The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

King Aldric sat at his desk, the polished oak buried beneath mountains of parchment. Not a single page was neat — all bore the same desperate scrawl, different hands but the same message.

He picked one from the pile.

"The god of the north returns…"

He tossed it aside and picked another.

"Our ships are burning…"

Another still.

"Your son — he slaughters us all…"

The script changed from curling noble hands to the blocky ink of common scribes, but the words remained identical in weight and despair. Even the salutation Your Majesty felt thinner with every letter, as though the writers no longer truly believed the crown could help them.

Aldric set the paper down and exhaled slowly through his nose. The crackle of the fireplace seemed louder in the silence.

It had been over a year since anyone had dared utter "god of the north."

Lanard.

The boy who had left his sight defeated.

Aldric's jaw tightened. He reached for his goblet, drank the wine to the bottom, and rose. The letters could wait; the council could not.

---

The doors to the war council chamber groaned open under the push of the guards. Inside, the long stone table was already ringed with grim faces.

Ministers in embroidered garments whispered to each other; generals in polished breastplates stood with hands behind their backs; the Grand Vizier Orlan, ancient and skeletal, leaned on his staff; Councilor Bryant, thick-bodied and sharp-eyed, tapped his fingers on a map. At the far end, Crown Prince Kael sat upright, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

The room fell silent as Aldric entered.

"Your Majesty," they intoned, bowing.

"Sit," he said.

Orlan cleared his throat first, voice rasping like dry leaves. "Sire, the reports are… consistent. The fourth prince has taken Westerloch in a single night. Their farmlands burn, the duke is dead, and his banners fly in the streets."

Councilor Bryant spoke next, jabbing at the western edge of the kingdom on the map. "Not only Westerloch — scouts say he's using it as a supply artery. Grain is being hauled north into Ranevia by the wagonload."

General Rauth leaned forward, scarred hands gripping the table. "Ranevia was abandoned after the last fight. Now he's using it as a fortress. If we strike quickly with the full might of the army, we can kill him there before he spreads further."

Several ministers murmured agreement.

Bryant added, "The longer we wait, the more ground he'll take. This is not a man who leaves his enemies time to breathe."

The king listened without comment, fingers tapping lightly against the arm of his chair.

Prince Kael's voice cut through the room — calm, but cold. "My brother thrives in open war. You all know it. If you drive an army at him in Ranevia, you're giving him exactly what he wants: a contained killing ground, one he's already prepared."

Bryant frowned. "And if we do nothing, Your Highness? Shall we wait until he knocks on the capital gates?"

Kael met his gaze without flinching. "Better to meet him on ground we choose."

General Rauth growled. "He's outnumbered. A hundred against our ten thousand. Sheer weight will crush him."

"Weight means nothing," Kael said, "if you're walking into a blade."

Orlan raised his staff lightly, silencing the brewing argument. "Your Majesty, what is your will?"

Aldric looked around the table, letting the question hang long enough to make them all uneasy.

"No," he said at last.

The single word drew confusion.

"No?" Bryant repeated.

"No," Aldric said again, his voice heavier this time. "Lanard would not start this war if he could not end it. If we send the full army to Ranevia, he will destroy it — and us with it. His confidence is not bluster. He's measured us, and he believes he can win."

The councilors shifted in their seats. Orlan's eyes narrowed faintly, but he said nothing.

"Our best option," Aldric continued, "is preparation. If he is marching south, then we prepare for him here. We turn the capital into a fortress and make him bleed for every step."

He pointed to the map's heart — the shining city of Solaris itself.

"Recall every squad, every battalion. The border posts, the patrols, the outlying keeps — all return to the capital. We will not scatter our strength."

Then Aldric's tone shifted, and the room seemed to lean in of its own accord.

"Send word," he said, "to that person. Tell him… it's time."

The silence was instant, deep, and sharp-edged. Even the fire in the wall braziers seemed to still.

Orlan's staff creaked in his grasp. Bryant's mouth opened, then closed again. Ministers looked from one to another, unsure if they had heard correctly.

It was Kael who spoke first, his voice suddenly harder. "Father… to use that favor, preserved for a hundred years, on Lanard—"

"—isn't that too much?" finished Bryant, as though unable to contain himself.

Aldric turned his gaze to the Crown Prince, the weight in his eyes making Kael stiffen. "When do you propose we use it? When the kingdom is gone? When this palace burns? When your people's bones lie in the street?"

Kael's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

The king looked away from him, scanning the faces around the table. "That favor has been kept for a century for one reason: to protect the throne when no other shield would hold. That time has come. Send word to him. Now."

No one moved at first. Then Orlan, voice brittle as old glass, said, "As you command, Your Majesty."

The scrape of chairs on stone was loud as the council rose. Generals murmured to aides, ministers began dispatching runners. Bryant's brow furrowed as he whispered to Orlan, but the Grand Vizier only shook his head faintly.

Kael lingered a moment longer, watching his father.

"Do you truly think," he asked quietly, "that even he can stop Lanard?"

Aldric's expression didn't change. "If he can't, then this world is doomed."

Kael studied him for a heartbeat longer, then turned and left with the others.

The king remained alone in the chamber. The map lay spread before him, the black banners of his fourth son marking Westerloch, the grain fields burning in his mind's eye.

Somewhere to the south, Lanard was coming.

And to meet him, Aldric had just awakened a weapon that had slept for a hundred years.