The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 41: The First Step

Chapter 41: The First Step

The wind howled across the ruins of the tavern.

Ash floated through the air like drifting spirits, the only remnants of the chaos that had just unfolded. Within the rubble, the broken beams, and the blood-soaked ground, Lan stood tall—pale eyes fixed on the kneeling form of Venom.

Mere moments ago, he was a feared tyrant of Ranevia, but he now looked up at Lan through bruised and swollen lids. The light in his eyes flickered, without rage.

Just submission.

Lan sighed.

This was the first step—but only that. The Mad Vipers were one head of a three-headed beast. Two more gangs still ruled their portions of Ranevia like wounds yet to heal—unchecked and unchallenged. If he meant to claim this wasteland, to raise it from rot into reign, they too would have to kneel.

But for now, the Vipers were his. Or so it appeared.

Lan’s gaze narrowed.

"I need to be certain your submission is absolute. Without chance of betrayal."

Venom looked up at him, his voice low and cracked. "You have my word."

"Your word?" Lan scoffed. "Your word isn’t worth horse shit. But fear? That has value."

Venom blinked, confused. "Fear? Fear of you? You’ve already—"

"No," Lan cut him off sharply. "Something more assuring than that. Fear of death."

The streets hushed again. What was left of the Mad Vipers stared, still in shock, as their leader continued to bleed under the cold night air.

Venom’s brow creased. "W-what do you mean?"

Lan raised a single hand. A symbol shimmered into existence above his open palm—a spiraling red sigil wreathed in a crimson aura, pulsing a slow, dreadful rhythm. The air around it thickened.

"This is a Soul Brand," Lan said. "Any who are marked by it will be bound to my will. Any attempt at betrayal—mental, verbal, or physical—will result in the destruction of the traitor’s soul. No resurrection. No reincarnation. Just annihilation."

Venom stared at the floating mark, something old and primal tightening in his chest. He slowly pushed himself upright, groaning with each pained breath.

"Don’t you think that’s... a bit extreme?" he asked.

Lan’s face remained calm. "As a matter of fact, I don’t. But if you have a problem with it, you may choose to die now instead."

Venom was silent.

Then he gave a grim chuckle. "You really are different."

"So I’ve been told."

Venom took a moment, wiping the blood from his mouth, then looked at Lan’s extended hand, the glowing red sigil pulsing above it.

"...How does it work?"

"Simple," Lan said. "Just shake my hand."

Venom hesitated. His fingers twitched. But in the end, he reached out.

Their hands clasped.

The mark pulsed.

Venom screamed.

Red energy lanced through his body like fire in his blood. Veins turned black. Muscles spasmed. A dark sigil burned itself into the side of his neck, like molten iron seared into flesh. He dropped to one knee, gasping.

Then—silence.

Lan let go, the symbol fading from his palm.

"It’s done," he said, brushing his hand off. "You’re bound. And now, you have the power to brand your men as well. Every last one of them. I expect it to be done before first light."

Venom coughed. Then slowly nodded. "Understood."

Lan turned to face the rest of the Vipers. The ones who had watched their boss fall, who had seen something they never thought they’d witness—Venom, conquered. Submitting.

The gang stood in stunned silence. Among them were brutes, killers, smugglers, and madmen. For years, they had known only power by dominance of the stronger vagabond, rule by fear, and respect through blood.

Now they stared at a stranger.

A prince.

He was not one of them, and yet...

Lan’s voice came quiet, clear—and carried through the street like a cold knife sliding across glass.

"Honestly? The right thing to do would be to kill every one of you."

Murmurs rippled.

Lan continued, unfazed. "You’re all guilty. Guilty of murder, assault, robbery, extortion—atrocities that deserve punishment no less than death. Simply put... you’re not good men."

He let that truth hang. Their guilt lay bare in the open. No defenses. No excuses.

"But neither am I."

That made them pause.

"So I’ll let you live," he said. "For redemption, not as heroes made of some flawed idea of justice. Not because you deserve to. But as part of something greater than good or evil. A cause. A reason to change."

He stepped forward, his boots crunching through shattered glass and burnt wood.

"I’ll make the best of you into something greater. Higher. And the worst of you—" he gave a slight smile, "—I’ll make into weapons. Tools sharp enough to tear down every enemy...but all in due time."

He let the words soak in, watching their expressions shift.

"For now, this is my first decree. Your first law."

He stopped.

"There will no longer be senseless murder or crime within this territory. Your pointless depravity ends today. From the Southern Roads to the Red District—if you break this law, you will face consequences."

He turned his gaze toward the mountains to the east.

"And as for the rest of Ranevia... they will be conquered soon."

A long silence followed.

Then—

"Heil the new king!" _{fre.eweb novel\.c om}

The cry came from the crowd—not from one of the Vipers, but from a shriveled beggar. A man so thin his bones pressed like knives against his skin. He raised a trembling fist, voice breaking with hope and desperation.

"Heil the new king!"

Another joined.

Then another.

Then dozens.

Their voices rose in a wild, staggering chant. A chorus of the broken and the damned, of those who had suffered for too long under chaos and silence.

"Heil the new king!"

"Heil the new king!"

Their cries echoed into the shattered night.

Lan stood among them, his expression blank. He didn’t bask in the praise, nor smile at it.

Because he knew what lay ahead. This was only the beginning.

And the next blade would fall soon.

It had to.