The rain came down in sheets, it was cold, an unrelenting deluge that soaked through Lan's robes and turned the courtyard stones into a slick, reflective mirror.
He knelt in front of the grand hall, bare-backed, his arms bound behind him with enchanted manacles that burned at the slightest movement.
The sting was nothing compared to the lash.
Crack.
The whip split the air before it split his skin.
Lan gritted his teeth, swallowing the scream.
From the balcony of the banquet hall, the nobility of the Solaris Kingdom watched, their laughter and chatter barely muffled by the storm. Young lords and ladies, all his age, all brimming with mana cores and privilege, sipped wine and whispered behind fans.
"Pathetic."
"Does he even try?"
"Fourth Prince in name only."
The lash came again.
Crack.
This time, blood welled.
Lan's vision began to blur. He focused on the pain, on the way it anchored him to the moment. He had failed. Again.
The Test of the Sun's Grace—a royal tradition, a simple trial of mana control where the princes and princesses of Solaris were meant to ignite a sunstone with their inner fire.
A child's exercise.
And yet, for the fourth year in a row, Lan had stood before the court, his hands pressed to the stone… and nothing had happened.
No spark. No flame.
Just silence.
And then laughter.
The law was clear: any royal who failed the test was to be publicly disciplined. A thing from an era when weakness in the royal family was seen as a threat to the kingdom itself.
No other prince had ever failed.
Until Lan.
And now, here he was, kneeling in the storm, his back a canvas of welts, his pride long since drowned in the mud.
Crack.
The whip bit deeper.
Lan's body jerked forward, his forehead pressing into the wet stone. He could hear Gareth's voice above the rain, dripping with amusement.
"Look at him. A prince who can't even do this much. What use is he?"
Gareth wasn't royalty. He was the son of Duke Veyl, a man so wealthy and influential that his heir thought he could speak carelessly and suffer no consequence.
Lan had endured years of this. The sneers. The "lessons." The way Gareth and his circle made sure every noble in the capital knew that the fourth prince was a joke.
But today—
Today something was different.
The rain wasn't just cold.
It seemed angry. And perhaps, it fell with pity.
Pity for what? Him?
It fell harder now. A downpour.
Thunder cracked in the distance. The lashmaster didn't stop.
Crack.
———
Lan collapsed when the guards finally released him, his body folding into the rising puddle. The sky above wept.
He didn't move. Couldn't.
'Is the sky crying for me?'
He lay on the cold stone, eyes fluttering open. The clouds twisted above, bleeding stormlight. Rain stung his skin like needles.
'Should I just...die?'
Maybe. It wouldn't be surprising. Not with how things had gone. He was bound to die in a courtyard. Or on a battlefield. Or under the boot of some noble's heir.
The weak died.
There was no way around it.
And Lan was weak. The weakest.
His mana core was barren. Not once had he cast a proper spell. He only remained in the royal family because of an ancient law—one that demanded public punishment for failure, but not outright exile.
A mercy? No.
A prolonged humiliation.
Every year had been worse than the last.
Maybe it was better to just... let go.
No more pain.
No more—
"No."
The word slipped from his lips. Barely audible. More blood than voice.
"No..." he muttered again, louder. Angrier. "I won't die... not until I make all of you eat your words... not until I'm the strongest!"
His scream tore from his throat—a defiant cry soaked in agony and rage.
It wasn't heroic.
It was pathetic.
It was painful. But it was his.
A spark.
Not just pain.
Resolve.
Foolish? Utterly.
But that didn't make it any less real.
And in that moment—
The world changed.
---
[Forbidden Arts Synchronization Complete]
[Time Taken: 16 years, 10 months, 15 days]
[Memory Synchronization Has Begun]
---
Then came the flood.
A lifetime—not his, yet unmistakably his.
A man who had become a God.
Who slaughtered saints and razed nations.
Who stood atop the Seven Martial Realms.
Untouchable. Unbreakable. Unchallenged.
A man who reached the peak of cultivation—and then kept going.
Lan gasped as the memories tore through him, devouring everything else.
Power. Knowledge. Rage. Divinity.
And he finally understood.
The rain wasn't falling for him.
It wasn't grief the sky offered.
It was a warning.
The sky wasn't crying for Lan—
It was crying for the rest of the world.
He took a breath. Then another.
His ribs screamed. His back wept blood. But he pushed himself up anyway, fingers digging into the rain-slicked stone until his knees steadied. When he stood, it was with a grace that defied the brutality he'd just endured—a predator's poise, smooth and intentional.
