The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 46: Dinner

Chapter 46: Dinner

Lan followed behind the red-robed figure in silence, boots echoing softly against the smooth, worn stone.

The passage was carved into the hillside, a corridor of old bones and dark carvings, its walls lit with sconces that held purple flame instead of fire. The air reeked incense and iron—old blood masked by perfume.

Venom walked just behind him, silent but alert, one hand resting near the handle of his weapon.

"This way, please," the red-cloaked man said, his tone ever calm, ever pleasant.

The corridor widened gradually, opening into the main hall of the Ash Tongue base—though "temple" was the more fitting term.

Massive black pillars rose to the vaulted ceiling, each etched with inscriptions in a jagged script. Stone altars lined the walls, littered with melted candles, bones, and small tokens soaked in what could only be dried blood.

Stained glass filtered moonlight into red and gold across the black tile floors. At the far end, a wide ceremonial drape hung, its center depicting a god with no face, surrounded by kneeling worshipers with bleeding mouths.

"I go by Thread," the red-cloaked man said suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension. "I am the head of the Ash Tongues."

"Quite a fancy gang you’re running here," Lan replied, his eyes scanning everything—every exit, every possible ambush point.

"We are gangsters," Thread said, "not animals. Even wolves honor ritual."

He turned, gesturing toward an ornate side corridor. "Come. Let’s talk as civilized men."

Lan nodded slightly and followed, his cloak trailing behind him. They passed beneath archways with symbols that pulsed faintly with mana, and the temperature shifted from cold stone to a strange warmth—almost like flesh.

Thread led them to a room with tall arched windows overlooking the dead forest that surrounded the hills.

A long onyx table sat in the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs carved from bonewood. At one end, Thread gestured for Lan to sit. He took the other head of the table. Four more men in identical crimson robes took seats on either side of him.

Venom remained standing behind Lan, arms crossed.

Lan sat slowly, confidently, fingers laced together on the table. "I assume you know why I’m here."

Thread inclined his head. "Of course. Word travels fast, even in a cursed place like Ranevia. We heard of your victory over the Mad Vipers. Your... ideology of conquest."

"Then you understand," Lan said, eyes sharp. "Your submission is necessary."

There was no threat in his voice. Just certainty.

The air stilled for a moment. Then Thread smiled. It was far from amusement or mockery, It was pity.

"You speak like your mission is righteous," Thread said. "That you’re bringing salvation to Ranevia. That we are simply waiting for a better king to bow to."

Lan tilted his head. "Isn’t that what you are?"

Thread gave a soft laugh, low and measured. "No. You’re mistaken. What you see as conquest, we see as delusion. This land... can never be more than it is."

The transmission stone from Iris in Lan’s cloak blinked faintly—pulsing red in the under the fabric—but he ignored it.

Lan leaned forward slightly. "That’s the same excuse men like you always make. ’It can never be better.’ ’This is just how things are.’ Cowards love inevitability. But Ranevia doesn’t have to remain a pit. It is what it is because people like you decided it couldn’t be more."

Thread’s smile faded.

"You’re young," he said. "But I’ll grant you this—you speak with conviction. That’s rare."

"Conviction alone can break empires," Lan said, coldly. "And if you do not submit, I’ll burn this temple to the ground. You and all your worshipers."

A tense silence passed. One of the red-robed figures at Thread’s side shifted slightly but remained wordless.

Thread held up a hand, gesturing for calm.

"You are under the assumption submission is power," he said. "But you don’t understand what we are. We are not a gang with goals nor raiders seeking coin. We are not broken men desperate for purpose. We are already complete."

He gestured to the four silent men. "Every man here has seen the truth. The world is rot. Your gods are false. The kingdom is a rotting carcass, concealed in gold leaf and paraded as divine. We don’t seek redemption—we accept damnation."

"And what does that give you?" Lan asked.

"Freedom," Thread replied. "True freedom. No loyalties. No hopes. No lies. You cannot conquer what refuses to be ruled."

Lan’s expression remained calm. "No. But I can destroy it."

Another moment of silence passed. The tension had crystallized into something sharp and electric. Still, Thread did not seem afraid.

If anything, his expression had grown softer. Sadder.

"You remind me of someone," he said. "Long ago, another noble came here—full of fire, full of dreams. He died, screaming."

Lan gave a small smile. "Then I’m here to finish what he started."

As if on cue, a low bell tolled in the temple. The sound echoed through the stone corridors with solemn gravity.

Thread stood.

"Time for dinner," he said with a nod.

Two masked women entered the room from a side door, each pushing a wheeled cart. They moved without a word, without even the grace of ceremony, and set down covered silver platters before each of the red-robed figures. The room filled with the soft clinking of metal on wood.

Thread looked to Lan and Venom. "You must be hungry. Will you dine with us?"

Lan raised a hand, eyes narrowing slightly.

"We’re fine."

Venom gave a grunt of agreement, arms still crossed.

"As you wish," Thread said, lifting the cover from his dish.

The smell hit the room like a blight.

Raw. Metallic. Wet.

Lan’s eyes flicked to the plate.

A human heart, bloody and glistening, sat atop a silver plate, still pulsing faintly with residual life. The others revealed the same on their own plates—fresh, bloody organs, laid bare like trophies.

Venom’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Lan simply leaned back in his chair. "And here I thought the decor was the most unsettling thing in this temple."

Thread plucked the heart from his plate with long, thin fingers, holding it delicately. "This is not for sustenance. It is a symbol. To consume the heart is to consume the life, the story, the sins."

"Convenient justification for barbarism," Lan said, voice flat.

"Or a reminder," Thread replied. "That we are beyond redemption."

Lan’s fingers grazed the edge of his cloak. The rune stone blinking again beneath the fabric—brighter now, insistent.

He ignored it. For now.

Thread took a bite from the heart.

Blood ran down his chin.

The others followed.

Lan had no expression. But inside, he was already counting the seconds.

Any moment now...

The purge would begin.