Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1293 Now it's yours

The Tower of Skulls

Reklos had a motive for his delayed intervention. He had remained on the periphery, observing the situation to determine which side held the advantage.

Even worse, it was evident that Eudan’s incursion had occurred with the silent consent of Reklos. He had essentially unlatched the gates and stood by as the predators entered.

“You are a demigod,” Orion remarked, his words piercing the haze of smoke. Leveling his scythe, he aimed the tip of the blade straight at the apparition’s throat. “If a stranger smashed down your front door and butchered your kin, would you greet them with a handshake?”

Orion continued without pausing for a reply. “If you imagine you can escape this with a mere apology, you are mistaken. Should you depart now without paying the price, the Conquest Legion will begin its march on Iron-Forged Ridge by daybreak.”

A chilling determination flickered in his gaze. “Blood will resolve this. Either one of us perishes, or this conflict never concludes.”

Reklos flinched. He had not anticipated such instability from an Over-tier warrior. This did not follow the protocols of abyssal diplomacy; it was a blatant vow of execution.

Orion granted him no time to contemplate the provocation. He surged with Cultivation, aligning his spirit with the relic weapon gripped in his hands.

BOOM!

A wave of feral power exploded outward, crashing into the demigod's phantom image.

“You have brought a curse upon your own head!” Reklos bellowed as his translucent form began to crumble under the pressure. “House Julius is already flooding into the Sixth Layer. This is far from over!”

This was more than a final insult; it was a statement of reality. Knowing Reklos’s nature, it was a guarantee that he would stir further chaos.

Having just returned from the Gray Battlefield, Reklos found his divine Qi nearly spent. He had no desire for a grueling war of attrition against a madman like Orion at this moment. Instead, he would simply point House Julius toward Orion and enjoy the destruction from a safe vantage point.

Orion watched as the phantom dissolved into nothingness. He was well aware of the impending storm. The Abyssal Ruler, the noble lineages, the vengeful demigods—all were converging.

He remained indifferent.

To claim territory in the Abyss, the earth had to be drenched in blood. The Conquest Legion required a fearsome reputation, and today, they had secured one.

Orion had already weighed the possibilities. In a worst-case scenario, he would summon reinforcements—his brothers from the Champions Alliance. If the Abyssal Ruler themselves entered the fray, Orion would request Commander Thresh to step in.

And if even Thresh proved insufficient? They would simply retreat from the Sixth Layer and carve a new path into a higher dimension.

“Execute him,” Orion commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.

He turned away, leaving the carnage behind.

His gaze fell upon the final surviving Chaos Demon Arch Lord, who hovered in the air, trembling with hopelessness. Orion felt no need to stain his own blade with such a creature.

“Let the recruits gain some experience,” he muttered.

Below him, the Conquest Legion surged forward like a tide. The atmosphere warped as the Arch Lord released one last, choking cry—a useless struggle against his fate.

The Donough Blood-Crow Nest was transformed into a slaughterhouse. In the Abyss, darkness and death were the only valid currencies, and today, Orion was wealthy. Every dying demon and every burst of void Qi served as a new entry in the annals of this desolate world.

Three days passed.

The cries of the dying had vanished, and the chaotic ruin had settled into a heavy, grim silence.

Every single invader had been put to the sword.

In their stead, a landmark had been raised. A Tower of Skulls—a gargantuan pyramid of bone reaching three thousand feet into the sky—now stood at the edge of the Donough Blood-Crow Nest.

It was wreathed in Demon Fire. Within the Abyss, such flames were undying. They would blaze as long as this world endured, acting as a beacon of warning that marked the border between Orion’s lands and the Iron-Forged Ridge.

However, nothing was squandered in the Abyss.

Eparus and his circle of mages gathered at the base of the skeletal monument, chanting as they activated a massive Coalescence Formation. They were recycling the blood and spiritual essence of the slaughtered army.

