The whispers spread like wildfire.
By dawn, every noble house in Solaris knew what Prince Lan had done. Some called it reckless tyranny—a weak prince overcompensating with cruelty. Others whispered he'd finally snapped, the years of humiliation driving him mad.
But a select few… a select few felt the first icy trickle of fear.
Because princes who smiled while ordering executions were not the same as princes who cowered under whips.
And Lan had smiled.
The Prince's Chambers
Lan sat crosslegged on his bed, shirtless, his fingers pressed to his abdomen. His skin glistened with sweat, his breathing controlled and deep as he focused inward.
"Pathetic," he muttered, eyes still closed.
His meridians were clogged—not just damaged, but strangled by something dark and deliberate. A curse? A seal? It didn't matter. What mattered was that for years, the royal physicians had misdiagnosed his condition.
They called it a broken mana core.
They were wrong.
What he had wasn't a mana core at all.
And in this world of magic, where mana cores dictated strength, no one had recognized what he truly was.
"What a weak civilization," Lan mused, his lips curling. A dantian didn't function like a mana core. It didn't simply absorb external magic—it generated its own energy, refining the very essence of the world into pure cultivation power.
But his had been locked away.
Crushed.
Deliberately.
Lan exhaled sharply, then began cycling his breath in an ancient rhythm—a technique he'd stolen from the Sacred Frost Clan in his past life. "Frozen Vein Purification." A method meant to cleanse meridians by flooding them with controlled bursts of icy spiritual energy, scouring away blockages like a river breaking through dammed ice.
Pain lanced through him immediately.
His muscles locked. His veins bulged, turning an eerie blue under his skin as if frost were spreading beneath his flesh.
But he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Not when every gasp of air felt like swallowing knives. Not when his blood seemed to crystallize in his veins.
He pushed harder.
And then—
Snap.
A single meridian cleared.
The relief was instant. A rush of warmth flooded his body, melting the artificial frost, and for the first time in this life, Lan felt energy—true, untainted qi—flow through him.
It was a trickle. A drop in an ocean.
But it was his.
A knock shattered his focus.
"Your Highness." A servant's voice, trembling. "The king… the king summons you to court."
Lan opened his eyes.
"Now?"
"Immediately, Your Highness."
A slow smile spread across his face.
Of course.
Duke Veyl wouldn't wait.
———
The throne room was a mix of gold and shadow.
High ceilings arched like the ribs of beasts of myth, the stainedglass windows casting fractured light across the assembled nobility. The air carried tension, a hundred whispered conversations dying the moment Lan stepped through the towering doors.
All eyes turned to him.
He walked forward, his gait unhurried, his expression unreadable. The nobles parted before him.
At the far end of the hall, atop a dais of black marble, sat King Aldric Solaris—a man of irongray hair and sharper eyes, his crown a circlet of burning rubies.
To his right stood Crown Prince Kael, broadshouldered and sneering. To his left, the withered form of Grand Vizier Orlan, whose gaze lingered on Lan with something between curiosity and dread.
And there, standing at the foot of the throne almost melting with rage, was Duke Veyl.
The man's face was a mask of fury he could barely restrain. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his ceremonial sword, his every breath measured, as if he were counting the seconds until he could bury that blade in Lan's throat.
Lan stopped before the throne and bowed—just deep enough to be respectful, just shallow enough to be insulting.
"Father," he said.
The king's voice was a whipcrack. "Do you know why you're here?"
"Because I exercised my royal authority?" Lan tilted his head. "Or because a duke's pride is more valuable than a prince's word?"
A collective inhale.
Duke Veyl took a single step forward. "You murdered my son."
"I executed a traitor," Lan corrected. "Gareth Veyl openly mocked the crown. The law is clear."
"The law?" The duke's laugh was jagged. "Since when do you care about the law? You, who have failed every test of worthiness placed before you? You, who have never once contributed to this kingdom?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the court.
Lan didn't react.
The king leaned forward. "Lanard. You understand the position you've put me in. The Veyls are one of our strongest allies."
"And yet," Lan said softly, "they forget who rules here."
Silence.
Then—
"Enough." The king's fist slammed onto the armrest. "You will apologize to Duke Veyl. You will pay blood debt. And you will never pull such a stunt again."
Lan almost laughed.
Apologize?
After a lifetime of humiliation?
After finally reclaiming a shred of his power?
He met his father's gaze.
"No."
The word hung in the air like a headsman's axe.
Duke Veyl snarled. "Then you leave me no choice." His sword cleared its sheath in a flash of steel. "I demand trial by combat. Right here. Right now."
Gasps erupted.
Trial by combat was an ancient right—one not invoked lightly. A duel to the death, judged by the gods themselves.
The king hesitated.
But Lan was already smiling.
"No."
The word hovered above the tension.
For a heartbeat, the court was utterly still.
Then—
Whispers.
"He refuses?"
"No honor…"
"Shameless!"
Duke Veyl's face darkened, his grip tightening on his sword. "You spit on tradition, boy. First my son's blood, now this? Are you truly so craven?"
Lan remained unperturbed. "Why would I fight you?" His voice was calm, almost bored. "You're a seasoned warrior. I've never held a blade in combat. This isn't a trial—it's suicide." He tilted his head. "And since when does executing a lawbreaker require your approval, Duke?"
The duke's teeth ground loud enough to hear. "Coward."
"Realist," Lan corrected.
The king's voice cut through the tension. "Enough."
All eyes snapped to the throne.
King Aldric's expression was carved from stone, but his knuckles were white around the armrests.
"I have been patient, Lanard. Patient with your failures. Patient with your insolence." Each word dripped with decades of disappointment. "Of the three kingdoms under the Aregard Empire, you are the only prince called useless to his face. Even the Emperor has advised me to disown you."
A hush fell.
Lan's fist clenched at his side.
And then—
Something flickered in his chest. A pang so foreign he almost didn't recognize it.
Sadness?
No. It felt sharper.
Lan exhaled slowly. "For disappointing you, Father… I do apologize."
The king's gaze didn't soften. "Apologize to Duke Veyl."
"I can't do that."
A muscle twitched in the king's jaw. "Then I make my decree."
As one, the entire court rose. Even the guards stiffened, their armor clinking like wind chimes in the sudden silence.
The king stood.
"Lanard Solaris," he intoned, voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings, "since you deem yourself worthy to exercise royal rights, you will now contribute to this empire as a royal should. In thirty days, you will depart for the Ranevia Territory. You will have one year to turn it from a festering wound into a worthy addition to this kingdom." His eyes locked onto Lan's. "Does this satisfy the court?"
A thunderous response: "AS THE KING DECREES!"
Duke Veyl's grin was vicious, his teeth bared like a wolf's.
Ranevia.
A death sentence in all but name—a cursed land of blighted crops, rogue mana beasts, and a population that had devolved into near-barbarism. No governor had lasted Two months.
Lan blinked.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed a fist to his chest—the last to move, the last to speak.
"As the King decrees."
The words were quiet.
Final.
And in that moment, few members of the court realized something terrifying:
The prince wasn't afraid.