The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Did the chamber shrink?

It felt that way.

The room seemed to convulse around the two men, the glow of torchlight bending against the tension in the air.

The cloaked warrior's hammer beat with golden light, each flare peojecting shadows that made the marble floor look like cracked bone.

Lan stood across from him, dust falling from his dark hair, his pale eyes fixed not on the hammer but on the man wielding it. His lips curled into something caught between amusement and disdain.

The duke swallowed, his jeweled fingers trembling as he clutched the table. For all his bluster, for all his investment, the air pressing from Lan's presence made his triumph feel like glass—fragile, already cracking.

"Come then," Lan said softly, his voice a thread of fabric pulled across steel. "Let's see what a year's revenue buys."

The cloaked man said nothing. He slammed the hammer to the floor, and a golden shockwave burst outward, shaking the banquet table, rattling chandeliers, cracking plates of venison and wine cups.

Lan still did not move.

The golden tide crashed against him, dust rising in swirls around his body, his coat fluttering from the pressure. When the light cleared, he remained untouched, his posture lazy, almost bored.

The warrior's eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. With a grunt, he lunged forward.

The marble floor shattered beneath his steps as he crossed the space in a blink, hammer swinging down with enough force to split the dais in two. It crashed into Lan's chest with the sound of thunder, slamming him back against the far wall. Stone cracked, a spiderweb of fractures spreading like veins across the surface.

The duke's lips twisted in triumph. "Yes! Crush him!"

But when the dust cleared, Lan pushed himself from the wall as if it had been no more than a shove. He rolled his shoulders, his expression unchanging, though his eyes gleamed with something sharp—mockery.

"That all?"

The cloaked figure snarled and swung again, the hammer whistling through the air like a storm of metal. Each strike cracked stone, shook columns, collapsed pieces of the ceiling.

He was fast—too fast for a man wielding such a weapon. His movements were honed, perfect, every strike a killing blow.

And yet—

Lan merely shifted, tilting his head or turning his body the barest fraction. Sometimes he let the blows connect, his chest, his arm, his shoulder taking the brunt of the hammer's light.

Each time the impact would send him sliding across the marble, boots screeching against stone, but he never stumbled. Never broke stance.

Not even once.

The hammer swung down, caught him in the ribs, the golden flare exploding across his side. Lan exhaled softly, like a man unimpressed by wine he'd already tasted. Another strike cracked against his back, and though the floor beneath him shattered, his expression never changed.

The duke leaned forward, confusion creeping into his glee. "Why… why doesn't he fall?"

Miller, seated at the dinning table, poured himself wine from an untouched goblet. His voice was as flat as could be.

"How foolish can you be...to think a man could kill a go-"

"He is no god!!" The duke exclaimed.

Miller smiled.

The cloaked warrior roared, lifting the hammer high. Golden energy surged around it, thick enough to scorch the air, the light blinding. He brought it down with all his might.

The impact blasted the chamber apart. Chunks of marble and wood tore from the floor, chandeliers ripped free from their chains, flames guttered and died under the force of the shockwave. The duke shielded his eyes, his ears ringing.

When the haze cleared—Lan stood in the crater, blood dripping faintly from his lip, though his pale eyes glowed with cold fire. His hand, bare and unguarded, had caught the hammer mid-swing.

The cloaked warrior froze, his arms straining against the force, but the weapon did not move.

Lan tilted his head, studying the golden hammer caught in his grasp. Blood trickled down his wrist where its power seared into him, sizzling his flesh, but his smile deepened.

"Not bad...you're an impressive sixth circle." he murmured. "But you're boring me."

He twisted his hand.

The warrior's eyes widened as the golden hammer splintered under Lan's grip. Cracks spread across its radiant surface until it shattered in a spray of golden shards, dissolving into nothing.

The duke staggered back, eyes wide with disbelief. "Impossible…"

The cloaked man roared in defiance, abandoning his weapon and driving his fists forward, each strike laced with burning light. His blows landed against Lan's body in a storm—punches to the chest, ribs, throat, face. Each hit echoed like iron against an anvil, sparks flashing in the air.

Lan still didn't move. He let the flurry land, his head jerking from the impacts but his eyes never leaving the man before him. The smirk on his lips grew, blood streaking down his chin.

"Hit harder," he whispered.

The warrior screamed and did exactly that, his blows coming faster, desperate now, reckless. He hammered against Lan's ribs until his own bones cracked, struck his jaw until the blood sprayed from his knuckles, kneed his stomach with a force that would have folded steel.

And still, Lan only laughed—a low, haunting laugh that filled the chamber like a death knell.

Then, abruptly, he moved.

One hand shot out and caught the man's wrist mid-punch. With casual strength, Lan twisted until the bone snapped like a branch. The warrior cried out, but before he could retreat, Lan's other hand clamped around his throat.

Lan lifted him from the ground as though he weighed nothing, blood dripping from his own split lip, his smile a mask of cruelty.

"You fought well," he said softly. "But I've run out of patience."

He squeezed.

The man's eyes bulged, his hands clawing at Lan's wrist, light sputtering weakly from his body. But Lan wasn't done.

[ Severing Touch ]

Dark Qi surged through his palm, creeping into the man's flesh. His skin began to blacken, rot spreading in veins from his throat outward. His struggles grew frantic, legs kicking against air, but Lan only tightened his grip.

"What a waste..." Lan whispered. "...Of a year's revenue."

With a sickening crack, Lan slammed the man to the floor. The impact shattered what remained of the marble beneath them. Then, kneeling over his foe, Lan pressed his hand deeper into the man's chest.

The cloaked warrior convulsed as his ribs cracked inward, his body writhing under the corruption flooding him. His skin split, veins rupturing, blood pouring from his mouth in thick, choking streams.

His golden aura flickered desperately—then extinguished.

Lan's pale eyes glowed faintly red as he tore his hand back, ripping free not just flesh but the man's still-beating heart. It pulsed weakly in his palm, steaming in the cold air.

The warrior gasped once, a final sound like air escaping a broken bellows—then went still.

Lan squeezed, and the heart burst in his hand, blood spraying across his face, staining his chest, dripping from his jaw. He rose to his feet, drenched in crimson, his aura heavy enough to crush the air from the room.

Silence fell.

The duke trembled, his face pale as he pressed back against his chair. His earlier confidence had dissolved into terror, his jewels clinking as his hands shook uncontrollably.

Lan turned, slow and with intent, blood streaming from his hands and mouth. His gaze locked onto the duke with the weight of a guillotine about to fall.

His smile returned—cold, merciless.

"And to think," he said softly, each word dripping with venom, "I was going to offer you the mercy of a swift death."