Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1285 The Northern Pact and the Devouring Beast

Titanion Realm, The North.

The settlement where Lokiviria resided had been reborn. It bore a new name now—his name—just as his father's had before him.

It was no longer a mere tribal cluster. The hive had expanded exponentially, transforming into a sprawling metropolis of organic architecture and chittering life. The population boom of the insectoids was terrifying to behold, far outstripping the reproduction rates of the old Stoneheart Horde.

"Mentor," Lokiviria said, his voice clicking with the resonance of a mature apex predator. "The pieces are set. I am ready. Are you?"

Lokiviria was fully grown now. Under the Clown's tutelage, his power had skyrocketed, hitting the peak of the Legendary tier. In the eyes of the continent, such a rapid ascent was deemed impossible, a violation of natural law.

"For someone like me," the Clown replied, lounging in the shadows of Lokiviria's palace, "there is no such thing as preparation. There is only the act."

He looked at the insectoid ruler with a gaze that held a twisted form of pride. Hate, he mused, was the most potent fertilizer in the world.

"Lokiviria, listen closely," the Clown warned, his tone dropping an octave. "This continent is crawling with monsters. There isn't just one or two Arch Lords out there waiting to crush you. If you want to ignite a civil war—a true North-South War—you need the strength of an Arch Lord yourself. Without that, you are not a player; you are prey."

It was a cold splash of reality.

"If you truly believe you are ready," the Clown continued, "I will provide the initial spark. I will lend you my influence. But remember this: I am a crippled old man. I can only mask your movements and deter interference for six months."

He leaned forward, his painted grin looking sinister in the dim light. "If you haven't conquered enough territory to fuel your ascension to Arch Lord by then... you die."

This was the narrative the Clown spun. The truth, however, was far more pragmatic. He needed to keep his energy signature hidden from Alexander and Orion. If he overexerted himself, those two would sniff him out instantly.

But there was another layer to his game. He was positioning himself as a martyr. If he died protecting Lokiviria, the debt of blood and gratitude would drive the insectoid into a frenzy of hatred. A desperate, cornered Lokiviria would eventually make the extreme choice the Clown was grooming him for.

A true grandmaster plays every piece, including himself. To the Clown, even this avatar was just another pawn to be sacrificed for the checkmate.

"Mentor, I believe in my strength," Lokiviria said, his mandibles tightening. "And the lords around us... they have had enough. Ever since the Alliance of Four redrew the border further north, there has been nothing but famine and blood."

The Alliance of Four—the Stoneheart Horde, the Human Kingdom, the Dragons, and the Blood Elf Race.

The border was a scar on the land that kept moving. Years ago, during the rise of Orion and the White Dragon Frostsire, the Human Saint's defeat had forced the line south, carving up human, dwarf, and elf territories.

But after Torin's war, the humans had retaliated with a vengeance, pushing the line thousands of miles north to recoup their losses.

The result was a pressure cooker. The surviving non-human races in the north were squeezed into a frozen wasteland with dwindling resources.

"We fight each other for scraps just to survive," Lokiviria hissed. "Our populations are plummeting. But the tribes are waking up. They realize that this infighting is a slow suicide."

It was a grim truth. If the northern tribes kept killing each other, the survivor would be so weak that the southern factions could simply walk in and mop up the remains.

"Our only path is unity," Lokiviria declared. "We must turn our blades outward. We have to push the Alliance of Four back. We must reclaim the south."

Over a decade of studying under the Clown had sharpened Lokiviria's mind. He wasn't delusional. He knew he couldn't wipe out the Alliance of Four. Even if he became an Arch Lord, and even if his mentor was at full strength, the southern factions were too entrenched, their foundations too deep.

The goal wasn't total victory; it was pain.

They would bleed the Alliance. They would make the war so costly, so exhausting, that the southern powers would voluntarily cede territory just to stop the hemorrhage. Pushing the border south was a loss the Alliance could absorb—it spread the damage across four factions, making it acceptable to their leadership.

That was the first step. Secure land. Secure resources. Ascend to Arch Lord.

Then, with a solidified base, initiate the second phase of the war. It was a century-long strategy he and his mentor had drafted: the slow, methodical dismemberment of the southern coalition.

This was Lokiviria's religion now.

"Lokiviria," the Clown said softly, watching the fire in his student's eyes. "You have grown. Your wings are strong. Go. Soar. Make your nightmare a reality."

It was a genuine blessing. The Clown truly wanted his disciple to succeed. That desire didn't conflict with his plan to use Lokiviria; in his twisted worldview, they were one and the same.

Lokiviria turned to leave. He was heading out personally to meet with the northern warlords.

To bind a group of desperate savages together, ideals weren't enough. They needed ironclad laws. In his hand, Lokiviria clutched a scroll provided by the Clown—a soul-binding contract of absolute strictness. Without it, the coalition would crumble at the first sign of trouble.

Valkorath Realm, Garland.

To Orion, the Flower Goddess phantom's decision to transform into a seed and ram into him was entirely unexpected.

But it wasn't unwelcome. In fact, it felt like winning the cosmic lottery.

It was as if a man was sitting in his own bathtub, and a goddess suddenly fell through the ceiling, wrapped in a bow, landing right in his lap. And this bathtub happened to be his sovereign territory.

What resistance can she possibly offer?

As the seed drilled into him, intending to possess him, Orion didn't panic. He simply opened the door and welcomed her in.

The battlefield shifted instantly to Orion's Mind Realm—a metaphysical landscape controlled entirely by his will.

The Flower Goddess phantom, condensed into a single point of light, found herself not in a vulnerable biological core, but in a vast, hostile sky.

Orion was waiting.

He was no longer a giant. In this mental world, he manifested as the Devouring Beast—a colossal, mythical bird that spanned the heavens, its wings casting a shadow over the entire realm.

There was no negotiation. There was no monologue.

With a Roar of Resolve that shattered the mental atmosphere, the great bird descended. The sound was a psychic shockwave, obliterating the Flower Goddess's defenses before she could even unfurl.

She had tried to invade a predator. Now, she was just food.

In a single, violent motion, Orion crushed the phantom's consciousness and began the process of refinement.