The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The wind died.

The battlefield, once howling with fire and screams, turned still. Even the falling snow hesitated, caught in a suspended breath.

Now Aldric had stepped down.

The red-gold plates of his armor shimmered, carved with sigils so old they pulsed with language older than the kingdom.

His black cloak flared behind him, untouched by the snow, writhing like a banner of flame. His eyes—cold and burning—swept over the ruined field once more.

Over Zerak's corpse. Over Kael, wounded but standing.

And then they landed on Lan again. He didn't reply him.

A golden aura erupted from his body. The snow evaporated in a wide ring around him, revealing the cracked earth beneath. Even the embers of burning wagons dimmed in his presence.

Lan exhaled, breath misting. His ribs ached. His arm hung lower than it should. Blood had dried at the corner of his lips, but more was waiting.

Devil's Lie trembled in his grip. Not in fear—but raging hunger. Still, when the king raised his hand, he did not draw a weapon.

He didn't need one.

The space bent instead.

A sudden, thunderous crack echoed through the open plain as gravity twisted downward, collapsing the very air around Lan.

His knees buckled.

It was like standing at the bottom of an ocean made of stone. The pressure bore down from every direction—his joints popped, his vision whitened at the edges.

His Qi Shield screamed in protest, flickering, nearly failing.

Lan grit his teeth and stepped—Dark Step. His figure blurred, vanishing just as the space he'd stood in cratered violently, a concussive blast flattening the snow in a ten-meter ring.

He reappeared on the left—only for a second wave of crushing force to slam into him from above.

Dark Step.

Again.

Again.

Each time, he blinked a meter away, another meter, weaving through an invisible labyrinth of gravity snares that were warping the field. His bones screamed with every teleport.

From behind the king, Kael moved like a hound let loose. His wounds bled through scorched armor, but his rage had only sharpened.

He raised both hands.

Molten mana twisted into the form of burning spears.

"Die, worm!"

Kael hurled them—four javelins of condensed flame, screaming as they tore through the air.

Lan didn't block.

He stepped again, appearing behind Kael, slashing for the tendons at the back of his knee. Kael twisted at the last second, catching the strike on his shoulder armor.

CLANG!

The impact forced Lan back. He skid across snow and ash, then caught himself and drew Devil's Lie low.

"Your tricks are growing thin," Kael growled, aura flaring again.

Then the king moved.

No casting. No chant. Just presence.

Flames erupted from the ground around Lan, twisting into a dome—a furnace of pressure and heat. He barely managed to whisper: "Severance Touch."

The moment his palm brushed the flame, it collapsed in on itself—snuffed like a dying breath. But the air was already heavy again, warping.

Aldric raised his hand again. The gravity returned.

Lan dropped to one knee this time. His breath caught. He felt something in his shoulder tear.

"You were born weak," the king's voice came like rolling thunder, "and weakness does not simple dissappear."

Lan forced himself up, Qi flaring to hold his frame steady.

"Yes," he coughed, "That's why your idiot sons are dead and bleeding."

The words stung more than the sword. Aldric's eyes narrowed.

He clenched his fist.

A sphere of compressed flame, the size of a boulder, formed above Lan—spinning with gravitational pull so dense the very snow fled its path.

Lan moved. Fast.

But not fast enough.

The sphere dropped.

BOOOOM.

Lan rolled to the side, Devil's Lie raised—but the blast caught his back, sending him tumbling across the ground. He coughed violently as he slammed into a ruined wagon, ribs crunching against the wood. His robe was smoking. His skin blistered.

But he rose again.

Kael was already on him, sword drawn now—flame laced along its edge.

Their blades clashed once, twice—each blow sent sparks flying. Kael was brute strength and rage. Lan, all timing and precision.

On the third exchange, Lan dropped low and sent a Qi Blade straight into Kael's side.

Blood burst from the prince's armor. He staggered back, snarling.

Lan didn't press.

He couldn't.

The king advanced again, walking slowly—methodically. The snow beneath each step melted. The air crackled. The battlefield—the very land—feared him.

And Lan could feel himself fading.

He bled. His Qi was frayed. Even his sword felt heavier now.

But when the soldiers near the edge of the field tried to step in—when one brave soul from the Solaris vanguard raised his spear—Lan turned his gaze.

His eyes blazed black and red.

Spiritual Will surged.

It rippled like thunder through the field. The soldier froze. Then dropped to his knees, clutching his head, blood pouring from his nose.

Even Kael staggered, reeling.

Lan took that moment.

He gathered everything.

He summoned every shred of Qi left in him. His hand trembled. Devil's Lie shimmered.

He unleashed it all.

Qi Blades.

Sword Intent.

Severance Touch.

They screamed from his body—a storm of red light and cutting pressure, swirling like a hurricane of knives. The air itself split, a sonic wail echoing out.

The wave hit the king.

Flames roared in response. The gravity warped again. The storm landed.

A golden shimmer flared.

And then—

The king stood, unmoved.

His cloak was torn slightly at the edge.

A shallow cut smoked along his armored shoulder.

No more.

Lan's shoulders dropped, breathing shallow.

"You're no mage," the king said calmly, stepping forward. "Just a mistake with delusions.""

Then the punch came.

It wasn't fast.

It didn't need to be.

It was absolute.

It caught Lan in the ribs.

A sickening crunch echoed.

Lan flew backward like a ragdoll, slammed into the snow, and didn't rise immediately. His vision doubled. His lungs spasmed. He tasted copper.

From the haze, he saw Kael step forward, sword raised high. A shadow cast over him.

"End him," the prince growled.

Lan tried to move.

But his body didn't listen.

---

Snowflakes began to fall again.

Soft. Silent.

A kingdom watching. Kael raised the blade, its edge still alight. Lan didn't speak. He didn't wince at it.

He looked past Kael.

At the king. And smiled.

To bleed was to survive. To kneel was not to surrender.

And beneath the snow, something old and black began to rise.