Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1290 The Young Prince and the Burden of Survival

Elara let out a haughty sniff, a sound that was equal parts disdain and affection. Before Pallas could even formulate a retort, space folded around her. With a soft pop of displaced air, she blinked out of existence.

Her personal guard, a unit of elite agile warriors, vanished a split second later, struggling to keep pace with their mistress's teleportation.

"Your Highness... are you alright?"

Only after the terrifying princess was gone did Pallas's own guards and the succubus maidservants dare to enter the arena. They swarmed around him, fussing over the welts and bruises covering his massive frame.

"I'm fine," Pallas grunted, waving them off. He sat up, shaking out his shoulders. "She plays rough, but she doesn't aim to maim. They're just flesh wounds."

"It doesn't hurt anymore," he added, flexing his arm.

Steam rose from his skin as the heavy regeneration factor of his [Titan Bloodline] kicked in. The purple bruises faded to yellow and then vanished entirely within seconds.

This was the routine. Ever since they were old enough to hold weapons, the siblings had sparred. In the beginning, Pallas could trade blows with her. But as Elara unlocked her terrifying magical potential alongside her martial prowess, the 'sparring' had devolved into one-sided beatings.

At first, Pallas had hated it. He used to hide when he saw her coming.

But somewhere along the line, the fear had turned into a grim satisfaction. Every beating was a lesson. Every bruise was data. He was the anvil to her hammer, and the anvil was getting harder. He could feel himself improving, his reaction times sharpening, his durability increasing.

Progress was an addictive drug.

"Prince Pallas," a soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

A succubus maidservant materialized near him. Pallas recognized her; she was one of his mother's direct attendants.

"Lady Lilith has issued a summons," the succubus said, bowing low. "She requests the presence of both you and Lady Elara immediately to accept a commission."

Pallas's eyes lit up.

A commission. A mission.

Usually, Pallas had to beg or invent reasons to get out of the citadel and find adventure. This was the first time his mother had actively assigned him a task.

"Lead the way," Pallas said, scrambling to his feet. The lingering soreness in his muscles was forgotten, replaced by the electric thrill of anticipation. He strode out of the arena, his giant strides eating up the ground, eager to see what destiny had in store.

Distant Territory. The Blood Elf Realm, City of Blessings.

King Rommath had changed. The nervous, untested prince who had ascended the throne years ago was gone. In his place sat a monarch who had learned the art of stillness.

When the intelligence report regarding the coming North-South War landed on his desk, his hands did not tremble. Years of seclusion in the City of Blessings had taught him how to mask his inner turmoil.

"The war will strike the frontiers first," Rommath said, his voice measured. "The territories of the Stoneheart Horde, the Human Kingdom, and the Dragons form the shield. Our lands lie behind the Human Kingdom. Physically, we are safe from the initial wave."

Rommath wasn't deluding himself. He saw the board clearly. The geographical buffer gave them time, but not immunity.

"However," Grand Elder Lireesa interjected, her voice rasping like dry leaves, "safety has a price. Once the war horns blow, the Human Kingdom will demand our levies. We will be the first they call upon to reinforce their lines."

Ten years had been unkind to Lireesa. Even with the extended lifespan of a Blood Elf, she looked ancient. Under normal circumstances, she should have outlived the human King, Edward, by centuries. But the stress of guiding a declining race had withered her.

"We cannot refuse, Your Majesty," she continued. "We are members of the Alliance of Four. If we do not bleed with them, we will not feast with them."

Rommath stared at the map, silence stretching between them.

He felt powerless.

They called it the Alliance of Four, but in the dark corners of his mind, Rommath knew it was really an Alliance of Three... and their mascot.

The Blood Elves had the smallest voice, the weakest military, and the least leverage. They had to play nice with everyone. They had to smile while the Giants, Dragons, and Humans dictated the flow of history.

If the Alliance fractured, or if the other three decided the Elves were dead weight, the Blood Elf Race would be the first on the chopping block. They would be partitioned and devoured.

But what stung the most was that they had to be grateful for the opportunity to be cannon fodder. They had to actively volunteer to share the risk, just to prove they belonged at the table.

"It is... suffocating," Rommath finally admitted. "To know that our survival depends entirely on how useful we can be to others."

"Your Majesty, I know it is hard," Lireesa said, her eyes softening as she looked at the King she had watched grow up. "But we must endure. We play the long game."

She gestured toward the window, in the direction of the sacred grove.

"The last war expanded our territory. The influx of population and resources has fed the Guardian Tree. It is close, Rommath. So very close."

The Guardian Tree. The heart of their race.

Years ago, it was a Peak Legendary existence. Since joining the Alliance, the Blood Elves had absorbed vassal races and expanded their borders, funneling a massive surge of Faith Energy into the tree.

"When the Divine Tree breaks through..." Lireesa's voice trembled with hope. "When it ascends to Arch Lord, everything changes."

That was the key.

In this world, a nation without an Arch Lord was just a vassal state waiting to happen. If the Guardian Tree could take that final step, the Blood Elves would no longer be the junior partner. They would have the strength to demand respect, to carve out a real slice of the pie.

"Until then," Lireesa warned, her gaze sharpening, "we cannot lose a single inch of territory. Do you understand, Your Majesty?"

Less territory meant fewer subjects. Fewer subjects meant less Faith Energy. If the supply cut off now, the Guardian Tree's ascension would fail, and their hope would die on the vine.

"I understand," Rommath sighed, the weight of his crown pressing down on him.

He looked at the map again, seeing the Stoneheart Horde and the Dragons. Their rise had been meteoric. It proved that the old ways of the South—where Elves, Humans, and Dwarves stood as equals—were dead. The new game was about raw, overwhelming power.

"We must be proactive," Rommath decided, his posture straightening. "We won't wait for the Humans to summon us like servants. We will offer our aid before they ask."

"Wisely spoken," Lireesa nodded. "And we should leverage our diplomatic ties. We must reach out to the Consorts."

She was referring to the high-ranking Blood Elf women who had been married off into the other factions—the concubines and wives within the Human Kingdom, the Dragonflight, and the Stoneheart Horde.

"Our territory is not the frontline," Lireesa concluded, her strategic mind taking over. "This gives us flexibility. We do not need to send our main army into the meat grinder. We will position ourselves as the ultimate support force. We will provide logistics, healing, and magical suppression. We will make ourselves indispensable, without spending the blood of our youth."

Rommath nodded. It was a bitter pill to swallow, acting as the support staff for the great powers, but it was the only path that led to a future where the Blood Elves stood tall.

"Prepare the envoys," the King commanded. "We march. Not for glory, but for survival."