The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Northern winds howled through the frozen treetops, rattling the charms and talismans that hid their forest refuge from prying eyes.

Snow crunched under Lan's boots as he strode into the shadowed clearing, Iris cradled in his arms. Her dark hair spilled over his forearm, streaks of white glinting faintly in the moonlight.

She weighed almost nothing now—her body a fragile remnant of the force she had been.

The guards at the entrance stepped aside without a word.

Lan moved quickly down the narrow passage into the stone heart of their hideout. The air was warmer here, carrying the scent of burning herbs and dried blood. The flicker of oil lamps threw long, shivering shadows across carved walls.

Seraphine was already waiting.

She stood beside a broad stone platform, its surface layered with soft fur and pale linen. Her golden hair was bound in a braid that fell over one shoulder, her once beautiful blue eyes wrapped covered by the white cloth.

Lan laid Iris down gently.

Seraphine's hand hovered above the princess's face, then brushed lightly against her cheek. Her fingers came away slick with cold sweat.

"You poor thing…" she murmured, voice heavy with something between pity and quiet anger.

Her eyes lifted to Lan. "I'll do everything I can. But expect the worse."

Lan gave a single, measured nod. "Do it."

He turned on his heel and left, the echo of his boots fading into the corridor.

---

The war room was nothing more than a hollowed cavern lined with maps, charcoal diagrams, and racks of weapons. Venom was leaning against the table, arms crossed, his jagged scar catching the lamplight.

Bragg stood beside him, a slab of muscle and chainmail. Miller stood in silence near the entrance, his expression unreadable as always.

"They're ready," Venom said without preamble. "Every one of our men is armed and waiting. The Assasult groups are sharpening their blades and the hunters have stocked enough arrows for three sieges."

Lan stepped up to the table. "Good. Then we begin."

The map before them was a hand-sketched outline of the Solaris Kingdom's northern border. Black lines marked trade routes, crimson smears showed the enemy's nearest garrisons.

Lan's pale grey eyes swept over it once, twice, committing every inch to memory.

"We push south in three stages," Lan said. "Stage one is shock and devastation. We strike every supply line and burn every outpost within a day's ride. The goal is chaos—no time for them to regroup, no space to breathe."

Venom grinned, cruel and eager. "Slaughter first, questions later. I like it."

Bragg rumbled, "We'll have to deal with the border forts. Heavy garrisons."

Lan tapped the map. "The forts stay… for now. We bypass them on the first night, hit the farms and towns behind them. Let the forts starve and panic before we return to crush them."

Miller finally spoke, his voice flat as stone.

"They'll send riders to the capital. We need to cut their messengers."

Lan gave him a sharp look of approval.

"Traps and Garran's riders will handle that. No warnings will reach Solaris before we're ready."

For an hour, they built the skeleton of war—routes marked in ink, fallback points drawn like scars across the map. Lan's mind moved faster than the pen could follow. He saw the enemy's movements before they made them, saw the towns burning, saw the garrisons cut down to the last man.

When they were finished, the strategy was simple, brutal, and absolute.

"This is stage one," Lan said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "No prisoners. Whatever stands in our way… is erased."

The others nodded. None of them asked if he was certain.

---

Night deepened over the forest, the moon reduced to a silver sliver above the treetops. Lan was studying the map again when a voice called from the corridor.

"Lan."

It was Seraphine.

Her tone was different—too direct, too stripped of her usual calm. Lan left the war table and followed her down the narrow, lamplit hall to the chamber where Iris lay.

The air here was colder. Iris's breathing was shallow, her chest barely moving beneath the linen sheets. Her skin had lost what little color it once had, and her lips were pale, cracked.

Seraphine stood at the foot of the platform, hands clasped tightly before her. She didn't soften her words.

"She's going to die."

Lan's eyes had no flinch.

"She has too many broken bones," Seraphine continued, each word deliberate. "Almost every organ has failed. Her mana core is gone—shattered. The only reason she's still here is because someone's been forcing advanced healing magic into her body to delay the inevitable. Without it, she would have been gone long ago."

Lan stepped closer, the lamplight glinting off his eyes.

"How long does she have left?"

"A day. Maybe less."

Silence settled between them. The only sound was the faint whistle of Iris's breath.

Lan moved to her side. He stood there for a long moment, looking down at her. Her face was strangely peaceful now, free of the pain that must have plagued her in those last moments of consciousness.

He thought of their first meeting—the fire in her eyes, the venom in her words. A princess, clawing for her place in a world that decided she must settle.

Now she was just… still.

Lan exhaled slowly, the sound almost a sigh. "I guess there is nothing else left to do…"

His hand rose. A blade of blood took shape in his palm, forming with a low hiss as if the air recoiled. The crimson edge shimmered under the lamplight, casting a faint red glow over her still form.

He tightened his grip, the weapon warm in his hand.

No hesitation. No faltering.

In a single, precise motion, Lan drove the blade down—

—and it pierced her heart.

The chamber seemed to inhale and hold its breath. The sound of the strike was soft, almost tender.

And then there was nothing.

Her breath gone.