The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The city was drowning in fire and screams when the sky went black.

Lan stood upon the highest point of the capital's chapel, a dark silhouette carved against the heavens. His cloak snapped in the dead wind, his eyes pale and sharp as blades. The moonlight vanished, consumed by a swirling storm that seemed to grow from his very presence.

From the clouds, rods of shadow and steel began to form. First a dozen. Then a hundred. Then a thousand, long spears of night that stretched from horizon to horizon, poised like arrows upon a bowstring.

Each pulsed faintly with killing intent, the air trembling with the weight of them.

Below, the streets grew still.

The battle halted. Even the clash of steel and the cries of the dying faltered into silence as both armies—Solaris defenders and Lanard's dwindling host alike—lifted their eyes.

The defenders, once a tide of thousands, froze where they stood. Their armor clattered faintly as knees buckled. Some reached for their shields out of instinct, though all knew no shield forged by man could stop what hung above.

The storm thickened, swallowing the last trace of starlight. The city seemed to crouch under the crushing dark.

And then Lan's voice rolled through the capital.

It was not shouted. It did not need to be. His words seemed carried by the storm itself, echoing across rooftops, through broken streets, into the marrow of every listening man.

"Soldiers of Solaris," he began, his tone calm, almost conversational—yet heavy as a tolling bell. "Most of you know my name. Some of you don't. But tonight, it makes no difference."

Lan's eyes swept the streets below.

He saw their faces—the fear, the sweat, the stubborn defiance clinging still to some eyes. He saw hands clutching swords that trembled. He saw the broken lines where bodies already lay cooling in the gutter.

"I do not speak to you as a prince without a throne," he continued, his voice deepening. "Or as the commander of the hundred men who bled your gates dry. I speak to you as a man who understands the need to fight for something."

The silence grew heavier. Men shifted uneasily.

"Look around you," Lan commanded. "Look at your comrades. Half your army is gone. Half your brothers are already corpses cooling in the streets."

A soldier in the front ranks flinched, his eyes darting toward the alley where his brother's body lay sprawled.

"Some of you have lost friends. Kin. Even blood," Lan pressed. "And for what? To defend a king who hides behind walls of gold? To protect nobles who have never spilled a drop of sweat for you, yet demand you spill rivers of blood for them?"

The words struck deep. Murmurs rippled. A man lowered his sword slightly. Another gritted his teeth and shook his head, fighting the crack creeping into his resolve.

Lan's voice sharpened. "You clutch your weapons so tightly, knuckles white with fear, hoping it will make you warriors. You think death on the battlefield makes you men of honor. That dying in the name of Solaris will carve your memory into song."

His words cut. And then he spat the truth:

"You're wrong. You're fools. All of you."

A gasp carried through the ranks.

"They will sing no songs of you. They will write no histories of your bravery. You will be corpses piled in the gutters of your capital, and nothing more."

One man let out a broken sob. His sergeant barked at him to shut his mouth, but the sound lingered like a crack in a dam.

Lan's arms spread wide, the thousand rods above him quivering, ready to fall. "Where is the glory in that? Where is the honor? Show me! ANSWER ME!"

His voice thundered with such force that the very windows of the chapel shattered outward.

No answer came.

"There is none," Lan said, quieter now, but more lethal in its calm. "There is no glory in death. No honor in loss. Such illusions are for kings and nobles, not for you. You are the forgotten. Always."

He let the truth sink in. The soldiers' eyes darted, some toward the palace, some toward the dark chapel where he stood. All downward, never meeting each other's gaze.

"And when word reaches your villages that you died here," Lan continued, his voice suddenly cruel with certainty, "do you know what they will say?"

He imitated them, mocking yet chilling in its sincerity:

"'Oh, he was a good boy.' 'A strong man.'" Lan's tone softened into a whisper. "They'll mutter those words, maybe for a week. If they liked you. But life goes on. And you will be nothing more than a fading memory."

A captain shouted, voice cracking with desperation, "Don't listen to him! He lies! Hold your—"

Lan's eyes flicked to him, and the captain went silent, his throat constricting as though invisible hands squeezed the air from him.

He fell gasping, clutching at his collar. No one moved to help him.

"Your wives will weep," Lan said, voice now like the toll of a funeral bell. "They'll curse my name. But soon… their tears will dry. Loneliness is crueler than grief."

The rods above shimmered, faint sparks crackling along their length. The men flinched but did not run. Not yet.

"And that boy down the street—the one who always helped her carry the baskets—he'll step into your house." Lan's words dug deeper. "He'll take your place at the table. He'll take your bed. He'll take her. And she'll let him. And she won't whisper your name when she does."

The silence was absolute, except for the trembling clatter of a dropped sword.

"And where will you be?" Lan demanded.

His voice crashed over the city like thunder.

"Rotting in the dirt. A corpse among thousands."

Lan straightened, his eyes glinting with cold fire. "That is the truth of war. Not the lies your king feeds you. Not the honor your lords promise. War is not glory. War is not honor. War is only winners… and losers."

He let the words hang, his gaze sweeping over every trembling figure.

"And tonight," he said, his voice now soft as silk but no less deadly, "you are on the side that loses."

Some Solaris soldiers staggered backward, shaking their heads. A few tore off their helms, dropping weapons with clatters that rang louder than any battle cry.

"But," Lan said, raising a hand slowly, his tone shifting from scorn to promise, "you have a choice. I give you a choice your king never will."

The rods above quivered, still held in his grip.

"Denounce him. Cast off his lies. Live." His hand opened toward the city gates. "Lay down your arms. Walk away from these walls. Return to your homes. See your families again. Hold your sons. Kiss your wives. Live to fight another day—a day where victory might actually be yours."

His other hand tightened into a fist, and the rods pulsed with light. "Or stand here. Cling to your illusions. And die screaming beneath my feet. Forgotten. Replaced. Nothing."

Lan's cloak whipped in the storm, his figure a shadow stretched against the heavens. His voice rose to its final, cutting crescendo:

"So tell me, soldiers of Solaris—"

The thousand rods above angled down, tips pointing like fangs ready to pierce.

"Will you die for a king who will not bleed for you?"

The words fell like a hammer, shaking hearts.

"Or will you live for yourselves?"

The storm roared. The rods blazed. The city stood frozen on the knife's edge of choice.

Slowly, swords clattered to the ground, ringing across the broken streets. The sound came again and again—steel giving up its will, steel confessing defeat. Bloodied men sank to their knees, their lips trembling as one phrase rippled through the silence:

"We surrender."

It began as a whisper from a handful of desperate throats, then spread like fire through dry brush.

Soon, the entire avenue was filled with the echo of submission. Men who hours ago had sworn to die for Solaris now pressed their brows to the stone, unable to meet the gaze of the slaughterer standing before them.

Bragg's chest heaved with exhaustion, his massive fists still slick with blood, but his eyes never left Lan. He awaited his master's word. Around them, Venom and the others gathered, the surviving of the hundred, each carrying wounds yet standing taller than the thousands who had opposed them.

Lan's pale grey eyes swept over the kneeling tide. His voice was cold, stripped of triumph:

"Bragg. Lead them away. Regroup our people."

Bragg clenched a fist over his heart, bowing low before barking orders to the battered victors. The clamor of retreat and shuffling prisoners filled the air.

But Lan was no longer watching. His gaze had lifted—past the burning streets, past the rivers of blood—up to the high stone balcony of the Solaris keep.

There, a lone figure watched him. Crowned. Draped in imperial crimson.

The King.

A silence, heavier than the din of battle, settled across Lan's shoulders. His lips parted, the words carried on breath as sharp as knife:

"Only I can handle what comes next."