The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The Ironwater Coast had always smelled of salt and steel, but now it smelled of war.

It didn't take many days for Lan and his men to return from Ranevia, riding the roads and sailing the river routes they had carved open with blood during Phase 1.

When the first spires of Ironwater's dockside towers came into view, the air was already thick with the smoke of industry.

The harbor was no longer the neutral ground it once pretended to be. Every mast, every wharf, every creaking pier now flew the banners of the Northern God Sect.

Where the merchants of old had once traded in spices and cloth, soldiers now traded in oil, timber, and sharpened steel.

Out in the bay, the wreckage of Solaris' once-proud fleet bobbed like broken teeth in a dying mouth. Hulls split clean through from boarding hooks, masts snapped and leaning into the water, sails burned down to blackened rags.

The tide carried the carcasses of war back and forth against the pilings as if the sea itself couldn't spit them out fast enough.

On the docks, the living worked with the same urgency as if the battle still raged. Dockworkers and soldiers moved side by side, loading crates of grain, salted meat, and dried fish into the holds of newly repaired ships.

Others hauled bundles of spear shafts, barrels of oil, and casks of arrows, their arms straining but their faces lit with grim purpose.

Hammers rang from the shipwright's yards, where broken hulls were patched and keels scraped free of barnacles. Sparks showered from the smithies as armor was refitted, blades were drawn across whetstones, and spearheads were driven into ash-wood hafts.

And beyond the bustle of preparation, on a promontory that jutted out into the grey water, a funeral pyre burned.

The fire roared high against the cold sea wind, consuming the bodies of those who had fallen during Phase 1. Not many of them had been Lan's own — his planning had spared them from reckless slaughter — but there were enough to remind every man watching that victory was never free.

The flames licked at the night sky, throwing sparks like the souls of the dead rising into the dark.

Lan stood apart from the crowd as the fire burned, his hands clasped behind his back.

That night, every fighting man in Ironwater was called to the great assembly hall — the old merchant exchange that Lan had claimed as his war council's seat.

Its vaulted ceiling carried the echoes of boots and armor as hundreds gathered, the air growing thick with the heat of bodies and the weight of expectation.

At the front, behind a heavy oaken table, stood Lan. To his right were Venom, Miller, Halmer, Garran, and Bragg — the core of his commanders, each a pillar in his rising empire.

When the murmurs of the crowd stilled, Lan's voice carried like iron striking stone.

"Brothers," he began, "you stood with me when we took Westerloch. You bled for me when we broke Solaris' fleets. You have proven that the North bows to no crown but ours."

A cheer rolled through the hall. He let it swell, then cut it short with a raised hand.

"Phase 1 is over," he said. "But victory is not yet ours. The capital still breathes. And if we let the south rally, the capital will be ready when we come for it."

He leaned forward, resting both hands on the table, his voice dropping into something colder.

"So we will not let them rally."

A stillness settled over the room.

"We turn south," he said, each word sharp and deliberate. "We burn the March. We gut Verdelane. No southern army will march to the capital's aid, because there will be no southern army left to march."

Faces in the crowd hardened; others smiled with the anticipation of plunder. Lan read them all, feeding both their fear and their hunger.

"The March is rich," he continued. "Its towns fat with coin, its markets fat with goods. When we take it, those riches will be yours. Take them. Spend them. Or burn them before their owners' eyes. I care not. But leave nothing behind for Solaris to use."

The cheer that followed shook the rafters.

When the assembly broke into smaller knots of soldiers preparing for the march, Lan's commanders remained behind at the war table, where a sprawling map of the southern territories lay weighted by knives and tankards.

Miller, his weathered face set in concentration, tapped the edge of the map where the swamps of Southfang March were marked in curling blue lines.

"First leg's through here," he said. "Southfang March. Slow going if you're not ready for it — deeper water than you think, and half the ground will suck the boots off your feet if you linger."

Garran nodded grimly.

"The March is a nest of sellswords. Every company worth the steel in their sheaths works out of there. They sell their blades to Solaris, to Verdelane, to anyone with gold. If they hear we're coming, they'll band together."

"Which means they'll need to be wiped out before word spreads," Lan said.

Garran's grin was thin and cold. "Aye. Kill them quick, or kill them loud enough to scare the rest into hiding."

Halmer, the oldest of them, stroked his greying beard and spoke with the deliberate weight of someone who had marched through the March before.

"You'll have more to fear from the land than the swords. The swamps will rot your boots, eat your horses, and drown your wagons. The air's thick with fever in the summer, and the winter doesn't dry it out. If we're not careful, we'll lose more men to disease than to steel."

Venom leaned lazily against the table, his expression a predator's calm. "Then we don't give them the time for disease to take hold. I'll take the vanguard. My Blood Siphon Aura will finish any resistance before it festers. The March thrives on prolonged fights. We'll give them quick deaths instead."

Halmer shot him a wary glance. "Quick deaths spread quick fear," he admitted. "That might be just as useful as speed."

Bragg, who had been silent until now, jabbed a thick finger at the roads leading out of the March. "And when we're through, Verdelane's soft underbelly will be bare. They've got fortresses, aye, but they're not ready for a siege from the north."

Lan studied the map in silence for a moment, then straightened. "We move in three days. Gather every ship that can sail and every man who can march. Supplies for weeks — we'll take the rest from the March as we go. No survivors among the mercenaries. Leave their corpses for the swamps."

His gaze swept over them. "When Verdelane realizes what we've done, it'll already be too late for them to save themselves."

---

Outside, night had settled over Ironwater, the sea reflecting the pale light of the moon. From the watchtowers to the shipyards, preparations continued.

The rhythmic pounding of hammers on steel and wood seemed to merge with another sound — deeper, more primal.

War drums.

They began in the barracks near the waterfront, a slow, deliberate beat that carried over the water and echoed back from the cliffs.

Then others joined in, the sound spreading through the streets until it rolled like distant thunder. Soldiers gathered in knots around fire pits, oiling their blades and recounting old victories, their voices lifted in rough laughter.

The Iron Tide was gathering.

And when it broke upon the south, nothing would stand.