The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 51: A New Dawn

Chapter 51: A New Dawn

The sun had long since crept past the horizon, but the study at the Governor’s Estate was still lit dimly. Only a lantern on the desk cast warm shadows across the shelves and scrolls.

The curtains were drawn. A faint breeze carried the scent of charcoal and old blood from the courtyard below.

Lan sat leaned back in a heavy wooden chair, his legs crossed, gaze distant.

The communication rune stone beating gently on the desk in front of him. Its dim, red glow pulsing with each syllable spoken from the other end.

"I got word it was going to be an ambush late," Iris said, her voice echoing from the runestone. "I kept trying to reach you through the damn thing."

Lan sighed, rubbing his brow. "Yeah, I know. But we were already there. By the time you were trying to get through, it was far too late to back out."

—

In the imperial city, hundreds of miles away, Iris reclined in a massive bath carved of pink stone, her body half-submerged in warm, petal-scented water.

Pillars ringed the chamber, steam rising around her like mist over a battlefield. A servant quietly fanned incense smoke behind her as she stared at a similar glowing rune embedded in a black disc on the marble beside her.

Her lips curled with tension. "So... how’d it go?"

"We survived," Lan said, uncrossing his legs. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "Well, most of us. We had a casualty."

Silence stretched between them.

"That’s... honestly impressive," Iris finally replied. "I was sure the men Gallingher sent wouldn’t be taken down easily. I thought... I thought I was too late."

Lan’s face hardened. "That’s because Gallingher’s men never attacked."

Iris sat up slightly, water rippling around her. "What?"

Lan stood, walking to the tall window that overlooked the central yard of the estate. Below, several of the Mad Vipers—some new, some old—sat in meditative positions, practicing the first breathwork routines of Spirit Cultivation.

He watched them, silent for a moment.

"That’s the ambush I was trying to warn you about," Iris pressed. "Gallingher colluded with the Ash Tongues to finish you off. That was what I was told."

"I know," Lan said, voice low. "I figured they were the second wave. The beasts and cultists were meant to wear me down. After that, Gallingher’s people would strike the killing blow."

"So why didn’t they?"

Lan narrowed his eyes. "Fear."

"Fear?" Iris scoffed, reclining back against the edge of the stone tub, letting her hair drift lazily in the water. "You’re saying Gallingher’s best assassins—trained killers—just sat in the trees and watched you win?"

"They came to see my limits," Lan said plainly. "But they didn’t see them. So they didn’t attack."

"That’s cocky," Iris muttered.

"That’s truth," Lan corrected. "But temporary. They’ll try again. And next time, they’ll send someone less patient."

He turned from the window, walking back toward the desk, fingers brushing against the spine of a cultivation scroll he just wrote himself.

"I’ll be ready."

"Good," Iris said, voice softening. "It seems you’ve taken control of things quite well."

"I’m adapting," Lan replied. "How’s your side?"

Iris’s voice dipped. "The Emperor’s health is worse than I feared. I don’t know if I’ll be ready when the time comes—but preparations are in place."

Lan didn’t respond immediately. Then: "I’ll be prepared whenever you are."

Iris smiled faintly in the steam. "It’s good to hear you say that."

"Oh," Lan said casually, "and before I forget—I have a small favor."

"Hm?"

"I need a few coins," Lan said lightly. "Two million gold, maybe three, for development, economic stabilization, infrastructure—hello?"

The rune stone stopped glowing.

Lan blinked.

"Ah. Damn it."

He leaned back in his chair, just as a knock came at the study door.

"Your Highness," came a voice from the hall, "there’s a visitor... claims to be Bragg, leader of the Black Fangs."

Lan’s eyes lit with interest.

—

When Lan stepped outside, the sky had grown pale. Bragg stood waiting near the broken fountain at the center of the estate yard, flanked by five men with matching red-tinted leather armor and steel greaves.

The Black Fangs were sharp-eyed, lean, and radiated the tension of people who expected every meeting to end in blood.

Bragg was taller than Lan expected, his beard thick and silver-threaded, his arms like tree trunks beneath the short-sleeved mantle he wore. One eye was clouded white. The other was clear and wolf-like.

"Prince Lanard," Bragg said with a low nod. "I figured it was only a matter of time before you came knocking on our door."

Lan stepped forward with a faint smile. "And you saved me the journey. How kind."

Bragg chuckled. "I like to be ahead of problems."

His voice was gravel. Worn, but not tired.

"And I figured," he continued. "If both the Mad Vipers and the Ash Tongues couldn’t stand against you... I doubt we’d fare much better."

Lan’s gaze sharpened. "So you’ve come to submit?"

Bragg shrugged. "We’ve come to listen. Submission’s not out of the question. But only if it’s worth it."

Lan nodded, gesturing toward the long bench beside the fountain. They all sat—save for two of Bragg’s men who remained standing, eyes scanning the rooftop like hunting dogs.

"So," Bragg said, "what does submission mean, exactly?"

"It means," Lan began, "you answer to me alone. But you’ll still rule your territory—in my name. Your people stay where they are. Your banners remain. But your laws change. You follow my decrees. You swear your blades to my will."

Bragg grunted. "That’s generous."

Lan continued. "There will be no more caravan raiding, no more senseless looting. From the Red District to the border hills, there will be law."

Bragg raised a brow. "And what do we eat, if we don’t take from trade?"

"I’ll handle that," Lan said. "You’re mercenaries. I know your type. You want structure, pay, and purpose. You’ll get it. I plan to rebuild the roads, restart the mines, establish real income routes. And your men—if they prove themselves—will be my vanguard."

One of the Black Fang lieutenants leaned forward. "And the cost?"

Lan’s expression darkened.

"You’ll be branded."

Bragg’s eye narrowed. "Branded?"

Lan nodded and conjured the crimson mark—dark qi curling faintly around the rotating sigil above his palm.

"This," Lan said, "is the Soul Brand. Anyone who bears it answers to me. Betrayal means soul rupture. Instant. Final."

The Black Fang warriors stirred.

Bragg stared at the mark, silent.

"That’s steep," he said eventually.

"It’s necessary," Lan replied. "The only thing this world respects more than power... is consequence."

Bragg scratched his beard.

"Give us until nightfall," he said. "We’ll return with an answer."

Lan nodded. "Do. But just remember—Ranevia’s changing. With or without you."

Bragg smiled, thin and toothy. "You make a compelling case, Prince."

They left without fanfare, fading into the early morning mist.

Lan stood alone at the fountain.

Behind him, the sun finally breached the wall, spilling pale light across the estate.