Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1295 The Puppeteer and the Genesis Seed

Lokiviria stood up and offered a deep bow—not because he felt forced to, but because a sudden, freezing realization had dawned upon him.

The Clown wasn’t merely scolding him. He was offering a way out of certain death.

In this world, brutal honesty often preserved more lives than the sturdiest shield ever could.

“Show me the way, Mentor.”

The Clown offered no immediate reply. He remained hunched over a piece of twisted wood, his carving blade chipping away with a hypnotic, rhythmic steady pace. A reptile was slowly taking shape under his hands.

Half an hour slipped by in total silence, punctuated only by the rasp of metal against timber. Eventually, the Clown’s voice echoed through the chamber, low and ghostly.

“Second point: Your own Cultivation and strength have made you arrogant. You are staring at the surface while ignoring the abyss lurking beneath.”

The Clown blew a cloud of wood shavings off the small figure. “Consider the Arch Lords. The Humans, the Giants, and the Dragons all possess them. But do you actually grasp who holds the true reins of power?”

Lokiviria held his tongue. He honestly did not know.

Rumors had reached his ears, of course—tales that the Giant Lord had ascended to his throne under the patronage of the White Dragon Arch Lord. It was the common belief: if one intended to ignite a true civil war, the backing of an Arch Lord was mandatory.

The Clown did not ridicule his ignorance. He simply continued his work, providing his own answer.

“You would never suspect it, but the new Giant King? He is the true apex. The Stoneheart Horde possesses the deepest foundations and the most formidable backing of any Sect or faction in the Titanion Realm. Only I am aware of the full scale of Orion’s might.”

The knife came to a halt. “The Dragons take the second spot. And the Humans? The very ones you dread? They are at the bottom.”

The Clown glanced up, his painted features impossible to read. “And yet, you claim you want to wage war against the most lethal faction on the entire continent? Lokiviria, have you truly lost your mind?”

The sarcasm dripping from his words was heavy, though it wasn't aimed at his pupil. The Clown was mocking himself.

Lokiviria missed the self-deprecation, yet the reality was clear: even a figure as terrifying as the Clown had to move carefully around Orion to keep his agendas intact. This was the unspoken third lesson. The Clown had no intention of exposing himself to Orion just to rescue Lokiviria from a suicide mission.

“Mentor... I have been a fool.”

The Clown gave a slow nod. Lokiviria’s raw honesty was his saving grace. It was the reason he was worth the effort of saving.

“Change the theater of your war,” the Clown suggested, his tone shifting from mockery to cold strategy. “Focus your efforts on the Human lands. If you strike the Alliance of Four and their Saint, I can buy you the necessary time. I can keep them occupied.”

“Furthermore,” he added, “if you target the Humans, the Arch Lords of the Dragons and the Stoneheart Horde won't interfere. They will remain in their territories to safeguard their own interests. That will be your window of opportunity.”

The wooden reptile in the Clown’s palm was nearly finished.

“Lokiviria, do you recall my previous words?”

“The path you have chosen is paved with razor blades. A single stumble will send you plunging into the darkness. Before you strike, always ask yourself: what is the actual gain once the dust settles?”

The Clown executed one final, surgical cut. A strange ripple of energy vibrated through the room. The wooden reptile seemed to twitch, shifting from a mere carving into a masterpiece—and something far more potent.

“A fine little trinket. It belongs to you now.”

He flicked the carving toward Lokiviria. It felt warm to the touch, pulsing with a life of its own—a puppet infused with a specific, lethal purpose.

“You cannot strike the Stoneheart Horde head-on, but you can still lead the orchestra,” the Clown remarked. “Inform the other warlords—the ones who oppose your views—that you will hold the Southern frontline against the Alliance of Four. Persuade them to strike from the North and pillage the Stoneheart Horde’s lands while you draw all the attention.”

The Clown’s mouth twisted into a subtle grin. “Whether they triumph or perish, they will draw the Stoneheart forces away from the center. Is that not so?”

Lokiviria’s eyes widened in realization. The board had been reset. What was once a suicide mission had been transformed into a brilliant tactical maneuver.

He departed the chamber a changed man, his thoughts swirling with new plots as he walked the path the Clown had laid out for him.

“Do not point the finger at me, Lokiviria,” the Clown murmured to the empty air. “Whatever follows... this was your choice.”

Watching his student’s retreating figure, the Clown felt a flicker of a foreign sensation. Pity. It was a rare feeling for him, yet strangely, it didn't make him feel diminished. It made him feel immense.

He felt powerful through his pity.

Valkorath Realm. Garland.

The heavens above the Valkorath Realm were fracturing.

This was no mere storm; it was a violent celestial catastrophe. Lightning slashed through the firmament like thrashing dragons, their thunderous roars rattling the very bedrock of the world. It was a chaotic, magnificent exhibition of raw energy tearing the void apart.

Simultaneously, deep within the Primordial Void, the singularity birthed by Orion finally sparked to life.

It was the point of origin, the explosive flash of creation.

The point expanded, evolving into a seed the color of blood. Having been forged by the chaotic gasses of the Void, the seed was no longer an interloper—it was part of this place. It began to consume. Like a ravenous black hole, it swallowed the surrounding chaos gas with an insatiable hunger.

The blood-red seed began to sprout.

Once it matured into a massive tree, the cycle would be finalized.

“Master, I can feel a new world coming into being,” Caelus remarked, his voice trembling with wonder. “Is that... Father?”

In the distance, the lightning strikes began to wane, and the rift in the sky started to mend itself.

Commander Thresh looked down. As the sovereign of the Valkorath Realm, he understood exactly what this phenomenon signaled. The distortion in space was the aftershock of a new world forcing its way into reality within the realm.

“That is indeed your father,” the Commander replied. He unlatched a worn flask from his belt and took two heavy gulps.

“Teacher,” Caelus asked, looking up, “is Father following the same path of Cultivation that I am?”

To Caelus, the act of Orion opening his own world felt strikingly familiar.

“No,” Thresh answered bluntly. He turned his gaze toward Garland, his face setting into a mask of begrudging admiration. “The two of you aren't even on the same road.”

“You are entirely different breeds of beast.”

Thresh pointed vaguely at the youth. “You depend on power from the outside. The Miracle Divine Tree? You possess that only because your father hunted across the world to secure it for you. Everything you own was a gift. You don’t even truly grasp the nature of the weapon you wield.”

In the Commander’s view, Caelus was a child born with every advantage. He was a stone that needed to be carved, hardened, and directed.

Orion was a different story.

“Your father gave up every part of himself,” Thresh said softly. “He crushed his entire being into that single seed. He buried himself in the Primordial Void and allowed the chaos to strip him bare, just for a meager chance to take root.”

Thresh took another swig, observing the dying storm.

“He isn’t borrowing strength, Caelus. He is carving a new universe out of his own flesh and blood. That is a path even I never had the courage to envision.”