The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 35: Haven For The Damned

Chapter 35: Haven For The Damned

Ranevia.

A northern territory in name alone—more a scar on the map than a functioning province. The air felt like it bore witness to war. The winds were cruel, thick with frost and bitter resentment, gnawing at skin like unseen teeth. Even the sun, when it managed to break through the oppressive grey clouds, looked tired.

The land was untamed. Jagged hills and crooked forests framed a territory that had long since rejected kings and laws. The earth was frozen, cracked and infertile. No crops grew. No noble estates remained. All things dignified had withered or been driven out long ago.

It wasn’t just the manabeasts—though those alone would be enough to choke any honest settlement. It was the people.

They called them the north rebels, or less kindly, the rot.

They were outlaws, murderers, thieves, disgraced mages who’d lost their status, mercenaries too bloodstained for even the black markets. Ranevia was the dumping ground of Solaris—where the kingdom tossed its undesirables and looked the other way.

And yet, not all who lived there had chosen the life.

Some were just too poor to escape. Too powerless. Refugees, castaways, orphans. People who had no coin, no magic, and no home to return to. So they survived under the rule of gangs and tyrants, trading labor or flesh for shelter, praying each day wouldn’t be their last.

---

Lan stood at the top of a cliff, boots sinking slightly into the frozen dirt, his pale eyes scanning the landscape of his new domain.

The town below looked like something from a past life—stonework foundations half-collapsed, rooftops patched with whatever scraps could be scavenged. Once, it had been a proper settlement, likely built with noble intentions. But now?

It reeked of savagery.

Rust-streaked banners of different gangs fluttered in the wind like war trophies. Fires burned in alley barrels. Even from up here, Lan could hear the crude shouting and clang of iron.

Seraphine stepped beside him, her breath curling in the air, her long dress billowing.

"Well, here we are—the city of rebels."

Lan took a long breath in through his nose. The scent of smoke. Blood. Foul mana. He exhaled slowly.

"...It’s perfect."

The sun dipped behind the uneven mountains, painting the sky a shade of bruised purple. As darkness descended, Lan turned, his silhouette haloed by dying light.

"Well then, shall we?"

They returned to their carriage. It creaked down the narrow dirt road, passing splintered signs and burned-out watchtowers. As they entered the outskirts of the town, the atmosphere grew heavier—every glance from the locals came sharp and suspicious.

There was no need for disguise. Everyone could tell with a single look: they didn’t belong here.

The Fourth Guard parked the carriage near a crumbling stone wall. Already, a small crowd had formed. Curious. Predatory.

Lan dismounted first.

"Don’t leave anything behind," he said calmly, eyes still forward. "This carriage will be stripped for firewood and screws ten minutes after we’re gone."

Seraphine nodded, already stepping off the rear platform, cloak drawn close. The Fourth Guard followed, expression unreadable beneath his scarf.

As they walked into the heart of Ranevia, it became painfully clear what kind of place this was.

A man was being beaten in the middle of the street—his body limp under the moonlight, his blood soaking into the snow-streaked ground as three thugs kicked him over and over.

His crime? A crust of bread still clutched in his hands.

Not ten paces further, a youth plunged a dagger into another man’s ribs. No alarm. No outrage. Just a cold retreat of witnesses as the killer rifled through the corpse’s coat.

Across the street, half-naked women lounged on the steps of a crumbling inn. Some pulled at drunken passersby with painted nails and empty eyes. Others, already on their knees, earned their meals without pretense.

A place of lawless depravity.

A place built for devils.

Then, it appeared:

[New Quest: Establish Dominance]

>Venom, the Gang Leader of The Mad Vipers, one of Ranevia’s most powerful gangs is present. Show him you mean business.

Reward: Soul Brand (Skill)

---

Lan’s eyes narrowed as he read the prompt. His expression darkened.

Just then—

"Hey!"

A voice rang out behind them.

The group turned.

Three men approached. Tattered cloaks, crooked weapons, and the kind of stench that only came from rot and unwashed regret. Their scruffy beards were patchy, and the glint in their eyes said everything they needed to.

"You look like new faces," the man in the middle drawled. He had dark hair slicked back with grease, and his breath reeked of wine and vomit. "Tell me, what brings you to hell?" _{free\we\bnov(e)(l).com}

"Ay, Kanger—look at that one." The man on his right licked his cracked lips, eyes locked on Seraphine. "Been a while since I seen a woman that pretty."

Kanger grinned. "With such a body, too." His eyes trailed across her form, a line of drool appearing on his chin. "Must’ve cost you a fortune, huh?"

The Fourth Guard took one step forward, hand on his blade.

Lan raised a hand, stopping his advance.

He turned to the men, his voice calm.

"You actually came at the perfect time. I had a few questions. Would you be kind enough to tell me where I can find someone named Ven—"

"Ay!" Kanger barked, brandishing a rusted machete. "Shut the fuck up."

His men snickered behind him.

"Just drop your shit, leave the woman, and maybe I’ll let you crawl outta here with your balls still attached."

Lan sighed, rubbing his temples. "How unfortunate. At least I tried to be civil."

Kanger scowled. "What the fuck are you—"

And then he blinked.

Lan was gone.

Kanger’s eyes widened.

Lan had vanished—disappeared from sight without even a footstep to mark his retreat. One moment he was standing before them, and the next, gone.

Kanger’s pupils dilated, darting from one corner of his eye to the next, desperate to locate the figure that had just been in front of him. His breath caught in his throat, a cold panic settling over him like frost.

Then he turned—just slightly.

And that’s when he saw it.

A blur. A flicker of motion in the moon light.

One of his men—eyes wide, mouth frozen in a silent scream—clutching at his throat as blood sprayed from a gash too deep to mend. He collapsed to his knees, then forward onto the dirt, dead before he hit the ground.

Kanger froze.

’He has already... killed my men.’

The thought struck like a hammer against his chest, and for the first time in ages, Kanger felt it.

True terror.

Kanger did not run. He simply waited to die—like Ranevia always taught its weak.