The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 42: First Night In Ranevia

Chapter 42: First Night In Ranevia

The night air in Ranevia was sharp—cold in a way that ate at the bones rather than sliced at the skin. The wind howled like a mourning widow through the broken windows of forgotten homes, rattling shutters and carrying the scent of blood, rot, and old woodsmoke.

But here, at the edge of the Mad Vipers’ territory, the air shifted.

Lan, Seraphine, and the Fourth Guard followed closely behind Venom through the crooked paths of Ranevia’s main district.

Lanterns burned low along the roads, barely enough to light the mud-caked alleys, but Venom walked with purpose, his pace slower than usual—limping slightly from their earlier clash.

Eventually, they came to a stop before a building.

It stood tall—three stories high, with reinforced stone at its foundation and weathered blackwood making up its frame.

Vines choked the walls, but unlike the surrounding structures, this one had been maintained. Iron-latched windows glimmered with faint warmth from inside, and a heavy oak door marked its front.

Venom turned slightly toward Lan, gesturing at it with his thumb. "This used to be the estate of Ranevia’s first noble governor. Before the gangs took over, before we stopped pretending nobles were worth anything here. We kept it intact for... reasons. Now it’s yours."

Lan gave the place a glance, eyes sweeping from the foundation to the balconies above. For a place like Ranevia, it was practically a palace.

"Not bad," he said.

Venom gave a half-smile, then turned to leave. "We’ll speak tomorrow morning. I assume you’ll have orders."

Lan nodded. "Be ready."

The gang leader left with the faint clink of armor and the dragging limp of a man who knew he’d barely survived a nightmare. _{free\we,bnovel.c o(m)}

Lan stepped inside first.

The inside of the building carried an unexpected warmth. Dust still clung to the corners and parts of the furniture were visibly aged, but the structure was solid. The hearths were lit.

The carpets weren’t soaked in filth. And the shelves—gods, there were still shelves, untouched by looters.

Seraphine let out a low whistle as she stepped in behind him. Her braided golden hair bounced slightly as she turned, taking in the sight.

"For the dump it’s in," she muttered, "this is actually impressive."

Lan walked over to a small table at the corner of the parlor, where a dusty shelf of liquor bottles remained untouched. He scanned the labels, selected a bottle of deep red wine, and retrieved two old glasses from the lower shelf.

He poured.

"Drink?" he asked.

Seraphine grabbed her glass like it had been waiting for her all day. "Don’t mind if I do."

The Fourth Guard, declined with a simple raise of his hand and a small shake of the head. He stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes watchful but relaxed for once.

The first sip was sharp, bitter—but it warmed the throat and sent a pleasant tingle through the chest.

Seraphine let out a satisfied hum.

They drunk and spoke of nothing relevant as the night deepened, without fear or ambition....only the calm of a first victory.

———

"You know," she started, already swirling her eight pour, "you’ve changed. I mean, really changed. You were always a strange one, even back when the other princes mocked you. But now?"

She giggled, clearly tipsy already.

"Now you’re actually kind of... cool."

Lan raised an eyebrow. "Cool?"

"Don’t laugh," she warned, wagging her finger. "It’s the wine talking. But seriously... I still remember when you used to trip over your own boots during training. You couldn’t even summon a light orb!"

"That was a long time ago," Lan murmured, sipping again.

"And now here you are," Seraphine said, slumping back into the chair with her cheeks flushed. "Conquering territories, terrifying criminals, making grown men piss themselves. It’s impressive."

Lan didn’t respond immediately. He simply stared into his glass for a moment, then refilled it and poured the last into Seraphine’s. She accepted it with a happy sigh—then, not long after, her head lolled to the side.

She had fallen asleep, her hair falling like golden threads across her face, lips slightly parted as she snored softly against the fourth guards shoulder.

The Fourth Guard, still stone-faced, shifted slightly so she could rest easier.

Lan chuckled. "Didn’t take long."

"She’s always had a weak tolerance," The guard said.

Lan nodded, setting his empty glass aside.

"Now that it’s quiet," the guard said at last, turning toward him, "you’ve begun your quest... so what’s the plan?"

Lan stepped away from the parlor table and looked out through one of the iron-latched windows. The lights of Ranevia flickered below, the shadows of crime and fear still crawling under every building.

"The plan is to build something no one’s seen before," he said. "A sect of cultivators. Not mages. Cultivators—loyal to me. Those who walk a path that defies everything this magic-sick world believes in."

The guard frowned. "I don’t know what that means."

"You will," Lan said softly.

He reached into his subspace, fingers brushing against an object that pulsed faintly with memory and meaning. He pulled it out—a large, ancient book. The leather binding was cracked and aged, etched with symbols that shimmered faintly in the firelight.

[The Script of Godly Alchemy.]

Lan handed it to Miller, who took it with silent reverence.

"Give this to Seraphine when she wakes from her hangover," Lan said. "Tell her it’s vital she studies and understands it. Everything inside that book is worth more than this world can comprehend."

The guard nodded. "I’ll make sure she gets it."

Lan turned to leave—but paused at the doorway leading to the chamber halls.

"You know," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "I’ve known you my entire life. And I just realized... I don’t know your actual name."

Miller blinked.

Then he gave a small, tired smile. "It’s Miller."

Lan tilted his head. "Just Miller?"

"That’s all i was given," he replied.

Lan chuckled. "Well, have a good night then, Miller."

"You too, Your Highness."

Lan stepped into the hallway, walking slowly until he found a room that didn’t smell of mold. The bed was dusty but cleanable. He sat down, pulled off his cloak, and collapsed into the sheets with a groan.

His body still ached from the fight. His mind still burned with plans.

But for now, just for a moment, he let himself rest.

He stared at the wooden ceiling.

"First step taken..." he murmured.

"...many more to go."