The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Three days had passed since Lan rode east into the golden haze, and Ranevia had begun to shift like earth after a long frost.

Slowly, then all at once.

The rot was still there—it clung to the bones of old buildings, to gutters slick with decades of despair—but something strange had crept in.

Hope.

It began with the smell.

Bread.

Warm, thick-crusted loaves that made beggars lift their heads for the first time in months. Fresh stew thickened with game meat, herbs, and real salt, served steaming on clay plates in the open alleys.

Vats of water—clean, warm, and blessed with faint healing oils—were poured into the rebuilt bathhouses, where once only rats bathed.

The people called them "The Wolf Orders." And they knew who had enforced them.

The Mad Vipers were no longer a group of bandits. They walked the streets in furs and armor, blades sheathed, but eyes sharp. Children stopped fearing them.

Some even chased them down to ask if it was true that their leader could stop time or turn gold to birds.

At the old chapel, now a public granary, Garran stood shirtless atop crates, calling out names from a ledger. Miners, mothers, and mercenaries came forth one by one, receiving their coins.

Thirty silver for laborers. More for guards. Twice that if you'd been injured from gang violence since the last winter.

People cried when they were paid. Some laughed, like it was a trick. Others kissed the coin.

The Vipers didn't say much.

They only made sure the line stayed straight, the weight stayed fair, and the guards stayed armed.

---

Up in the northern hills, past the ruined fort and beyond the frozen creek where the soil turned black and rich, Seraphine had been busy in the governor's estate.

There, beneath slanted sunlight and the hum of ghost crystals, her work had begun in earnest.

Dozens of copper cauldrons lined the walls. Each was carved with markings —some etched by her hand, others by Miller in his brief visits. The air inside smelled of drying herbs, scorched parchment, and something stranger… something like burnt lightning and plum wine.

The crystals from the Ranevian mines were at the heart of her work. Ghost ore, ground and refined, gave off faint, flickering pulses—like heartbeat echoes from a buried star.

Seraphine, her golden braid bound in a loose loop, stood over a long stone table, a glass rod in one hand and a sliver of bone in the other.

She murmured words too ancient for the common tongue. Threads of world Qi—pale gold and radiant—slid from her fingertips and wrapped around the crystal-infused solution.

Next to her, the first batch of pills lay cooling in bone-dry trays.

Pale white. Slightly translucent. Cold to the touch.

After changing his mind a few times Lan had settled on a name them before he left.

"Seed Pills."

A jumpstart for those without Qi. Not a full awakening—but the first breath. Turning mana in Qi.

Seraphine's assistants, chosen from among the quietest Vipers and the most precise of former thieves, moved carefully with the trays. None dared speak.

Then the tremor came.

A boy—barely seventeen, narrow-eyed, gaunt—sat on a woven mat beside the largest cauldron. He had taken the pill twelve hours ago.

Now, his body was shivering.

Not fever. From the flow.

Veins on his arms began to pulse with faint, silver lines. His breathing deepened. His spine straightened, joints cracking like branches under weight.

Seraphine's eyes glinted.

"Qi is forming," she whispered. "It's real. He's cultivating."

The assistants stopped working.

The boy opened his eyes.

They weren't glowing. But they saw now. They saw more than the room. More than the walls.

Seraphine whispered to herself, voice cracking with a joy she hadn't allowed in years.

"We can do it. We can make cultivators."

---

Back in the heart of Ranevia, in the old watchtower that had once held prisoners and now held plans, Bragg, Venom, and Miller were seated around a large wooden table. Maps covered its surface, pinned by daggers and drinking cups.

They were studying expansion routes—how to secure the western trade roads without pulling troops from the mines. Bragg had just finished complaining about rats chewing through parchment again.

"The bathhouse is fixed," Venom muttered, finishing his cup. "But the walls still stink."

"Then knock them down and rebuild them," Bragg said. "We have coin. Use it."

Venom grunted. "You knock them down. I'm not a mason."

Bragg rolled his eyes.

Miller stood nearby, silent as always, arms folded like an iron statue. His eyes flicked to every shadow and creak in the room. That was just who he was—loyal to the bone, and forever on guard.

"Seraphine says she needs more of your men," Bragg said. "For the pills."

"You mean more test subjects?" Venom asked.

"No—more guards. She says people are going to start killing each other for those pills if we don't get a real system in place."

Venom raised an eyebrow. "They're that good?"

"Good enough," Bragg muttered. "If they really do what she says... Ranevia might become the center of something the Empire has never seen."

Miller finally spoke. "Too many eyes will turn here if that happens."

"We'll be ready," Venom said, confidence ringing in his voice. "We've got walls, steel, men who'll die for us—and a prince who doesn't lose."

Bragg snorted. "He better not."

Then came the pounding.

Boots on the stairs.

A voice—breathless, ragged—shouting before the door even opened.

"They're here!"

The door burst inward. One of the younger Vipers, soaked in sweat, his chest rising and falling like he'd run through a blizzard.

Venom shot to his feet. "Who?"

The boy nearly choked on the words.

"The army."

Bragg frowned, brow furrowing. "What army?"

The boy's voice dropped, but the weight of it hit harder than a sword.

"Crown Prince Kael. He's here."

Silence.

Miller's fingers flexed near his blade.

The boy continued. "He came with… the Solaris banners. A whole legion. Mounted. Armored. Full standard."

Bragg's mouth went dry. "That can't be right. Kael—"

Venom's eyes narrowed. "He came himself?"

The boy nodded. "I saw him. Black horse. Red armor. He didn't look peaceful. He's here to take."

Outside, faint and far off, came the unmistakable sound of marching boots—a hundred of them—echoing against stone and ice and broken streets.

The wolves had built something.

And now, the lions had come to tear it down.