The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Frost clung to the soul of Ranevia.

The sun had barely broken the line of the northern mountains, yet the air still tasted of iron and smoke.

From the highest ruined watchtower, you could see the strange new order taking root in this forgotten wasteland — the crooked streets straightened into parade lines, skeletal buildings reinforced with timber stolen from the southern roads, the rotting silence of the last year shattered by the bark of drill commands.

Miller's voice carried far, cold and cutting, as he paced between rows of men who had once been gang cutthroats.

They now stood in mismatched armor, yet they no longer moved in the rigid, jerking rhythms of untrained soldiers trying to imitate discipline. Steel clashed as they practiced shield walls, the sound sharp in the brittle air.

Beyond them, smoke curled from the newly restored forges, black columns against the pale sky. The smell of coal and burning scrap mixed with the tang of frost.

Horses stamped and huffed in the corrals, their breath ghosting white. The whole place felt like a beast in the making — ribs still showing, but its heart already beating.

Inside the war tent, the beast's mind was at work.

Lan stood at the head of the map table, hands braced on its scarred surface. Inked lines showed the western provinces in grim detail: the farmlands of Westerloch streching like a green lung, the Ironfang coast curling south, ports and shipyards marked in red.

A single thick black arrow ran straight from Ranevia into the heart of that lung.

Venom, tall and broad-shouldered, stood opposite him, one scarred finger tapping the parchment.

"We take Westerloch fast," Venom said, voice low but edged with eagerness. "Two days at the longest if the roads hold. Grain silos here, here, and here—" He stabbed the map in three places. "We burn what we can't carry. Leave them nothing."

Miller stood to the side, his grey eyes fixed on the map.

"They'll try to hold the river crossing north of the farms," he said. "If they're smart, they'll set up barricades before we get there."

"They're not smart," Venom said, lips curling. "They've had no reason to be for years. The capital's kept them fat and lazy."

Lan's pale grey eyes traced the map without expression.

"They'll learn reason," he murmured. His tone was almost bored, as though the slaughter to come was no more than an errand.

A crunch of boots on frost announced Garran's arrival. The man ducked into the tent, his broad frame nearly blocking the light.

"Wagon trains are ready," Garran reported. "Twenty carts with spare yokes, iron-rimmed wheels. Halmer says they can hold enough grain to keep us fed for a month and still have more to trade."

He paused, eyes flicking to Lan. "Assuming we take all of it."

Lan gave the faintest nod. "We will."

---

They left Ranevia under a pale sun, the breath of the army rising in plumes into the frigid air. Hooves drummed on the frost-hardened road, wheels creaked, leather straps groaned under the weight of supplies.

The Mad Vipers rode at the front with Venom, dark shapes in fur and iron, the red scarves of their gang fluttering from spear shafts.

The first half-day passed in silence but for the sound of the march. The road wound through skeletal villages — houses with sagging roofs, shuttered windows, wells choked with ice.

In one hamlet, a scarecrow leaned drunkenly in a dead field, its straw hands stretched toward them as if in warning.

By midday, the land began to change. The snow-thin fields gave way to the first green shoots of early barley, rippling under the winter sun.

Smoke rose from chimneys here and there, and in the distance, black figures moved through the furrows — farmers, pausing in their work to watch the column pass.

They didn't speak, didn't move to flee, only stood with tools in hand, their faces pale against the dark earth.

Garran rode past them without a glance, but one Halmer, further down the line, leaned from her saddle and gave them a slow smile. It was not kind.

---

Late in the day, the road narrowed between two low hills, and there the first resistance appeared. A ragged militia of thirty or so men stood across the road, shields painted in the blue and white of Westerloch.

The shields looked new; the men holding them did not. Their armor was a patchwork of leather, rusted mail, and farmer's padding. A few had crossbows. Most clutched spears that shook in their hands.

Venom rode to the front, his expression somewhere between amusement and pity.

"Step aside," he called. "You're in the path of something bigger than you can imagine."

One man — perhaps their captain — stepped forward. His voice shook, but he managed to lift his spear.

"You'll go no further. This is Westerloch land."

Venom sighed.

"Wrong answer."

He didn't look back; he didn't have to. At his signal, a dozen riders surged forward. The clash was short and ugly. Spears shattered, shields splintered, men screamed.

One rider's axe took the captain through the neck. The others broke ranks, but flight was impossible — they were cut down before they'd taken ten steps.

When it was done, the only sound was the drip of blood on frozen earth.

Lan hadn't moved from his place near the front of the column. His sword remained undrawn, his hands resting loosely at his sides. His gaze swept the scene with the detached interest of a man watching the tide erode a sandcastle.

By dusk, they crested a low ridge, and the land beyond opened into the rolling gold of Westerloch's outer farms.

The ripe grain swayed in the wind, heavy and fragrant, the air thick with the scent of it. Smoke from farmhouse chimneys curled into the darkening sky. Farther off, the faint outline of the provincial town was just visible, its walls lit by torchlight.

The army made camp on the ridge, fires flickering in the cold wind. The horses were watered, the men fed. Somewhere in the darkness, a dog barked, then fell silent.

Halmer set traps along the perimeter; Garran oversaw the stacking of shields and spare spears. Miller walked the lines without a word, his presence enough to keep the men from talking too loud.

Lan stood apart, looking down at the black sea of grain that lay between them and the town. The wind tugged at his dark hair, carrying the scent of harvest and soil.

Miller approached, boots whispering in the frost.

"Scouts report the silos are full," Miller said. "Farmhouses are stocked for winter. If we move fast, we can have it all by midday."

Lan didn't look at him.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice calm, almost quiet. "It burns."

The words hung in the cold air, sinking into the frost, into the men's bones.

By morning, Westerloch would no longer be the breadbasket of the western provinces.

It would be ash.