The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Fog came in thick from the sea, rolling in slow coils over the jagged piers and black-water bay.

It clung to the boards, dampened every sound, and smothered the morning light. In Ironwater Harbor, the gulls were the first to notice the change. They scattered, wings flashing white before melting into the mist.

From the shadow of the western cliff, Lan stood with his hands behind his back, pale grey eyes fixed on the sprawling docks below. Timber scaffolds bristled over half-finished hulls, and the masts of the finished warships reached like a forest toward the sky.

The largest of them bore the banners of Solaris, bright even in the haze. The naval heart of the southern coast.

Not for much longer.

"Begin," Lan said softly.

His talisman papers had been prepared the night before, ink burned deep with spiritual will. Venom's lieutenants carried them now, crouched in the rocks, their silhouettes black against the grey fog.

At the signal, they flung the talismans into the air. Golden seals ignited in mid-flight.

The first wave of siege talismans detonated like the breath of giants.

A soundless pulse rolled out over the water — then the world convulsed.

The nearest warship's hull splintered with a wet crack, timbers snapping like bones. The ship lifted half out of the water before slamming down again, breaking apart in a roar of white spray and splintered oak.

Waves rolled across the harbor, slamming into piers and shoving lesser vessels against each other.

Lan's army surged from the mist.

Venom was already in motion, his massive frame a blur as he leapt from pier to pier. The jagged scar running from his lip to his collarbone seemed almost to grin as he waded into the first dockyard.

Shipwrights screamed and scrambled, some reaching for tools as makeshift weapons. They didn't last long — Venom's crimson-tinged aura flared, and the first man he caught went flying into a pile of tar barrels. The barrels burst, thick black pitch spilling over the planks.

A naval mage rushed forward, chanting, hands glowing with wind-lightning. Venom was faster. His Iron Skin shimmered like dull steel as the mage's spell shattered against his chest.

Then his fist came down, breaking the man's jaw and skull in the same motion.

By the second blast wave, the harbor was chaos. Half-built hulls rolled onto their sides, their scaffolds collapsing in slow, terrible groans. Ropes snapped like whips. Workers scattered, some leaping into the water, others trying to flee deeper into the streets.

From the far end of the docks came a voice — hoarse, commanding, used to storms and mutiny alike.

"Form up! Secure the outer piers!"

The Harbor Lord had arrived.

Admiral Kareth was an old man, his beard white but his back still straight. His blue cloak snapped behind him, embroidered with the Solaris naval crest.

The staff in his hand thrummed with sea-water magic, runes along its length glowing faintly. Even in his age, the man radiated the calm, sharp presence of someone who had survived storms worse than this.

He called. And his men obeyed.

Sailors and mages scrambled to their vessels. Oars slammed into water, sails dropped. A dozen ships began to move toward the harbor mouth.

From the pier, Lan began to walk.

No boat. No hesitation. His boots touched the water and did not sink. Each step pressed faint ripples outward as he crossed the bay, black hair moving in the breeze, eyes locked on the fleeing fleet.

The Harbor Lord saw him coming. His face tightened, but his orders didn't stop.

"Cut the tide against him! Make for open water!"

Too late.

Lan's hand rested lightly on Devil's Lie. The rusted blade whispered as it left its sheath. There was no great shout, no flourish. He simply swung once.

Sword Intent exploded outward.

It was not a visible wave — not in the human sense — but the water seemed to flinch under it. The nearest ship's mast sheared clean in half. A heartbeat later, its keel cracked like a rib, the vessel folding as if pressed by an invisible hand. Men screamed as they were thrown into the water.

Lan didn't slow. He walked between the wreckage, blade moving in quiet arcs. Every swing carried a radius of death — masts falling, decks splitting, hulls breaking apart into jagged ruins. The sea grew dark with floating debris and blood.

At the cliffs, Garran's voice rose over the roar of the surf.

"Archers! No swimmers leave the bay!"

His gang members obeyed without hesitation. Arrows hissed downward, cutting down men who had barely surfaced. Some tried to swim for the rocky shore; few made it more than a dozen strokes before the water around them bloomed red.

Venom's crew worked the opposite angle — driving terrified sailors into waiting blades or chains.

The best of the Solaris ships — three sleek, fast cutters and a heavy war galley — were seized rather than burned. The galley still bore a half-raised sail when Venom planted a boot on the gangplank and roared for the crew to throw down arms.

The crew obeyed.

The Harbor Lord was the last to stand.

His ship had made it halfway to the harbor mouth when Lan appeared in its path, still walking on the water. The old man planted his staff, sea spray curling around him.

"So it is true...the god of the north has returned" The Harbor Lord walked forward staff in hand "But this isn't the north ruled by cold, here the sea is king."

He paused.

"You're no sailor," Kareth said, voice steady despite the ruin around them. "And you know nothing of the sea's favor."

Lan's pale eyes never wavered. "The sea," he said quietly, "has no favor. Only depth."

He moved once.

The Harbor Lord tried to counter, runes flashing along his staff, summoning a wall of water that surged high as a building. It crashed forward with the force of a storm.

Lan cut it in half.

The wall collapsed into harmless spray. The next moment, the old man's ship cracked open beneath him, torn from stern to bow. The Harbor Lord fell with it, his last breath lost to the cold depths.

Even he, was no match for Lan.

By noon, Ironwater Harbor was unrecognizable.

Smoke choked the air, the charred skeletons of ships leaning at grotesque angles. The water was thick with wreckage and the pale faces of the dead. The smell of burning pitch and salt was everywhere.

On the piers, the surviving shipwrights — those Venom had decided were worth keeping — knelt with their hands bound. Many stared blankly at the ruins, the place they had worked all their lives turned into a graveyard in a single morning.

Lan stood at the water's edge, watching the smoke trail out toward the horizon. His voice was calm when he finally spoke.

"Chain them. March few of them north. We'll build again — under my banner."

Venom nodded, wiping the blood from his knuckles. Garran gave a single grunt of acknowledgment.

Behind them, the sea was already swallowing the last pieces of Solaris' fleet.

Ironwater was silent.