The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 26: The Worst Of Wolves

Chapter 26: The Worst Of Wolves

It was more than lightning.

It was judgment.

A single bolt tore through the heavens like a spear of godly wrath, and where it struck, reality bent.

The golden-hued chandeliers above the banquet hall shattered, metal warped, and the white marble cracked beneath the pressure. The smell of retribution and scorched silk spread like a creeping fog, blanketing everything in acrid dread.

It was no ordinary storm.

It was not nature’s tantrum—it was the fury of something old and deep. The weight of the heavens had been dragged down to the earth, and they were... angry.

Everyone in the hall raised their arms, shields, cloaks—anything to guard themselves from the force that erupted across the marble.

Some dropped to the floor, others backed away behind columns and pillars. Even the proudest warriors scrambled for cover. Fear rolled over them in waves.

Everyone—except Iris.

She remained seated on the high table. Her hands rested still in her lap. Her chest rose and fell, shallow and quiet, but her eyes... her eyes were wide, not from terror—but with awe. There was something else flickering behind them, something more unique than fear.

Recognition.

When the light finally died, and the air stilled, the room remained trapped in that moment of silence. A thousand breaths held in unison. Eyes turned back toward the epicenter of destruction.

The debris and smoke began to clear.

Two figures stood revealed.

One of them, barely.

Corvin Gallingher was on his knees. His clothes hung in tatters. Charred fabric clung to his skin in patches, and blood spilled from one corner of his mouth.

His sword had snapped, one half still gripped in his trembling hand. His breathing was shallow, like each inhale was refusal against death.

He looked broken. Not just physically—but deeply, spiritually. His arrogance, his fury, his pride—it had all been scoured away.

And yet—Lanard stood.

Straight. Silent.

Unburned.

His clothes smoked faintly, but his posture remained unshaken. Eyes cold. A single drop of blood slid down the corner of his lip, but that was it. A shallow wound, irrelevant in the face of what he had just endured.

Slowly, without urgency, Lanard reached down.

He gripped the other half of Corvin’s shattered sword—still embedded in his own side—then pulled it from his flesh with a single, deliberate motion. Blood followed the blade. A slow trickle. Nothing more.

The broken weapon clattered to the floor.

Lan looked down at the general with the expression of a man watching a leaf fall.

"I told you it’d hurt," he murmured.

Corvin groaned, struggling to crawl backward, fingers clawing at the floor, searching blindly for his other blade. He moved like a man drowning in dry air.

Lan didn’t follow. He didn’t have to.

The hall was frozen.

None could believe what they were seeing. Even those seated beside Nobles—lords, prodigies, commanders—watched in mute disbelief. Their idea of the world had just shifted.

The weak Solaris prince, the shame of his house, had stood against a general of the Empire’s own ranks—and brought down divine lightning on him.

It didn’t make sense.

How?

Outside, the clouds remained black. The heavens hadn’t left. They only waited.

And outside palace, beyond the cracked pillars and the scorched tiles, a quiet question echoed in every mind:

Who the hell had the princess brought to her banquet?

Who could possess that level of power?

Inside, they stared at the prince, their answers also lacking.

Lan didn’t bother with their stares. His eyes remained fixed on Corvin, then drifted upward to the rest of the hall. His voice came, cold and clear:

"The audacity of any of you to question my strength....you were born weak. The lot of you. And then you were bred for something worse."

The silence cracked like an old glass would.

Lan stepped forward slowly, blood still sliding down his side in a thin stream, but it didn’t slow him. His breath was even.

"You have nothing but a failed hierarchy of mana," he said, voice rising, "...Circles and Castes and ranks that mean nothing. You parade them like medals—symbols of a strength you’ve never actually tasted. None of you understand what power is. What it takes. What it costs. And the consequences of possessing it."

Corvin, still kneeling, coughed—a raw, wet sound—and muttered something.

Lan’s eyes fell to him.

Corvin’s whisper became a growl, a scream of broken confusion.

"How... how do you...how can you...be that strong?! You are nothing. You are weak!"

His mouth bled as he spoke, his voice cracking from pain. The rest of the hall watched with haunted eyes.

Lan stepped closer, his tone soft now, but the edge in it sharper than any blade.

"And you are foolish... a sin you’ll die for."

Corvin’s eyes widened.

He clutched the broken sword tighter, and through the pain, his magic responded—runes igniting across the fractured blade. A last act of desperation. Pride rearing its head even in the face of death.

"It’s not over!" Corvin shouted. "I’ll show you just how strong I am—!"

And suddenly Lan was there.

One step. No more. No less.

[Dark Step]

His fingers closed around Corvin’s shoulder, gently.

Corvin’s mouth opened—but the words died in his throat.

Lan leaned in, his voice low:

"Ramble in hell."

[Heavenly Tribulation – Second Stage: "Wrath of the Skies"]

The system warned.

Then the heavens screamed.

A second bolt fell—no, not a bolt.

A storm.

A column of divine punishment erupted from the clouds,descending more than just a strike, it were like the hand of a furious god. The impact shattered glass across the city, and windows exploded miles away. The imperial palace trembled on its foundations.

The flash turned the night into false daylight.

And when it was over—

There was nothing left of Corvin Gallingher.

Only scorched ash, still smoldering on the cracked tiles of the grand hall.

Lanard stood over the place where the general had once been, his eyes slightly unfocused, as if he were listening to something distant.

His chest rose and fell with exertion.

And then—

[ You Have Endured Heaven’s Tribulation ]

[Breakthrough In Progress ]

[Qi Consolidation Tier II: Achieved.]

[Core Expansion Successful.]

[Dark Qi Efficiency: 48%]

[New State Achieved: Foundation Establishment (Tier II) ]

Lan blinked. Exhaled.

The storm clouds outside began to part.

The heavens, it seemed, had made their judgment. Within the hall, the silence was deeper now—heavier. More than fear. Reverence.

No one moved.

Not Iris. Not Izal. Not the others on the high table.

Even the ones who had once scoffed at his presence now kept their heads lowered.

Lan didn’t notice.

He just looked up at the sky, then toward the table where Iris sat.

She was no longer composed.

Her fingers dug into the armrest of her seat, her pupils dilated, chest rising faster than before. She had played her game, positioned her pieces—yet the board had been flipped.

She couldn’t help but wonder if the one she thought was a sheep...was the worst of wolves.