The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The beast struck first.

A wall of silver fur and muscle surged out of the trees, maw opening wide enough to swallow a man whole. Its roar shredded the night, sending flocks of crows screaming from their roosts. The pines shook as if a storm had been loosed.

Karahad did not move until the beast was already upon him. His eyes — cold, pale, unblinking — watched the creature's fangs descend.

Then the shadow beneath his boots rose like water.

A black Veil spread outward, cloaking him in darkness. The beast's jaws closed, but it found only mist. Its teeth shattered empty air as Karahad slipped aside in silence, reappearing ten paces away.

The A-rank monster snarled, whipping its massive head toward him. Its form was lupine yet warped — a direwolf touched by mana's corruption. Veins of pale light pulsed beneath its skin, and every step it took cracked the soil as if the land itself could not bear its weight.

"An apex predator of the deep north," Karahad whispered to himself. "But still a beast."

He raised his hand.

The Umbral Step flickered — one breath he stood before it, the next he was atop its back, cloak trailing like smoke. His palm pressed to the fur, and shadow poured into the beast's veins.

The wolf convulsed violently, howling so loud the trees splintered. It bucked, twisting to throw him off. Karahad let it fling him skyward, his body spinning once through the air.

He landed without sound, his boots barely disturbing the pine needles.

The wolf's glowing eyes locked on him. Rage, confusion. Its predatory instincts sensed it was being toyed with.

It charged again, faster this time, its claws tearing furrows through the ground. Karahad spread his arms, and the forest darkened as though the stars themselves had been extinguished.

From the black sky fell spears of shadow — not hundreds, only three. He did not need more. Each was thin as a needle, silent as a falling leaf.

The wolf leapt.

The first spear pinned its foreleg midair. The second struck its flank, embedding deep into the glowing veins. The third pierced just beneath its jaw, severing voice from flesh.

The beast hit the ground in a crash that split trees and churned soil. It writhed, claws raking trenches, but its howl had been stolen. Only a wet rasp escaped its throat.

Karahad approached slowly, steps measured. He crouched beside the heaving form, placing his hand gently against its head.

"Rest," he said, voice almost tender.

Shadow flooded. The beast went still.

Silence returned to the forest. Only the faint rustle of wind through the needles remained. The towering predator, a terror to kingdoms and soldiers alike, was reduced to stillness in less than five minutes.

Karahad stood, brushing pine dust from his cloak. His expression never changed. To him, this had been nothing more than exercise.

He turned, continuing through the forest, leaving the carcass to rot.

The path ahead led south, toward Solaris, and toward the capital.

---

Smoke drifted across the plains. Dozens of campfires dotted the night, their glow illuminating rows of tents and the silhouettes of armored men. The scent of cooked meat and sweat mingled in the chill air.

Lan sat in the largest tent, its canvas dyed red and black, the sigil of Solaris crossed out and replaced with a new mark — his own.

Around him, his generals and trusted companions bent over a wide table covered with maps. Stones marked cities, rivers, and troop movements.

Garran leaned heavily on one elbow, his broad shoulders hunched, eyes sharp as he traced lines along the northern passes. Venom, scar gleaming in the lamplight, stood with arms crossed, speaking in his low, cutting tone. Halmer sat slightly apart, old eyes on the map but mind turning deeper than the others could follow.

And Miller, the Fourth Guard, stood silent at Lan's back, ever watchful, as though carved from the shadows themselves.

"The capital will not yield easily," Venom was saying. "They've pulled in what's left of their border garrisons. The king means to break us here, at the gates."

"They're desperate," Garran grunted. "Cornered men fight hard, but they die all the same." His massive fist slammed down on the map. "We take the eastern wall. Strike at dawn. The rest will crumble."

Bragg voice was quieter, edged with calculation. "Desperation breeds trickery. The king may have allies hidden still. A trap, perhaps. If we march blindly, we may find more than soldiers waiting."

Halmer finally spoke, voice roughened by years. "The roads leading south have been too quiet. I don't like it. An army of their size should have made more noise in retreat. Either they're broken… or they're planning something."

The tent filled with murmurs as the generals argued their points.

But Lan…

Lan was silent.

He sat at the head of the table, one hand resting on the hilt of Devil's Lie, the rusted sword at his side. His pale grey eyes scanned the map, but they were not seeing lines and stones.

They were far away.

He heard the voices of his companions, but they faded like echoes.

In his mind, he felt it — the pull.

A ripple at the edge of perception, as if something vast and cold had entered the world. Not the king's army. Not the nobles. Not even the imperial hounds who would eventually circle this battlefield.

Something else.

Something moving closer.

The presence was faint, distant still, but undeniable. A shadow walking toward him. One that no army could resist, no fortress could repel.

Lan's hand tightened on the sword. He knew instinctively what it was — danger beyond thrones and crowns, beyond war itself. A danger that came from elsewhere.

His generals continued their debate, none of them noticing his silence.

Finally, Venom slammed his palm against the table. "My lord," he said sharply, "you've heard our thoughts. The decision is yours. Do we strike the eastern wall at dawn, or wait to draw them into the open?"

All eyes turned to Lan.

He looked at them — at Venom's fire, Garran's brute certainty, Bragg's suspicion, Halmer's caution. They were his strength, his pack. But none of them could feel what he felt.

Lan rose slowly. The tent quieted.

"We will strike," he said. His voice was calm, steady. "At dawn, as planned. But…" His gaze turned beyond the canvas walls, to the darkness outside. "…know this. The king is not our only enemy."

Confusion flickered among them. Bragg tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. Garran frowned. Venom's lips curled.

But none of them pressed further. Lan gave no more explanation, and his word was law.

Miller, the Fourth Guard, glanced once at his prince, and in his stony eyes there was the faintest recognition. Perhaps he, too, knew what he feared.

Lan lowered his hand from the sword and stepped away from the table. His cloak brushed the ground as he moved toward the tent's entrance.

"Rest," he ordered. "Tomorrow we take the capital."

The generals bowed their heads, some eager, some wary.

Lan paused at the threshold, the night wind catching in his dark hair. His pale eyes stared into the distance, toward the looming city walls faintly visible against the horizon.

But it was not the city that held his gaze. It was something else. A shadow moving closer, silent, patient, inevitable.

Only he knew.

Only he could confront it.

And soon, he would.