The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God-Chapter 62: Gold and Ghosts

Two days later.

The gold weighed heavy on more than just the carts.

For two days straight, the Ranevian mines had yielded riches beyond anything even the capital’s tax collectors could dream of.

Six hundred pounds of raw gold gleamed beneath the sun, stacked in crates and sealed under lock and guard. Another batch waited just behind it, shimmering in the depths of the mine like buried sunlight.

And yet—none of it had moved.

Lan stood over the courtyard, gazing down at the neat rows of reinforced crates, arms folded.

"We’re producing over three hundred pounds a day," Bragg muttered behind him. "And the men are starting to talk."

"They’re hungry," Venom added. "Some of them are working double shifts. Others haven’t been paid a single coin. They’re loyal—for now. But loyalty is no match for an empty stomach."

Miller stood to the side, impassive. Silent.

Lan turned and nodded. "Then let’s talk."

They moved to the war room, while ago it had been a dusty old gathering hall in the estate’s southern wing. Now it was dominated by a large oak table, covered in maps, ledgers, sealed scrolls, and a glowing lamp in the center.

Lan sat at the head of the table and gestured for them to begin.

"I had intended to hold the gold," he said. "Wait until we were stable, until we had enough routes, protection, and reach. But Ranevia is bleeding. Even now."

He tapped the table twice, eyes sharp.

"We walk through this courtyard and see discipline, progress. But outside these walls? Children still die from hunger. Families still scavenge and hide. And the miners who are fueling this miracle of ours are being paid with faith alone."

Bragg exhaled and leaned forward. "Then we find a way to start selling. Carefully. Quietly."

"We sell now," Miller said, voice low but firm, "and we draw eyes. Curious ones. Imperial ones. Perhaps even divine ones. We are not yet ready to hold their gaze."

Lan nodded. "Then we need discretion. An outlet."

Venom cracked his knuckles, then rested his elbows on the table. "Karihad."

Lan tilted his head. "Go on."

"Karihad’s a border city," Venom said. "North-east of Solaris. Forgotten by the Empire, ruled by whispers. You’ll find no nobles there, no knights, no banners waving from spires."

"No law? Sounds like a second Ranevia." Bragg asked.

Venom smirked. "No there’s plenty of law. Just none you’ve heard of."

Lan narrowed his eyes. "And who rules it?"

"No one. Which is why it belongs to the Warriors of Nothing."

At that name, Miller finally moved—his head lifting slightly.

Lan leaned forward. "The syndicate?"

Venom nodded. "The largest crime organization across the three empires. They don’t govern it. But they flow through it—like poison in blood. They run the black markets, the docks, the trade circles. If you need something moved—gold, weapons, odd crystals, slaves—you go to Karihad."

"And they won’t ask questions?" Lan asked.

"Only one," Venom said, grinning. "Can you pay the toll?"

Lan considered the weight of it. The danger. But also the opportunity.

"We trade raw gold," he said slowly, "for processed bars or coinage. We choose the drop-off locations. No names. No signatures."

"And if anyone asks where the gold came from," Bragg said, "we say it fell from the sky."

Miller’s jaw was set. "It’s dangerous."

"It’s necessary," Lan replied. "We need to convert this gold if we’re to feed the people and begin rebuilding Ranevia. We can’t build a Sect on starvation."

There was a pause.

"Besides," Lan added, "I need to be in the Imperial City in a few days. I promised her Highness. I can’t ignore that summons."

"How long is the ride to Karihad?" he asked, turning to Venom.

"Half a day. On our fastest horses."

Lan nodded. "Then we ride at once."

He looked to Miller. "And you—"

"—will stay behind to take command and protect Seraphine," Miller finished, voice iron. "Understood, Your Highness."

Lan allowed himself a faint smile. "Good."

They stood.

Lan pulled his coat over his shoulders and turned to the door. "Prepare the horses. We ride in ten minutes."

---

They left Ranevia in silence.

The wind howled through the mountain paths, cold and sharp like knives drawn from scabbards.

The northern snow had softened to thin patches of frost, leaving the roads damp but passable. Venom led the way, his steed dark and muscular.

Bragg followed, broad-shouldered and alert, while Lan rode just behind—hood drawn, eyes set toward the south.

They passed farmlands half-burnt from past raids. Skeleton villages where only chimney stones remained. And beyond that, into wildland—where no banners flew and only wolves marked territory.

And then, as the sun began its descent behind the cliffs, casting gold into the sky...

They saw it.

Karihad.

The city emerged like a shadow from the land—crooked, chaotic, and unapologetic. Unlike the capital’s clean symmetry or Ranevia’s rot, Karihad was a riot of rooftops and alleys, sloping in every direction like a city that had grown without permission.

Its walls were patched with scavenged stone and rusted iron. Its gates were manned not by guards, but mercenaries in mismatched armor—each more interested in the weight of a traveler’s coin purse than their origin.

The skyline was dominated by smoke stacks, broken towers, and strange domes that shimmered faintly under the last light. At the far end, a ruined spire leaned sideways, half-buried into the slums that clustered around its base.

No flags flew.

No bell tolled.

And yet, it was alive.

Thousands bustled through the gates. Merchants shouting in dialects from across the empire. Cart wheels grinding over broken cobbles.

Street vendors offering everything from enchanted daggers to mana-stolen charms. Prostitutes laughed from balconies. Children pickpocketed with practiced ease.

And over it all—watching, waiting—were the silent figures in bone masks.

Lan noticed them instantly.

Perched atop rooftops. Walking in pairs. Leaning against walls.

The Warriors of Nothing.

Their insignia was subtle. A dark circle. A line cut through the center. No name. No creed. Just the mark—and silence.

Venom led them through side streets, then toward a square ringed with low-rising blackstone buildings. They dismounted in front of a windowless tavern shaped like a sunken wedge of steel.

"This is it," Venom said. "Quiet Tongue. No signs. No music. No lights. Only buyers."

Lan took one final look at the city—this den of ghosts and knives—and stepped inside.