The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 33: A Blade That Tells The Truth

Chapter 33: A Blade That Tells The Truth

In the 9th Cycle of the Heavenly War, when the Blood Moon Sect drowned the earth in corpses and painted it’s rivers with blood to appease their hungering god, a smith named Liánjié the Unbroken forged a weapon unlike any other.

He did not use God-steel. He did not carve runes of power.

He hammered the blade from a single tear shed by the last living monk of the Silent Temple—a man who had watched his brothers flayed alive for refusing to scream.

The sword’s name?

"The Devil’s Lie."

Because it was not a weapon.

It was a confession—carved in steel. The grief of a world where righteousness had drowned in silence.

To wield the Devil’s Lie was to hear the truth. The screams of the ore it was forged from. The betrayals festering in an enemy’s heart. The cowardice hiding beneath a desperate vow.

But its true horror lay not in what it revealed, but what it forced the wounded to remember. One scratch—and they would see.

Every sin.

Every compromise.

Every time they betrayed their own soul to survive.

Armies shattered before the blade ever reached their hearts. Kingdoms burned from a single swing.

Only one man had ever wielded it: General Wu Zetian, the Butcher of the Red Plains.

He claimed it after slaughtering Liánjié’s entire village. And for three days, he laughed as he carved through countless foes—each cut making warriors drop their weapons and kneel, weeping. Not from the pain of the wound. But the weight of their truth.

On the fourth dawn, his own men found him desperately gouging out his eyes with the blade’s tip.

"It showed me," he whispered, "what I was... before I learned to enjoy this."

....

The sword vanished into the eart shortly after his death.

As though it were ashamed, or disappointed.

Some say it still wanders, appearing only to those desperate enough to beg for redemption. Others claim it broke the day it met someone with no lies left to reveal.

But even centuries later, the oldest cultivators trembled at its whispered name.

For in a world built on stolen power and painted virtue...

The truth is the deadliest blade of all.

---

Morning.

Soft sunlight leaked through the high windows of the prince chamber. Thin golden rays slipped past the curtains and landed on Lan’s face.

He shifted.

And with a sigh, Lanard Solaris IV opened his eyes.

The mattress beneath him still held his weight like a bed of stone, but at least he’d rested—really rested—for the first time in days. His body had survived trials most wouldn’t dare imagine: battles, tribulation... court politics.

And yet, he was here. Alive. Breathing.

And more dangerous than ever.

He sat up and stretched his arms over his head, a yawn escaping his lips.

"Now... time to see how far we’ve come."

With a thought, the window appeared.

—STATUS WINDOW—

Name: Lanard Solaris IV

Age: 19

Title: Fourth Prince of the Solaris Kingdom

Cultivation Path: Sutra of the Severed Heaven

Realm: Foundation Establishment (II)

Core: Void Dantian

Bloodline: Solaris Royalty ( Active )

Spiritual Will: Ascendant (Suppressed)

Comprehension:

• Shadow Law: 0.5%

• Royal Decree Authority: Active

• Sword Intent (Heretic Emperor’s Fragment): 1.5%

---

Lan stared at the glowing text with narrowed eyes.

Weeks ago, he was utterly weak—barely able to manipulate mana, and had only just begun his cultivation. Yet now? he had reached the second tier of Foundation Establishment.

It had taken most cultivators years—decades—to achieve what he had in an impossible fraction of the time.

But this was the reward of his patience and defiance. Of walking the path no one dared. The Sutra of the Severed Heaven did not respect limits.

It shattered them.

Lan’s eyes fell to the most pressing detail of all.

<Sub-Space>

The Devil’s Lie

Script of Godly Alchemy

He exhaled slowly.

Two rewards. _{fre ewebno(v)e\l.(c)om}

Both world-shaking in their own right.

The Script of Godly Alchemy—a treasure that had caused empires to rise and fall in his past life. Wars had been fought just to possess a copy. It could refine medicines, poison continents, or prolong a cultivator’s life beyond reason. To have it here, now, resting in his private space like a book waiting to be opened...

That alone would change the tides of the world. But it wasn’t what made his heart pound.

His gaze locked on the other.

The Devil’s Lie.

Even the name seemed to weigh more than the others. It sat like a stone in his sub-space, pulsing faintly—like it was waiting.

He didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

Because for the first time since his reincarnation... Lan felt something he hadn’t in years.

Fear.

Then—

A shadow formed behind him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The figure took shape slowly, calm and solid, like memory itself crystallizing into flesh.

Xie Wuchen—his former self.

"Are you afraid?" Xie asked.

Lan didn’t try to lie.

"Yes."

Xie smiled faintly, walking with slow grace across the room, each step unnaturally silent.

"The Devil’s Lie is the truth," Xie said, "because it does more than wound the flesh—it wounds the story we tell ourselves to survive."

He now stood before Lan, eyes like deep wells that had seen far too much.

"Every being builds armor from delusion: the hero forgets his cowardice. The tyrant calls his butchery justice. The lover denies the rot in his devotion."

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering.

"The sword strips this away, leaving only the raw, unbearable knowing beneath."

Lan didn’t speak, just listened.

"It is not cruel," Xie continued. "It is precise."

"A mirror cannot lie—only the viewer does."

He gestured with an open hand.

"And this is the mirror that follows you into the dark."

Lan’s breath slowed.

"To fear it," Xie said gently, "is to admit you still cling to your false virtue."

"To wield it... is to confess you have none left."

Lan stepped forward, reaching toward the sub-space window. His hand hovered for a moment.

Then closed around the blade.

And just then, in that moment, he felt...

...Nothing.