The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The sound of flesh breaking beneath knuckles echoed through the banquet hall, dull and heavy, reverberating off the high stone walls. It had moments ago been proud and dripping with wealth, the chamber was now soaked in shadows and the iron ooze of blood.

The guards that remained—those who had not been recalled to the Imperial City days earlier—stood gathered at the far end of the room.

Their armor was dulled from negligence, their faces pale as they watched what unfolded before them.

Miller's massive fist rose again. It came down with mechanical precision, slamming into the duke's face with the inevitability of an executioner's axe. Bone cracked. Skin split further. The duke's features, haughty and jeweled with arrogance, had become a bruised canvas of agony.

Each strike landed with the sound of meat torn from bone. With each one, a guard or two would flinch involuntarily, shoulders jerking, jaws tightening, as if the blows were falling on their own bodies.

The duke no longer cried out. He had long since been robbed of sound. His mouth opened weakly, spilling only breathless, broken wheezes. The faintest of whimpers slipped past ruined lips, his consciousness ebbing and flowing, clinging to life only because Miller's fists had not yet decided to end it.

Lan had not once looked in the duke's direction.

He stood by the tall arched window, Devil's Lie still at his hip, his entire form marred in gore. Blood streaked his face and chest from the fight with the cloaked warrior, droplets still drying against his dark hair.

His reflection in the window stared back at him—streaked with crimson, carved in pale steel, a man caught halfway between life and ghost.

The city stretched out below, rooftops dusted with smoke from the hearths of its people, some unaware that their world had already changed.

Lan finally turned his gaze from the window to the guards who stood huddled by the wall.

"If it is battle you want," he said, voice calm, cold, carrying over the chamber like a verdict, "then I will oblige. After all—I understand the desire to die as warriors. To die with glory."

He paused, his pale eyes flickering across their faces, dissecting each one. None met his gaze for long.

"Even so," Lan continued, "I find it pointless for you to waste your lives."

His voice hardened, like steel striking steel.

"My suggestion? Surrender. Become my weapon. Do not die pointlessly."

The silence that followed was broken only by the wet rhythm of Miller's fist slamming again and again into the duke's skull. The sound filled the hall, a grim metronome of ending. Blood spattered across the cracked marble floor.

No one spoke.

Then, one voice—hoarse, trembling, yet certain—broke through.

"I surrender. I swear fealty."

Every guard turned, their eyes falling on the man who had spoken. He stepped forward shakily, knees bent, helm in his hands, and knelt on the bloodstained floor.

Almost immediately, another voice joined his. "I swear as well."

Then another. Then another.

In a matter of heartbeats, the hall was filled with bowed heads, armored knees striking stone as one after another the duke's soldiers surrendered. The sound was like a storm of iron falling at once, filling the chamber with its finality.

Lan nodded once, almost absently, before turning back toward Miller.

"Finish it."

Miller ceased his endless rhythm. He stood, silent, the blood of his victim dripping from his knuckles. Without hesitation, he drew his sword from his hip, the sound of steel on steel whispering through the hall.

The duke—barely conscious, his face a shattered ruin—lifted one last rattling breath. His jeweled hands trembled, still clutching at nothing.

Miller drove the blade straight into his heart.

The body jolted, then stilled.

The light in the duke's eyes dimmed, and at last, there was silence.

Lan turned again to the gathered guards. His form was a nightmare—bloodied, pale, eyes cold and inhuman in their detachment. His voice, however, carried the weight of command that brooked no resistance.

"Go," he ordered. "Hang his body in the town square. And summon the heads of the noble houses. Tell them I would like to have a word."

The guards obeyed at once. They lifted the lifeless husk of their former master, dragging him by blood-slick arms across the floor and out of the hall.

---

By midday, the duke's body swung in the province square.

The sight was obscene and deliberate. The once-proud man was strung high on the gallows beam, his silks shredded, his jewels stripped away. His face—battered, swollen, unrecognizable—hung above the crowd like a banner of truth.

The people of Verdelane gathered beneath, their voices rising in horrified whispers. Women clutched their children close. Men stared in grim silence. Every eye was lifted to the broken figure, and every heart carried the same knowledge:

Their leader was dead.

The whispers spread like wildfire, faster than the wind. The words leapt from mouth to mouth, house to house, street to street, until the entire city knew.

The God of the North has come. He has conquered.

---

In the Duke's estate, seven men and women gathered. The lords and ladies of Verdelane's main noble houses filled the grand hall, their silks bright, their jewels heavy, though their faces were drawn with panic.

They had received the summons and had come, unwilling yet unable to refuse. The news of the duke's death weighed heavily in their hearts, but none wept for him. Their discussions had nothing to do with justice, nothing to do with the people who filled the streets outside.

No, their voices hissed and rose only in fear for their pockets.

"Our shipping lines—do you realize how much we will lose if—"

"The mines—if the God of the North takes control of them, he will bleed us dry—"

"Quiet! This is no time to speak of profit—"

"Profit is all that matters! Without it we have no place, no seat, no—"

Their panic was thick and desperate, each word soaked with self-preservation. None spoke of Verdelane's people, none spoke of resistance. Their hearts beat only for gold.

---

On the hill overlooking the estate, Lan stood with Miller. The city lay beneath them, roofs crowded around the sprawling estate where the nobles now squabbled.

Lan's pale eyes lingered on the manor, heavy with disdain. He exhaled softly, a sigh that carried centuries of weariness though he looked no older than a man in his prime.

"Activate it," he said.

Miller nodded. With practiced ease, he gestured and activated talismans already placed in the estate.

A moment later, the earth shook.

The estate erupted into fire.

A deafening explosion tore through the manor, flames lashing upward like the tongues of demons, devouring stone, timber, and flesh alike. The ground quaked as walls collapsed inward, screams swallowed instantly by the inferno.

The fire burned high, its light dancing in his pale eyes.

At last, Lan turned his gaze away from the raging blaze. His voice was quiet, measured, as if he were commenting on nothing of relevance.

"Go get the men."

Miller bowed his head.

"Tell them the capital is next."