Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1304 The Clown's Final Lesson

"Do you see that?"

Pallas gestured with a thumb over his shoulder toward the vast ocean of thirty thousand Wolf-Riders, his posture radiating the arrogance of youth.

"This entire army is under my command," he proclaimed, his chest swelling with pride. "And don't overlook the ten thousand Ogre Berserkers currently on their way."

Leaning forward, his gaze flashed with a provocative light. "I am truly eager to see how you intend to persuade me—and my forces—to obey your lead."

In the presence of Orion, Lilith, Elara, or Kronos, Pallas was as harmless as a kitten. However, standing before an 'outsider,' he transformed into a tiger. He was, after all, a Bloodline Warrior of the Stoneheart Horde.

Disregarding the fact that Prince Theodore possessed a significantly higher power level, Pallas allowed his berserker aura to erupt, sending a wave of primal aggression surging toward the Human Prince.

"It really is quite remarkable," Theodore remarked softly.

He chose not to release his own aura in response. Instead, he gave a small hop, reaching out to give Pallas a gentle pat on the shoulder.

Though the movement was casual and lacked any hint of malice, Pallas’s turbulent aura came to a sudden halt, as if it had collided with a wall of soft cotton.

"You share the same pride as Kronos," Theodore noted, his tone kind yet firm. "On the surface, you both appear composed, but within, there is a heart that thumps with reckless, unchecked fury."

Observing Pallas, Theodore saw a reflection of his own cousin.

Among all of Orion’s offspring, Kronos and Pallas bore the strongest physical resemblance to one another. Since their mothers had carried them prior to reaching higher tiers of power, their bloodlines were saturated with the pure, concentrated essence of the Giant race.

"You were born into strength. The blood inherited from the Giant King elevates you far above your contemporaries."

A brief flash of envy appeared in Theodore’s eyes before he quickly hid it. He understood better than most that a potent bloodline served as a golden key to the higher realms.

"Your natural talent far exceeds mine. Even so," Theodore smiled, pulling his hand back, "I have been honing my skills for much longer than you."

"Talent and effort are the twin pillars of true strength. You have the former. I possess the latter."

Theodore had no need to suppress Pallas through raw power. Instead, he neutralized him with virtue and the steady confidence of a man who had already traversed the path Pallas was only beginning to walk.

He recognized this encounter as a trial. The First Daughter and the Giant Prince had come to learn, and Theodore, acting as both host and commander, was delivering the opening lesson.

"For the sake of my Second Brother, I will refrain from fighting you," Pallas grunted, folding his massive arms across his chest.

ROARRRR!

The cry of a dragon suddenly tore through the sky above. An immense black shadow moved to eclipse the sun.

This was Pallas’s counter-argument.

He wasn't merely counting on talent or hard work. He was showcasing a third advantage: Assets.

"Heh... the dust is getting rather thick out here," Theodore laughed, looking up at the circling black dragon without showing any fear. "Let us move inside the city. Our distinguished guests from the Blood Elves and the Dragon Clans are already waiting."

He offered no further lectures to Pallas. A wise man knows when a point has been made.

"City," a clear voice sliced through the lingering tension.

It was Elara.

She didn't spare Theodore a glance. She simply reached out, patted Pallas on the head, and spoke that single word of command.

Immediately, Pallas’s bravado deflated. His aura vanished instantly. He signaled to the guards, the Raptor Cavalry, and the Wolf-Riders.

As if they were a single living entity, the entire Stoneheart force snapped to attention and began their march into the Northern Bastion of Menethis, following Elara’s quiet instruction as if it were divine law.

Theodore’s pupils tightened.

In that moment, a terrifying realization struck him: he could not detect Elara’s aura at all. In his perception, she was a complete void.

"Greetings, Princess Elara," Theodore said, bowing once more. His tone had shifted from that of a polite host to a respectful peer. He looked upon the legendary First Daughter of the Stoneheart Horde with newfound gravity.

Elara responded with a simple nod.

"Interesting," Theodore whispered to himself, turning around to lead the procession.

The representatives of the Alliance of Four had gathered. This day would be remembered as the most magnificent in the history of Menethis.

This conflict was Theodore’s stage. It served as his final test to guarantee his succession to the throne and a golden chance to forge personal ties with the future rulers of the other great powers.

The Elders of the Alliance had prepared the stage perfectly. Now, it was Theodore’s turn to direct the performance.

The North. Insectoid Territory.

"Brothers! If we wish to endure on this land... if we want our children to have room to breathe, never knowing the bite of hunger or cold... we must take back what was stolen! We must reclaim the land and the resources that are rightfully ours!"

"We have taken a blood oath! We are bound by the Pact of Mutual Aid! Together, we shall push the North-South boundary back! We will take the South!"

Lokiviria held his goblet high, his voice booming through the hall where a diverse group of Lords had assembled.

He had succeeded. He had won them over.

Once the war horn sounded, these Lords—who usually hid in the shadows—would pour into the south. They would swarm the Northern Territory of the Stoneheart Horde.

This was the grand blueprint of the Alliance of the Hundred Races: Attack the South, then encircle the North.

Or rather, this was the plan devised by the Clown.

The Clown’s objective was straightforward: Force the Stoneheart Horde into a two-front war, thereby diluting their support for the Human Kingdom in the primary theater of battle.

Three days later, the flames of war were ignited.

It was more than a military operation; it was a flood. The Alliance of the Hundred Races did more than just deploy their Bloodline Warriors; they moved massive herds of beasts ahead of them, a living wave crashing into the lands of the Alliance of Four.

The Clown’s Courtyard.

"Mentor. I am departing."

Lokiviria stood before the Clown, ready to say his final goodbye.

As the face of the Alliance of the Hundred Races, he was required to lead from the front. He had to be the tip of the spear to maintain the confidence of the various Lords he had brought together.

"Go," the Clown replied, his attention remaining on the wooden block he was carving. "Should an Arch Lord appear on the field, I will take care of them."

He paused, finally putting down his carving tool. He looked at Lokiviria, his painted grin unchanging while his eyes remained cold.

"Lokiviria. Keep this in mind. The battlefield is pure chaos. You must keep your logic absolute. Stay perfectly calm."

"If you desire greatness, you must be ready to give up everything. Your will must be unbreakable."

"Death is not something to fear," the Clown said, his voice sinking into an eerie, hypnotic tone. "What should be feared... is a death that brings no gain."

The air within the courtyard seemed to distort. The Clown was utilizing a secret art, carving his words directly into Lokiviria’s Sea of Consciousness.

Lokiviria stood motionless, his eyes dull and glazed as he fell into a trance, completely severed from the physical world.

"If you and I are meant to be sacrificed," the Clown whispered, the words crawling into Lokiviria’s mind, "do not let our end be in vain."

"At the very least... leave a spark of hope for those who follow."

"Or... pull them all down with us. Let them experience despair. Let us all walk into the arms of death together."