The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 47: Even More Blood

Chapter 47: Even More Blood

Lan watched them eat.

The cloaked men tore into the hearts with a reverent hunger—sinew stretching, blood coating pale lips, teeth biting through raw muscle. The masked women stood in silence nearby, still as statues, their heads bowed as if in worship.

Thread sat at the head of the table, chewing slowly. A string of crimson clung to his chin, which he wiped away with a handkerchief embroidered with a red candle.

Lan said nothing for a moment. His fingers twitched, his gaze steady.

He had seen barbarism before. He had unleashed it himself. But this was different —ritualistic, disgusting.

"I’ve seen enough," Lan finally said. His voice was quiet, but the tension in the air snapped like a string pulled. "So. Will you submit... or will you die?"

The red cloaked figures paused mid-bite. A few slowly turned their masked faces toward Thread.

The transmission rune stone pulsed violently in Lan’s inner coat, each flash more insistent than the last.

Still, he didn’t reach for it.

Thread leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on the cloth.

"You fail to understand something, prince," he said, voice calm, casual. "Our existence—it’s a necessity."

"Oh?"

"We’re what keeps the mana beasts away from Ranevia. Do you think they simply avoid the eastern hills because they find the terrain unpleasant?" Thread gestured around them. "No. They stay back because of our rites. Our offerings. Our blood."

Lan’s expression remained unchanged. "So what do you expect me to do? Let you keep butchering so the wolves don’t scratch at the door?"

"I expect you to recognize balance," Thread said, spreading his arms. "What we do... is necessary."

"Stop yapping, you’re not balance," Lan said, rising to his feet. "Just an inconvenience i intend to handle. I’m done talking."

Venom met his gaze across the table. Lan gave the slightest nod.

Venom’s eyes gleamed. "Gladly."

He slammed his hands together, his tattoos glowing a sickly red.

[Gnashing Pulse]

The floor cracked.

With a deafening roar, ghostly serpent fangs erupted from beneath the floorboards, shredding through the stone like paper. Spectral vipers burst upward, shrieking like wind whistling through bone.

The pulse exploded through the chamber.

Chairs, bodies, and tables were thrown like rag dolls. The walls cracked and burst, timber and mortar flying outward. Light from the outside world poured in as the roof half-collapsed, revealing the moon hanging like a witness above the carnage.

Lan stood within the dust and debris, Devil’s Lie already in his hand. The great sword seemingly alive with anticipation, its jagged edge dripping faint trails of black energy.

But what the explosion revealed outside was worse than expected.

A battlefield. A trap.

Unplanned. Unforgivable.

Ash Tongue cultists in droves moved across the shattered ground, robed and painted in blood, some mid-chant, others mid-frenzy. The hills writhed with motion.

At the center of it all, Halmer, Thorn, Garran, and Wren were already locked in combat with them—though more accurately, fighting to survive. They were outnumbered, scattered, and flanked on every side. But what made Lan more uncomfortable was what moved between the cultists.

Mana beasts.

Twisted, malformed things with antlers made of bone and hides stitched with runes, slithering through the ranks of cultists as if they were allies. Not one Ash Tongue was attacked. Not a single beast turned on them.

Thread rose from the rubble, blood painting his red cloak even deeper. His scythe—a curved weapon glowing like burning coals—materialized in his hand with a hiss of blood magic.

"I told you," he said, grinning through the blood. "We are necessary. The beasts obey us."

Lan stepped forward, blade low at his side, energy gathering beneath his boots.

"You planned this."

"Of course I did. I knew you’d come, I knew your plans. I’ve always been a step ahead."

Lan’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at Venom. "Help the others. I’ll handle him."

Venom didn’t argue. He turned and bolted toward the chaos, axe in hand, already summoning another pulse of dark energy to clear the path.

Thread raised his scythe and pointed it at Lan. "And what will you do, prince? Will you finally accept that you cannot change what this land is?"

Lan gripped Devil’s Lie firmly. The cursed sword crackled with dark qi, veins of scarlet light pulsing along its edge.

"You’ve made this far more annoying than it had to be."

Thread laughed. "Good. I’d hate for it to be too easy."

He lunged.

Their blades collided.

The impact cracked the earth beneath their feet. Scythe met cursed steel, a screech of metal and mana echoing across the shattered temple.

Thread swung wide, his scythe releasing trails of fire in its wake, arcs of red slashing through the air. Lan ducked beneath one, side-stepped the next, then retaliated with a horizontal strike that split the ground.

Thread vanished and reappeared above him, bringing the scythe down in a vertical arc.

Lan raised his blade, parrying just in time, but the force sent both of them tumbling into the courtyard.

Dust exploded. Spectral flames burst in every direction.

Thread rolled and launched himself again, chanting under his breath. Symbols lit up beneath his feet.

[Blood Sermon: Litany of Pain]

Rings of red light appeared in the air and began firing piercing lances of mana in Lan’s direction—beams that screamed like tortured souls.

Lan weaved between them, blade cutting some, dodging others.

He gritted his teeth.

Thread, for all his madness, was strong. And enhanced by the ritualistic magic of his cult.

Lan flicked two fingers. [Severance] activated with a crack, and the next spell Thread cast fizzled in midair.

Thread faltered, surprised.

That was all Lan needed.

He flashed forward with [Dark Step], appearing behind Thread and swinging Devil’s Lie upward in a rising arc.

Thread twisted, just in time, his scythe clashing again, sparks erupting between them.

"You’re fast," Thread spat.

Thread stepped back and drew on more blood magic, scars tearing open across his arms to feed his power.

"You should’ve left this land to rot," he hissed. "It was never yours to cleanse."

Lan raised Devil’s Lie, its aura thickening until the air grew cold.

"And you should die with your mouth close."

They clashed again—blades blurring, spells colliding, the ruined temple now their graveyard of pride and power.