The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God
Chapter 48: Litany of Blood

Chapter 48: Litany of Blood

Thread’s scythe screamed through the air, trailing a burning crescent of red that split stone and kicked up gouts of flame.

Lan parried with Devil’s Lie, the cursed sword shuddering with force, the impact throwing a pulse of energy through the air.

Lan twisted, letting Thread’s next slash pass close to his face, close enough to draw a shallow line of blood across his cheek. He gritted his teeth.

Thread’s blood magic was growing—thicker, darker. The air stank of iron, the scent cloying, metallic, and sharp like vinegar left too long in the sun.

"You feel it, don’t you?" Thread laughed, breathing hard. "The weight of it. The closer I bleed to death, the stronger I become."

Lan lunged, blade cutting low. Thread jumped back just in time—but not without cost. Devil’s Lie grazed his ribs, and black smoke hissed from the wound.

Thread didn’t hesitate at the cut. Instead, he smiled wider, and that smile was wrong. Wrong in its calm. Wrong in its devotion.

"I am my own altar," he whispered, dragging two fingers across the wound, painting his own face with blood. "And my god is watching."

[Blood Sermon: Descent of the Candle]

A glyph ignited beneath Thread’s feet, and red light erupted around him in spirals, latching to his veins like vines. His body convulsed, then began to change.

His muscles hardened. His skin darkened to a waxy red, cracked with glowing lines. His eyes lit like twin coals. And when he raised his scythe again, it was no longer a weapon—it was a relic.

Whispering, writhing, coated in old blood and power.

Lan stepped back slightly, grip tightening.

Then he looked past Thread, toward the surrounding hills.

And the situation seemed to have only gotten worse.

Venom was surrounded. Garran’s massive frame was visible even from here, bloodied and bruised as he punched through a mana beast’s jaw, only to be gored from the side by another’s tusk.

Halmer was crawling back, shielding Thorn’s limp body with one arm as he tried to form a defense sigil. Wren was gone—nowhere to be seen.

It wasn’t the cultists that were turning the tide.

It was the mana beasts.

Twisted things, called and perhaps bound—by the Ash Tongues’ foul rituals. They were more than simple forest creatures. They were mutated by blood rites, enhanced with brutal intelligence. And they were relentless.

Lan felt something shift. The tempo. The weight of the battle.

If he didn’t do something now, it would fall apart. All of it.

"You see it now," Thread said, stepping forward. The red energy around him crackled like fire eating oil. "This land doesn’t need salvation. It rejects it. You came to conquer a rot has already taken root in you. In them. In all of Ranevia."

Lan was left silent.

Instead, he inhaled deeply, centering himself.

He needed to break the tempo.

He needed an opening.

Thread lunged again, red light erupting from his body in tendrils. His scythe swept in a downward arc, charged with searing magic.

Lan side-stepped—barely. His boot scuffed on cracked stone, and Thread’s scythe missed his shoulder by inches.

He retaliated immediately—[Severing Touch]—his palm glowing with black energy as he slammed it into Thread’s arm mid-swing. The cursed qi flared, and Thread’s limb convulsed, shaking violently.

But Thread didn’t retreat. He laughed, even as his flesh seared and blackened under the touch.

"I have no need for a perfect body," he rasped, voice raw. "My faith is my armor."

He struck with his other hand, and a hidden dagger laced with blood-forged runes slashed toward Lan’s gut.

Lan twisted. The dagger scraped across his robes, cutting deep—but not fatal.

He backed up again, panting slightly now. This was becoming dangerous.

Thread didn’t seem to be fighting like a man trying to win. He was fighting like a man already dead.

---

Elsewhere — On the battlefield

Venom spat blood as he ducked a clawed strike from a two-headed mana beast. His axe cleaved one of its legs, but the creature didn’t even roar—it just kept coming.

"Garran!" Venom shouted.

"I’m—" Garran blocked a charging beast, catching its horns with both hands, "—a little busy!"

Halmer tried to drag Thorn’s body behind cover, blood pouring from a wound on her side. "There’s too many!"

Venom slammed his palm against the ground again, red energy rippling outward. [Gnashing Pulse] tore through a few cultists, but the beasts didn’t die. Some weren’t even corporeal—almost ghostlike creatures that flickered between realities.

He looked back toward the temple. They were losing. And if Lan didn’t win fast, they were dead.

---

Thread’s movements had become erratic. Faster. Unpredictable. The air ripped around him with heat and blood-thick mana.

Lan’s sword arm ached. His left leg was heavier than before—one of Thread’s attacks had grazed the tendon.

But his eyes remained cold. Focused.

"Your desperation reeks," Thread hissed. "This is where your grand crusade ends."

"You think too small," Lan replied.

Thread roared and rushed him again.

Lan blocked the first blow, ducked the second, then released a blast of dark qi that sent Thread staggering back.

Then Lan launched forward.

His blade was not meant to be elegant. Devil’s Lie was a weapon of war.

He swung low, carving a deep wound across Thread’s hip. Then followed with a backhand strike that cracked into the man’s ribs.

Thread coughed blood—but channeled it into another glyph as he stumbled.

[Blood Sermon: Marionette of Ruin]

Red tendrils erupted from his chest, snaking toward Lan, each dripping with cursed runes.

Lan narrowed his eyes and brought his free hand up, palm glowing.

[Qi Shield]

The tendrils met a sudden wall of black energy, and the glyph shattered.

Thread reeled. It was the break Lan needed.

He charged. Devil’s Lie glowing, buzzing, whispering for blood.

Thread raised his scythe—

Lan feinted low, then rose like a storm, blade arcing upward in a flash. The cursed sword cleaved through Thread’s shoulder and out his back.

A red shockwave burst from Thread’s body, throwing both of them apart.

Lan landed in a crouch, panting hard.

Thread crashed into the rubble behind the altar, blood gushing, body twitching.

He was not dead. But he was bleeding too fast to cast again.

For now, Lan turned.

His breath was ragged. His body burned. He needed to end this.

Fast.

Before the mana beasts overwhelmed his men.

Before something worse arrived.