One after another, silhouettes emerged from the crimson mist. Nearly two thousand fresh Scourge Wardens stepped forth, their eyes burning with a new hunger, ready to expand Orion’s military strength.

“My Lord,” Eparus said, bowing deeply with a face flushed with triumph. “The curse formation is now active. Any being that attempts to disturb the Bone Mountain will be consumed by the power of Calamity.”

They had suffered no losses, yet their forces had multiplied. It was a flawless triumph.

“Excellent,” Orion said, casting a final glance at the roaring pyre. “Let us return. There is much work ahead.”

The conflict was not ending; it was merely entering a new phase.

The Titanion Realm. Serpent Isle.

Syltharion, once the magnificent hub of the Serpentfolk and the primary seat of the Medusa Queen, had changed.

The streets were now eerily quiet. The Serpentfolk were nowhere to be seen.

In their place, Gorgons prowled the city.

Those Serpentfolk who resisted the transformation had been executed or had chosen suicide. A few fortunate souls had escaped into the depths of the ocean before the blockade was finalized, drifting away on the waves toward an unknown future.

“I must admit,” Lycanor remarked, leaning against the royal palace balcony, “I didn’t think she possessed such ruthlessness.”

She and Lysinthia stood at the peak of Syltharion, surveying the fallen city and the sprawling Jynx continent in the distance.

“That Medusa Queen was incredibly obstinate. Dragging this conflict out for seven long years... all because of that wretched snake.”

Lycanor pointed toward the colossal beast coiled at the palace foundations. The great serpent, once vibrant, had been mutated into a sleek, obsidian-hued creature. Its head moved slowly through the air, its massive forked tongue tasting the wind as it showed total devotion to Lysinthia.

“That is a Shaka,” Lysinthia corrected in a calm, steady tone. “The Sleeper. The King of Serpents.”

“Right, right. King of Serpents,” Lycanor said with a dismissive wave. “And now it belongs to you.”

In truth, Lycanor felt a pang of envy. The serpent was an Upper Legendary beast—the divine protector of an entire species. For Lysinthia to not only break its spirit but transform it into a subservient thrall was a frightening display of necromantic skill.

“Sister,” Lysinthia said, ignoring the jealousy in Lycanor’s voice. She offered a rare, subtle smile. “Give me just a little more time. Then we can return home.”

Serpent Isle was finally under one rule, but the true labor was beginning.

Lysinthia had studied governance under Lilith herself, learning the complexities of the Stoneheart Horde. She understood that while conquering land was simple, making it yield profit was the real challenge.

She needed to assimilate the Gorgon population, claim the wealth discarded by the Serpentfolk, and establish trade routes. Teleportation arrays had to be built to bring in officials from the Tribe.

“Fine, fine,” Lycanor sighed, stretching her limbs. “We have been here for over a decade. What is a few more days?”

She was in high spirits. The war was over, and she was finally at liberty. She intended to visit her home, perhaps travel through the human realms and the dragon territories. For a blood elf, living in a humid swamp filled with reptiles was a nightmare.

“Thank you,” Lysinthia said quietly.

The two shared a look of mutual understanding. More than ten years of combat had created a connection deeper than any blood relation.

Utessar Continent. The North.

Deep within the heart of the insectoid lands, the Northern Coalition was preparing for action.

Lords from dozens of different species were gathering, holding secret deliberations and arguing over territorial lines. The air was thick with the scent of political maneuvering. Everyone was hungry for a larger portion of the spoils.

In a private wing of the Lokiviria Royal Palace, shielded from the clamor of the war councils, the mood was entirely different.

This was the residence of the Clown avatar—the true center of power for the Alliance of the Hundred Races.

Lokiviria stood before the heavy entrance, having come straight from the grand meeting.

He adjusted his attire, took a steadying breath, and knocked softly on the door.

“Master,” Lokiviria spoke with deep reverence. “May I come in?”