step instant beneath his feet—he vanished in a blur of black wind, reappearing behind Kael. But Kael had anticipated it—his elbow shot back, catching Lan in the ribs with a gout of fire.

Lan grunted as he skidded across the snow, boots slicing deep grooves into the ice. His robes smoldered. His lip bled.

Then Zerak struck.

The floating crystal blades came down in waves—first one, then three, then all seven, darting with impossible angles. Lan pivoted and weaved, ducking beneath one, parrying another with Devil's Lie. Sparks flew. Runes ignited. The rhythm was tight, suffocating.

He was being boxed in.

Zerak's control was near-flawless—each blade moved in concert, predicting where Lan would dodge next. And Kael was relentless, punching through the gaps in timing with volcanic fists. The combination was merciless—raw power and flawless form.

Lan Dark Stepped again, this time barely avoiding a spell that turned a patch of snow into molten slag. He landed hard, knees bent.

Blood leaked from a burn on his shoulder.

He was being overwhelmed.

But his face didn't waver.

Lan exhaled.

His Spiritual Will surged again, cracking across the battlefield like thunder. Soldiers in the distance collapsed to their knees. The air thickened—so heavy it dulled breath and mind alike.

Zerak's next spell faltered, one of his crystal blades flickering.

Lan didn't hesitate.

He twisted his wrist, and the rusted edge of Devil's Lie shimmered with crimson light.

Qi Blades exploded from the sword—hundreds of red slivers, each one thin as a hair and sharp as glass, shot out in a storm. They sliced through snow, air, even fire.

Kael leapt back, throwing up a flame wall. Zerak conjured a crystalline barrier, but it cracked under the barrage.

Lan stepped forward.

He used Sword Intent—his blade moved not just with technique but with command. The slashes were wide, elegant arcs that radiated pressure. Even those who weren't struck still felt the urge to kneel.

Zerak raised his hand to recalibrate the spinning formation of his blades—but Lan Dark Stepped again.

This time above Kael.

He descended like a shadow, Devil's Lie coming down with all the weight of fury and inevitability.

Kael crossed his arms to block—and Zerak, quick as ever, threw up a conjured shield of overlapping runes.

The blade struck. The shield held.

Just barely.

The ground shattered beneath them from the force.

"You think a rusty sword and some parlor tricks make you our equal?" Kael spat, heat curling around his voice.

Lan's reply came in a whisper.

"No fucker. It makes me your end."

He moved before the words had fully left his lips.

This time, he didn't hold back.

He focused every strand of his Spiritual Will on Zerak—pushing with the force of a crushing mind. Zerak's face twisted as he resisted, the control over his blades fraying. His movements slowed by a fraction.

Enough.

Lan flicked two fingers. Severance Touch flowed through Devil's Lie. He targeted the core rune of one of the floating blades.

The moment his Qi touched it, the rune burst.

The blade detonated, sending shards of glowing crystal into Zerak's chest and shoulder. The prince reeled, blood spraying.

Lan stepped forward.

One thrust.

Devil's Lie plunged through Zerak's stomach. The blade hissed, a black-red pulse coursing through its rusted length.

Zerak gasped.

Rot spread from the wound—his veins blackening, his skin warping as the cursed hunger of the sword fed on him.

He screamed. And then collapsed.

The crystal blades fell from the air like broken stars. Kael's roar shook the snowdrifts. He charged, fury ignited—his fists became meteors, fire and rage and grief all at once.

But before he reached Lan—

A sound stopped him.

A step.

A voice.

The king had risen.

King Aldric Solaris stepped from his war chair.

And the battlefield bent to him.

The frost beneath his boots hissed and melted. The very air withdrew, recoiling from the pressure of his presence. He did not glow, did not shout, did not even summon spells.

He simply existed.

And that seemed terrifying enough.

He looked not at Kael. Not at Zerak's corpse. Only at Lan.

"Enough of this play," he said.

His voice was thunder obscured in stillness. Cold. Measured. Final.

Lan stood tall, blood running down his arm.

He looked at the king who had once called him a disgrace. The man who had watched him suffer in silence. Who had never lifted a hand when the court spat his name in disgust.

His voice was soft.

"Why, father? We just begun."