The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 37: A Convenient Hell

Chapter 37: A Convenient Hell

[ Quest Completed ]

[ Reward Granted: Soul Brand (Skill) ]

The notification flickered across Lan’s vision, but he barely acknowledged it. His eyes remained fixed on the man across the table.

A heavy silence settled in the tavern. The floor was littered with bodies and blood, and the air still carried the echo of violence. Venom’s men stood frozen where they were, blades hovering at their throats, wrists, and spines. Lan’s Qi Blades, glowing faintly crimson, danced around the tavern like hungry ghosts.

None dared move. Not even to breathe too loudly.

The only sound that dared break the silence was the rhythmic tap tap tap of Venom’s finger on the wooden table, slow and measured.

Then finally, his voice cut through the tension. Rough. Gravelly. Hoarse like someone who had smoked out his conscience.

"You’re the prince, I presume. The one sent as the new governor."

"Yes," Lan replied coolly. "That’s correct."

Venom nodded, his sharp eyes never leaving Lan’s. He reached for the bottle on the table, poured himself a drink into a wooden cup, and took a sip without fear. The way his men stared at him, it was clear no one else in the room had the spine to move an inch without permission.

"I must say," Venom began, swirling the liquid in his cup, "I’m surprised. You’re the first one to come around these parts with such... audacity."

"Is that so?"

"They usually come with titles and empty decrees," Venom muttered. "Dripping with gold and promises. Talking about peace like it’s some fruit you can grow in ice." He smirked. "Then they disappear. Or die. Ranevia eats their bones."

Lan tilted his head slightly. "That’s not why I came."

"No?" Venom raised an eyebrow.

"I didn’t come here to negotiate peace or establish compromise," Lan said flatly. "Whatever it is you had here—whatever control, rule, illusion of power—it ends today. I came for total domination."

The statement settled over the room as if it were a guillotine.

But then Lan’s voice softened just enough to hold weight, not warmth.

"But first... I want to know something. Why has Ranevia been left to rot for so long?"

Venom’s eyes narrowed slightly. He set his cup down and leaned forward, elbows resting on the blood-smeared table.

Lan continued, voice measured. "I’ve seen your people. Your gangsters, your vagabonds, your mongrels. You don’t have enough power to stop a kingdom. So why hasn’t the kingdom done anything? Why hasn’t Solaris crushed you under its heel and brought order?"

Venom chuckled, slow and dry, like it tasted bitter on the way out. Then he laughed—a genuine, guttural sound that echoed through the broken tavern like a curse.

"You really don’t get it," he said.

Lan said nothing.

Venom’s grin faded into something darker. "Ranevia isn’t the lawless shithole it is because of us. It’s not because of the gangs, the crime, the rot. It’s because that’s all it can be."

He leaned back and gestured around them.

"Why would the Solaris Kingdom waste coin, soldiers, or mana on this frozen graveyard? The soil here’s infertile. The wind burns your lungs. The mana beasts up north make caravans disappear like fog. This place doesn’t grow. It only destroys and demands."

He let the words hang before continuing.

"Ranevia is the dumping ground. The grave where they bury the damned, the disgraced, the inconvenient. You know how many failed nobles they’ve sent here to ’govern’? Five? Ten? Each of them just another corpse with a crest."

Venom’s tone turned venomous. "They don’t want to fix Ranevia. They want it to stay broken."

Lan’s gaze sharpened. "A convenient hell."

"Exactly," Venom said. "A place to send the problems they can’t kill in the capital. People like you, prince. When they sent you here, they weren’t giving you a chance at rule. They were offering you a slow death. You’re just another scapegoat with a crown."

Lan smiled faintly. "You’re quite perceptive."

Venom poured himself another drink. "Well, you made a rather loud introduction. The dead have a way of sharpening conversation."

Lan’s fingers tapped his own cup, untouched.

"Tell me, then. The true state of Ranevia. Its structure. Its gangs. I want to know everything."

Venom studied him a moment, then nodded. "Fine. I’ll give you the lay of this hell."

He pointed to the floor.

"There are three real powers in Ranevia. The Mad Vipers—my lot. We control the southern roads, the mines, and the Red District. Our strength comes from numbers, supply lines, and fear. Simple, but effective."

He held up two fingers.

"Next are the Black Fangs. Mercenaries turned raiders. They control the western border, cut off trade, and hit caravans. Vicious bastards. Their leader’s a monster named Bragg—half-man, half-beast. Been a thorn in my side for years."

A third finger.

"And then there are the Ash Tongues. Cultists. Slavers. Sadists. They run the eastern hills and old temples. No one knows who leads them anymore, but their rituals keep mana beasts away. That buys them loyalty."

He lowered his hand.

"The center—this town—is neutral. Or it was, until you walked in and painted the floor with Kanger’s blood."

"I’m not interested in neutrality," Lan said.

Venom smirked again. "Clearly."

"The gangs fight each other," Venom continued, "but not openly. There’s an understanding—if any of us start a full war, it’ll draw Solaris’s attention."

"Which they don’t want."

"No," Venom nodded. "They want us distracted. Fractured. If we ever united, we’d become something... difficult."

Lan absorbed every word. It was what he needed to hear, but also what he expected.

"Thank you," Lan finally said. "You’ve been... quite informative."

Venom raised a brow. "That it?"

Lan stood.

"No. Now comes the real reason I’m here."

The Qi blades around the tavern flared again, casting flickering red light on every frightened face.

"You see, Venom, I’m not here to join your structure. I’m not here to barter, or compromise, or ’co-exist’."

Lan’s eyes met Venom’s with the weight of judgment.

"I’m here to build something new from the rot of the old."

He drew a breath.

"So I’ll give you a choice."

His voice dropped like a blade.

"Submission. Or death."

The silence returned.

But this time, it was heavier.

Because now it wasn’t about the violence that had happened—but the promise that none of them were necessary anymore.