The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Three days had passed since Lan and his army had returned to the north.

The snows had not fully claimed the fields, but the air was already sharp, carrying the bite of winter. The Ranevian banners fluttered limply in the wind over scorched timber and half-toppled walls.

The battle for survival a year ago had been as fierce as any war; yet now the streets bustled, hammer against anvil, saw against wood, the voices of soldiers and smiths alike binding the fractured province back into something that resembled life.

Their wagons had arrived groaning under the weight of their spoils — sacks of grain stacked like bricks of gold, enough to feed every soldier and worker for the next year if rationed well.

They had brought more than food, though.

Among their haul were prisoners — hundreds of them — captured soldiers and able-bodied men from the enemy's ranks. By Lan's order, they would not be kept in chains for long.

The prisoners heared of soul binding, of turning enemy into eternal servant, soldier into asset. In the north, victory was not simply claimed. It was reforged into permanence.

For three days, the city had been mending itself. For three days, the men had tasted the satisfaction of survival, but also the restlessness of unfinished conquest.

Lan had not been seen much in public during that time. Those who caught glimpses of him in the streets said his gaze was already far to the south.

Beneath one of Ranevia's oldest stone halls lay a chamber no map recorded. Its entrance was sealed behind layered wards and guarded by Lan's most loyal men — warriors who would sooner die than open those doors to an outsider.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and the faint metallic spark of alchemical work. Furnaces hissed softly, casting shadows that swayed across racks of glass jars and trays filled with drying roots.

A constant warmth clung to the space, neither oppressive nor inviting — the warmth of purpose.

At the center of it all worked Seraphine.

Her movements were smooth, intentional, and strangely graceful. Her eyes, long gone, were hidden beneath a strip of white cloth, yet her hands moved with the precision of a kings surgeon, placing powdered herbs into crucibles, turning flasks at exactly the right moment.

When she reached for something, her fingers landed upon it without fumbling. When she measured, she did so without glancing. It was as though she saw without sight.

Perhaps she did.

Ever since she had forsaken mana and rebuilt herself upon ki, her senses had sharpened beyond what most mages could boast.

She could hear a heartbeat across a room. She could feel the subtle heat of a candle flame from paces away. She could sense the shift of the air when someone stepped into her presence.

Which is why she knew he was there even before he spoke.

"You work hard," he said, voice low but edged with that iron steadiness that always clung to him.

She turned her head slightly toward him, the faintest smile tugging her lips. "And you work harder. You've taken half the kingdoms in mere weeks… you're fast."

Lan leaned against the stone wall, his arms crossed. "I'm desperate."

She continued grinding powder with a mortar, her expression softening. "And yet careful. You could have stormed the capital already, yet you haven't. You understand… authority spreads best like a shadow — slow, certain, and inescapable. To let every man, woman, and child learn what to fear before control is taken."

Her smile faded. "And of course… the obstacle will await you."

Lan's brow furrowed. "You really think they'll invoke it?"

"What other option do they have?" she replied without hesitation.

He exhaled through his nose, the thought twisting in his mind.

"How is she?" he asked.

Seraphine's hands stilled for the first time. "…Safe. For now. But I can feel her pain, even from here. She suffers."

Lan's gaze darkened. "She does. More than i could ever explain. And I can't say for how much longer she'll have to endure."

There was no softness in Seraphine's voice when she said, "Perhaps death was the kinder choice."

Lan's answer was immediate. "It was. But sometimes, when you're as desperate for power as we are… you get too stubborn to just die."

The only sound between them for a while was the quiet hiss of the furnaces and the gentle clink of glass.

---

By the time the sun had begun to dip behind the hills, the people of Ranevia were already gathering in the central square.

Soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, their armor mismatched from the spoils of war but polished for the occasion. The smell of smoke still lingered in the streets, mingling with the tang of cold iron and oil.

Lan stood before them on the broad stone steps of the council hall — the building in the square that was freshly made. Behind him, banners stitched hastily from captured standards flapped in the wind.

His presence commanded the square in a way no wall or watchtower could.

His voice carried without strain.

"Three days ago, we returned to Ranevia not survivors, but as victors," he began. "We took from our enemies what they have taken from us — our lives, our homes, our food. We returned with enough grain to feed us through winter and beyond."

A cheer rippled through the soldiers, but he raised a hand and it fell silent.

"We returned with more than food," he continued, his eyes scanning the crowd. "We returned with new comrades. Some of them once raised their blades against us. They will do so no longer. By the binding of soul and oath, they will march with us. Fight with us. Die with us."

Another cheer rose, louder this time, and Lan let it ride for a heartbeat before speaking again.

"For three days we have rebuilt what was broken. For three days we have healed our wounds. But our work is not done. This—" he gestured to the square, the repaired homes, the mended walls "—this is only half the victory."

His voice dropped into something colder.

"We cannot stop here. The south still stands against us. The kingdom that would see us starve still draws breath."

Lan's hand rose again, but this time not to silence them — it was to point downward at the very stones beneath his feet.

"Ranevia will not just be a city. It will not just be a stronghold. From this day forward, it will be our capital — the heart of something far greater than a single kingdom."

He let the words hang, the pause deliberate.

"We will build something the south has never seen. A force not bound by borders or bloodlines. A creed, a banner, a destiny."

He spread his arms, his voice ringing with finality.

"From this day forward, we are the Northern God Sect!"

The crowd erupted. The name was shouted, chanted, repeated until it seemed to shake the stones.

Lan's voice cut through the roar one last time.

"By morning, we march south. Phase one is complete. Phase two begins now. Prepare yourselves."

He stepped back, and the soldiers did not stop chanting.

Even those who had been prisoners only days ago joined the chorus — not out of loyalty yet, perhaps, but out of the knowledge that survival now wore Lan's face.

Above them, the banners of conquered provinces rippled in the cold wind, and the newly christened capital of the Northern God Sect settled under the weight of its next war.

This was the true beginning, and no rain came this time because the sky had run out of tears for the world.