The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 31: Blood On The Courtstone

Chapter 31: Blood On The Courtstone

Duke Veyl shot to his feet, the fury in his eyes blazing like wildfire.

"You insolent brat!" he roared, voice echoing through the throne room as his fists clenched tight, veins pulsing with anger.

Lan remained composed. Didn’t blink. Only tilted his head slightly and smiled, like he were watching his prey take its last step into the snare.

"Oh... watch your words, Duke," Lan said smoothly. "I have no problem reuniting you with your son."

A collective gasp swept across the court like a wave crashing against stone. Noble lords and ladies shifted in their seats, startled and scandalized. Even the guards along the marble walls stiffened.

The King narrowed his eyes, and the Duke’s mana flared to life in an instant—his aura exploding like a detonation of bloodlust and fury. The marble at his feet cracked.

And yet, Lan just stood there.

Smiling.

He’d always been good at setting traps.

But to think they’d fall for them so easily...

"Both of you," the King’s voice came, low and cold and heavy as steel. "Stop. Now."

Duke Veyl’s jaw tightened. His knuckles were white. But he swallowed the rage, forced himself back into his seat.

The King’s gaze didn’t move. "Lanard," he began, voice steady, "not only did you best Corvin Gallingher—who was a mage of the Fourth Circle—but reports say you did so by bringing down lightning from the sky."

Lan stood, posture relaxed, hands behind his back.

He knew exactly where this was going.

"Could you explain," the King asked, "how exactly you attained such power?"

Silence.

The words hit the throne room like glass shattering. Every noble in the chamber leaned slightly forward, ears sharpened like blades.

The infamous Fourth Prince. The failure. The one born with a barren mana core, incapable of even conjuring a spark—now wielding heavenly bolts and laying waste to fourth-circle generals.

It made no sense.

"To not sugarcoat it," the King continued, "your core was empty. Your mana nonexistent. For years, you were unable to perform even the most basic magical feats. So how could it be... that you bested a general of the Fourth Circle?"

Again, silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Lan let it sit. Let them drown in their anticipation. He watched them all: the hungry eyes, the skeptical brows, the hopeful and the hateful alike.

Then he spoke.

"Does that matter?"

The question fell like a stone into still water.

"When my core was barren and I was labeled worthless," Lan said, his voice calm, almost conversational, "no one asked why. No one cared how. No one questioned the cause. It didn’t matter."

He took a step forward. His gaze swept over the court.

"It only mattered that I was weak."

His eyes landed on the King.

"So likewise, I believe it doesn’t matter how I got my strength. Only that I now possess it."

A beat passed. Then another.

"You arrogant—" Grand Vizier Orlan began to snap.

But a single motion from the King—a hand raised—cut him off.

"You are correct," the King said slowly. "In this world, power itself far outweighs its origin. We only wish to ensure... that your power was not obtained in a way that brings dishonor upon yourself or the Solaris name."

"Honor?" Lan echoed. The word hung in the air like a bad joke.

He let it linger, then gave a soft, humorless chuckle.

"What has honor ever done for me?" he asked, tone sharper now. "When I was paraded like a clown during those yearly banquets, where was honor? When I was whipped in front of noble courts for being born weak—where was your sacred honor then?"

Another pause. This one heavier.

"If you ask me," Lan said, voice like steel drawn across flint, "the most dishonorable thing a man can do... is being weak."

The court didn’t gasp this time.

They were silent. Completely. For they already knew—even before this moment—that the prince who stood before them was not the one they had mocked for years. Not the boy who once knelt and bled in chains before the Grand Hall.

That boy was dead.

And what now stood in his place was something else entirely.

Lan straightened his posture.

"However," he added, voice returning to calm, "I can assure you, Father. This power I possess was earned."

The King remained quiet, considering him with sharp, sunken eyes.

Then finally, his voice echoed through the throne room once more.

"You had been sentenced to govern Ranevia," he began, "to make it a thriving territory and to prove your usefulness to the Kingdom. That punishment was also in part for killing Duke Veyl’s son."

A few nobles shifted uncomfortably.

"But you have proved yourself far more than useful at the Imperial Princess’s banquet," the King continued. "You demonstrated strength, tact, and influence."

He raised his hand again.

"So I hereby retract your sentence."

That was when Duke Veyl stood.

"Your Grace—!"

But the King lifted a finger, silencing him once again.

And then—

"No."

The word came from Lan. All turned to look at him.

"What?" the King asked.

"I want to go to Ranevia," Lan declared.

The King furrowed his brows. "But you’ve redeemed yourself. You’ve proven your worth. There is no longer any reason for you to endure such a sentence."

Lan’s eyes narrowed.

"Is that so?" _{f(r)eew(e)bnovel.(c)o(m)}

And then—

[Dark Step]

One blink. That’s all it took.

Lan vanished from the center of the court and reappeared before Duke Veyl in a single breath. Before anyone could shout or move—his arm shot forward.

And plunged through Veyl’s chest.

Gasps tore through the chamber. Screams erupted from courtiers and servants alike.

The Duke’s eyes went wide, face frozen in a mask of horror, confusion, and disbelief. His lips parted. Blood spilled.

And in Lan’s hand—still and wet and twitching—was his heart.

Lan pulled it out clean.

Duke Veyl collapsed like a broken tower, the weight of his corpse hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.

And there stood the prince—expression a mask, his hand still gripped around a pulsing mass of crimson meat—as he looked back at the court.

"How about now?" he asked.

No one spoke.

Not even the King.