Above him, the balcony of the banquet hall was empty.
The young nobles had laughed their fill and retreated inside, leaving him to drown in the storm. Their silhouettes flickered behind stained-glass windows, their voices muffled by music and merriment.
Lan ascended the steps.
Each footfall was measured, as if he were counting the seconds until the world realized what had awakened. The grand oak doors groaned as he pushed them open.
All eyes turned to him.
The hall fell silent.
Lan stood framed in the doorway, rainwater pooling at his feet. His dark hair, now heavy and wet, clung to his face, but he didn't brush it away.
He let them see his eyes through the dripping strands—cold, changed.
Gareth, halfway through raising a goblet to his lips, froze. Then his mouth twisted into a grin.
"Look who decided to join us!" he crowed, slamming his cup onto the table. "Tell me, Prince Lan—did the rain wash off the stink of failure, or do we need to hose you down again?"
The nobles erupted.
Lady Elspeth covered her mouth, giggling behind her fan. Young Lord Verham clapped Gareth on the back like he'd delivered the wittiest jape in the kingdom. Even the servants hovering near the walls stifled smiles.
Lan didn't react.
He just tilted his head, studying them like a man would an interesting animal. Then his gaze drifted to the dais at the far end of the hall—a raised platform with a single chair and a table set for one.
His table.
The royal seat reserved for the presiding hosts.
A cruel joke in itself.
He was the only prince who ever attended these banquets, because he was the only one without more pressing obligations. Year after year, he'd sat there like a jester playing king, enduring their mockery with a smile that never reached his eyes.
Tonight, he didn't smile.
Lan chuckled instead.
The sound was low, off-putting, and just a beat too late, as if he'd only now processed Gareth's insult. The laughter died awkwardly.
"That's...funny" Lan mused, stepping forward. The crowd parted instinctively, though they didn't know why. His boots echoed on the marble. "Tell me, Gareth—have you ever heard of lèse-majesté?"
Gareth blinked. "The hell is that?"
"A law," Lan said, climbing the dais steps. "It means 'injured majesty.' The crime of insulting the crown." He reached his chair and trailed a finger along its gilded armrest. "For a council member or duke, the punishment is imprisonment. Flogging, if the insult is grave enough."
Gareth snorted. "And? You going to lock me up, Your Highness?" He flung the title like a rotten fruit.
Lan sat. Crossed his legs. Smiled.
"No."
He picked up his wineglass—crimson as fresh blood—and swirled it lazily.
"For anyone else—commoners, knights, even the sons of dukes—the penalty is instant execution."
Silence.
Then Gareth burst out laughing. "Good one! You almost had me—"
"Fourth Guard."
The armored soldier at the door snapped to attention. "Your Highness."
"Bring me his head."
Gareth's laughter cut off.
Whispers erupted. Lady Elspeth's fan slipped from her fingers.
"You—you can't be serious," Gareth stammered, backing away as the guard advanced. "This is a joke, right? Right?!"
Lan sipped his wine. "No. I was never as good a comedian as you, was I?"
The Fourth Guard seized Gareth by the collar.
"WAIT!" Gareth thrashed, heels scraping against the floor as he was dragged to the center of the hall. "My father is Duke Veyl! You can't do this!"
The guard forced him to his knees.
Lan stabbed his fork into a slice of roasted venison and took a slow, deliberate bite.
"Please," Gareth begged, voice cracking. "You said imprisonment—"
"For a council member," Lan corrected, chewing.
"But my father—!"
"Is a duke. You're not." Lan dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Unless you'd like to argue your pedigree further?"
The Fourth Guard hesitated, hand on his sword hilt, waiting for final confirmation.
Lan gave the barest nod.
The blade flashed.
A wet thunk.
Gareth's head hit the floor with a sound like a dropped melon. His body slumped, arterial spray painting the shocked faces of the nearest nobles.
Someone screamed.
Lan took another sip of wine. "Damn," he murmured, staring into his glass. "This is good wine."
The Fourth Guard scooped up Gareth's head by the hair and dropped it onto Lan's table with a clunk. The prince leaned forward, studying the lifeless eyes, the mouth still slack with terror.
Then he looked up at the horrified crowd.
"So," he said, tilting his head. "Anyone got any more jokes?"
Only silence came.
Lan sighed. "No? That's unfortunate. I was just starting to enjoy them."