The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Lan's gaze returned to the mounted heads, the poles lined like grim sentinels over the marsh.

"Good," he said. "I want them to."

Southfang March's largest stronghold was gone, its defenders dead or scattered. The resistance was broken.

Lan stood at the water's edge, the swamp behind him and the road to Verdelane ahead. In the dark, the poles along the causeway looked like black fingers clawing at the night sky.

When they moved again, it would be toward richer lands, higher walls, and deeper spoils.

The March had been bled dry.

Now it was Verdelane's turn.

----------

The land changed long before the city walls appeared.

After days of trudging through the March's grey waters and knotted mangroves, the ground began to breathe again. Mud gave way to firm earth, and firm earth to the deep, healthy green of the south.

The contrast was almost as jarring as it were pleasant.

Here, the air carried no rot — only the scent of crushed grapes drifting from the sloping vineyards that stretched as far as the eye could see.

The road they followed was lined with cypress trees, their dark columns leaving shadows over carts laden with silk bundles and polished wine casks.

Lan had told most of his army to stay back at the outskirts while a handful proceeded to scout the province.

Even then, the cart drivers eyed Lan's procession — the battered wagons, the weather-stained armor, the pale-eyed man at their head — with a mix of curiosity and unease. Word traveled quickly along trade roads.

These were no southern merchants.

Verdelane was said to be a jewel of the empire's south, and even from the outskirts, it glittered. Villas of pale marble sat atop hill crests like serene watchmen, each wrapped in its own terraces of vines.

The roofs were tiled in shades of red and gold, catching the afternoon light as though dipped in fire.

In the distance, the spires of the provincial capital rose above a haze of perfumed air — not the heavy perfume of courtesans, but the delicate blend of flowering citrus, crushed lavender, and clean river breeze.

Lan rode at the head of his column, Devil's Lie hanging at his side, its rusted edge catching stray glints of sunlight.

Miller rode just behind him, silent as ever, but Lan caught the slight twitch of the old guard's eye each time a caravan passed. Venom's Mad Vipers followed in disciplined formation, an odd sight for a band that once thrived in the chaos of Ranevia's underbelly.

"Almost peaceful," Halmer muttered from his place near the front, his limp less pronounced on solid ground. "Dangerous place for men like us."

Lan didn't look at him. His eyes were on the hills. "Peaceful places grow soft. Soft places rot from the inside."

The road dipped and curved toward the River Sere, a silver thread cutting through the province. Broad stone bridges arched across it, guarded by men in lacquered breastplates.

Their spears gleamed, not from recent use, but from polish and pageantry. Their stance was practiced, their armor immaculate — yet to Lan's eye, they stood too easily, their feet too close together, their eyes too fixed on the horizon instead of the travelers before them.

As they crossed, the air cooled with the scent of the river, and the chatter of Verdelane's heart began to reach them.

The provincial capital sprawled ahead, its outer districts spilling across gentle slopes in a quilt of terracotta roofs and narrow streets.

The wealthier quarters sat higher, guarded by walls veined with ivy, while the lower districts bustled with the clamor of markets.

Lan's gaze swept it all — the merchants hawking bolts of silk, the street performers balancing painted masks, the rows of wine shops with their doors thrown open. Here, gold flowed as freely as wine, and from the sound of it, neither was in short supply.

Venom rode up beside him, his scar pulling tight as he grinned. "Not a place built for war."

"No," Lan said quietly. "Which makes it easier to take."

They didn't march straight for the city gates. Instead, Lan led them along a narrower road that skirted the outer vineyards. Workers paused mid-harvest to watch the column pass, baskets of grapes balanced on their hips.

Some murmured in confusion; others made the sign of warding with their fingers.

When they stopped in the shadow of a low hill, the city lay just beyond, its walls white in the sun. Lan dismounted, stepping onto the grass with deliberate slowness.

The wind carried the faint toll of a temple bell, the laughter of children in some distant courtyard, and the lazy hum of a place that had never known famine or siege.

Perfect.

Miller approached without needing to be called. "Your orders?"

Lan's pale grey eyes stayed fixed on the city. "We don't storm this one. Not yet. I know i had originally said we plunder it and let the men take what they want, but it would be a shame to destroy something so beautiful, so instead we destroy those that lead it."

Halmer gave a low grunt of approval. Braggs calculating gaze was already scanning the vineyards, the roads, the outer houses — measuring entry points and chokeholds.

Lan crouched, pressing his palm to the earth. The soil here was warm, alive, thick with the promise of harvests. "They've been feeding themselves and the empire both for decades. Perhaps it's time those rich lords know suffering too."

Venom's grin widened. "And if the lords resist?"

Lan laughed.

They could not be resisted.

The sun was sinking, gilding the marble villas in firelight. Behind him, his men stood in ready silence, shadows stretching long over the grass. Ahead lay Verdelane — rich, unguarded, and entirely unprepared.

Lan rose, Devil's Lie whispering against its sheath as he slid it into place.

"Tonight, we only watch," he said. "We meet them tomorrow."

And in the dying light, they stood together — a dark shape against the golden hills — ready to take the province.