The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The air in the barracks was dry and silent. Not the kind of silence that had peace—but one of order. Disciplined men. Loyal men. War-hardened.

Xavier Aregard stood before a wide war table, staring down at a map of the Aregard Empire. Pins marked deployments and troop movements, some fresh with red wax.

From the Western Front all the way to the northern coasts, most of the imperial legions now answered to him. Not by speech. Not by banners. But through fear, through loyalty to strength, and through necessity.

The death of the Emperor had created a storm. But Xavier did not speak into it. He waited. He watched. And in silence, he made the army his own.

Behind him, General Bront approached quickly, his boots echoing across the marble. "Three more battalions pledged loyalty this morning. Fourth Legion, Sixth Cavalry, and the Skywatchers."

Xavier didn't look up. "And the Silver Mantles?"

"Holding out. They request a public endorsement before moving."

"They'll come. Or be destroyed." Xavier tapped the northern edge of the map. "Send word to have their supply routes watched. Nothing moves in or out."

"Yes, Your Highness."

General Bront hesitated. Xavier noticed.

"Speak."

The general cleared his throat. "With respect, Your Highness, your silence has kept us strong. But not all enemies move by force. Maximus… twists from the shadows. Whispers. Gold. Threats. Minds."

Xavier's eyes narrowed slightly. "Which is why I remain quiet."

He turned from the map, gaze hard as iron. He moved to the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. Below, soldiers trained in perfect formation. Arrows loosed. Shields slammed. Not a single wasted movement.

"My brother rules through manipulation," Xavier continued. "But his whispers mean little when the walls around him are manned by those sworn to me."

Bront gave a short nod but did not leave. He waited again. Then carefully asked, "What of your sister?"

Xavier didn't blink. "What about her?"

Bront looked down. "Spymaster reports… she is still held in the East Wing. Under Maximus' personal watch."

"I know."

"He—he tortures her. Daily. Extracting information."

Xavier's jaw tightened, but only for a moment.

"For information on the Solaris prince's whereabouts," Xavier said plainly. "You were there, Bront. You saw him. That boy stood before us, with power we did not understand, claimed to be a god, and said he could make worthless men gods like him."

His voice didn't rise. It was factual. Cold. Heavy with meaning.

"He is the most dangerous thing to both my rule and Maximus's. And Maximus knows it."

Bront's face twisted slightly. "But… to leave your sister—Princess Iris—at his mercy? What if she breaks? What if she—"

"She won't," Xavier said.

Silence again.

"And if she does," he added, "she's already dead."

Bront flinched.

"Iris knew what she was doing when she chose that path. She chose ambition. And risk. And secrecy. Like all of us."

The general's voice grew softer. "But is it wise to leave the search to Maximus? What if… the Solaris prince submits to him?"

"He won't," Xavier replied. "Maximus saw it, same as I did. That prince cannot be controlled. If Maximus finds him, it will be to eliminate him. Nothing more."

"And you believe he might already be dead?"

"I hope so."

That last statement hung in the air like a quiet prayer.

But hope was never a strategy. Xavier had learned that long ago on battlefields far from the marble of the Imperial City.

---

Two floors below, in a sealed chamber of stone and rune, another meeting unfolded in private.

Xavier's most trusted lieutenants gathered—generals, quartermasters, and a few select mages. Maps and scrolls littered the obsidian table.

One commander leaned forward. "We control seventy percent of the legions now. But Maximus still has the southern intelligence core. The Gold Whisperers. The coin networks. The mouth of the capital. With the nobles slowly shifting to his side—"

"They're shifting because they fear their secrets exposed," someone muttered.

"And some of them have secrets," added another.

A soft knock at the door.

Bront returned, closing it quietly behind him. "The latest report from the palace."

He dropped a small folder onto the table.

"Maximus has begun purging minor lords who supported the Emperor's death decree. Publicly accusing them of treason. Quiet executions. The people are being told it's for the empire's 'moral renewal.'"

"The bastard turns blood into politics," growled a commander.

Xavier walked in. The room silenced. He didn't speak for several moments. He simply walked to the map. Looked at the capital.

"Maximus has made his move," he finally said. "He wants the court to accept his hand before the imperial succession is even declared."

"Will you challenge him openly?" one of the mages asked.

"No."

The commanders looked at one another.

Xavier looked back. "We wait."

"Wait? For what? The court is being reshaped!"

"I said wait." Xavier's voice was flat. Hard.

"We don't play his game. We build pressure where he cannot see it. We make every noble who sides with him fear the army behind them. We remind the common people of the wars I've won. The cities I rebuilt. The taxes I lowered."

He looked toward the window. Lightning crackled somewhere in the distance.

"Then… when the throne is truly up for claim—we come for it with a sword too heavy for whispers to cut."

---

Elsewhere, in the sprawling halls of the imperial palace, Maximus tightened his grip.

But on the rooftops far above, cloaked in wind and shadow, another figure stood alone.

The Imperial City was below him like a breathing thing. Lights flickered in every district. Floating bridges stretched between towers. Music and menace both drifted through the air.

Lanard Solaris stood upon a forgotten cathedral spire, his black cloak fluttering like a banner of rebellion. His eyes, pale grey, stared down into the storm-lit depths of the capital.

He didn't speak. But his presence carried weight. A weight that neither Xavier nor Maximus yet understood fully.

He was here.

Alive.

Watching.