Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1287 The Seed of Chaos and the Call of the North
The Primordial Void.
Here, light did not exist. Sound was a concept that had never been invented. There was only the endless, churning, suffocating weight of absolute Chaos.
Suspended in this nothingness was a single point. A speck. A seed.
It hung in the abyss, sipping at the entropy, drawing in microscopic threads of raw chaos energy.
Not enough.
It's not time to germinate yet.
I can go deeper. I can last longer.
The thoughts flickered within Orion's consciousness, a mantra against the encroaching madness. The longer he remained buried in the Void, the more primordial energy he could absorb. The more he absorbed, the stronger the foundation for his new world would be.
But it was a gamble with the highest stakes imaginable.
Chaos was a solvent. It dissolved everything. If he absorbed too much, or lingered a second too long, the Seed would lose its integrity. Orion would cease to be a sentient entity and would simply dissolve, becoming just another ripple in the soup of non-existence.
He had to find the breaking point—the exact millisecond before total assimilation—and trigger his evolution then. Not a moment sooner.
There was no one to help him. No allies, no guides. This was a war against his own greed.
Hold on. Just a little longer.
It was a process of reverse-engineering his very soul.
In the physical world, he was a warrior of many aspects. But here, the Void stripped him down. His Faith Energy, the divine authority of his Trident, the crackling power of his Lightning, the corrupting force of the Abyss, and even the Bloodline Curses—all of it was being broken down.
The Void didn't care about "skills" or "stats." It chewed them up, digesting the complex divine structures back into their raw, primal components.
Even the World Dragon egg and the elemental essence of the Gray Crystals were melting away, stripped of their form, reduced to nutrient paste to feed the hungry Seed.
Not yet.
Not... yet.
Titanion Realm, The North.
The winds howled outside Lokiviria's palace, but the temperature inside the great hall was freezing for a different reason.
A council of monsters had gathered.
They were a motley, savage collection of warlords: Half-Dragons with frost-rimed scales, massive Mammoth-kin draped in heavy furs, Centaurs stamping restless hooves, Goblins with shifty eyes, hulking Werewolves, berserker Bearmen, and slick-skinned Frogkin.
These were the rejects of the realm. They were the leaders of the tribes squeezed into the frozen wasteland by the expanding borders of the South. They didn't represent every non-human race—the cautious and the cowardly had stayed home—but there was enough muscle here to form a terrifying legion.
They had come for one reason: Proof.
Rumors had spread that Lokiviria was backed by an Arch Lord.
The warlords were desperate, but they weren't stupid. They knew that without an Arch Lord to counter the heavy hitters of the Alliance of Four, any rebellion was just a mass suicide pact. They needed someone like the legendary White Dragon Frostsire, who could stand in the open and hold the line.
If Lokiviria was bluffing, they would walk away. Or kill him.
Suddenly, the air in the hall turned to lead.
BOOM.
It wasn't a sound; it was a physical impact on the soul.
The Clown, projecting his power through his insectoid avatar, unleashed his Arch Lord aura. It hit the room like a gravity hammer.
Every warlord, from the smallest Goblin to the massive Mammoth matriarch, was forced down. Knees cracked against the stone floor. Chests heaved as lungs struggled to draw breath under the crushing spiritual pressure. Even Lokiviria bowed low, playing his part in the theater of dominance.
"This is not my territory," a raspy voice echoed, seeming to come from the shadows and the center of their minds all at once. "Nor is it my homeland."
The Clown stepped into the light, his presence suffocating.
"I have no interest in your frozen rocks," he continued, his tone dismissive. "But this is the home of my disciple, Lokiviria. He fights for his tribe. He fights for you. And because he asked... I will answer."
He wasn't promising to win their war. He was promising to hold the door open.
"I give you my word," the Clown declared, the pressure lifting just enough to let them look at him. "I will stalemate the Arch Lords of the Alliance of Four. Even if they send a peak-stage entity, I will hold the line."
His voice was confident, bordering on arrogant. But beneath the bravado, there was a hidden message for Lokiviria alone: I am buying you time. Don't waste it.
"The rest," the Clown said, his aura beginning to recede like a tide, "is up to you. It is you who must live here. It is you who must bleed for it."
The pressure vanished.
The warlords gasped, scrambling to their feet, sweat freezing on their brows. Fear was quickly replaced by a feverish excitement.
He was real. The backer was real.
A powerhouse capable of stalling a peak Arch Lord was on their side. This changed the calculus entirely. They didn't need to destroy the Alliance; they just needed to hurt them enough to push the border south. They just needed breathing room.
The mood in the hall shifted from skepticism to bloodlust.
Lokiviria saw the change. It was time to close the deal.
"My fellow Lords," Lokiviria began, his voice projecting strength and shared suffering. "The North is a grave. The soil is dead. The cold kills our children before they can walk. We cannot sustain our populations here."
He needed to give them a cause. A banner to rally under that was more noble than simple banditry.
"We need land. We need food. We need a future."
Lokiviria stepped down from his dais, walking among them. "We are all children of the Titanion Realm. Why should the humans and elves grow fat in the fertile South while we starve in the snow? We have a right to exist. We have a right to live!"
He looked around the room, meeting their eyes. "For too long, we have fought each other for scraps. We have bled our own kind dry. No more."
"I call upon you now!" Lokiviria raised a fist. "Let us march South together. Let us claim what is ours. Let us carve out a future for the Tribe with steel and blood!"
It was a classic demagogue's speech. To a well-fed noble, it was treason. To a starving monster, it was gospel.
"Lokiviria speaks the truth!"
The first to shout was a Goblin Lord, jumping onto a table. "We need land! My people are eating tree bark to survive!"
The Goblin's eyes burned with a mix of genuine desperation and rehearsed fervor. Anyone with a keen eye for politics could see the Goblin was a shill, reading from the same script as Lokiviria.