Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1314 The Art of the Hustle

"Our adversaries are gathering on the horizon. The Beast Tide was merely a reconnaissance mission—a test of our defenses and a means to deplete our stamina."

Prince Theodore returned his sword to its sheath.

CLACK.

The sound resonated, sharp and definitive. He turned towards a Royal Guard, retrieving a tattered, blood-soaked war banner from the soldier’s grasp.

He hoisted the heavy standard aloft. The richly colored fabric, weighed down with gore, fluttered sluggishly in the morning breeze.

"The Civil War has not even truly commenced!" Theodore boomed, his voice echoing across the ramparts.

"The smoke has yet to dissipate, and this devastation before us is only the initial maneuver. Our enemies observe from the shadows, hoping for our collapse right here upon these walls. However, they are destined for disappointment, for we are invincible!"

His voice reverberated over the Northern Bastion of Menethis. This fortress represented his creation, his dominion, the bedrock of his legacy. A defeat here was unacceptable.

"We must convey a message to those who dare invade our territory! We shall not yield! We shall not shatter! Darkness may descend, but dawn is inevitable!"

"Let our sacrifice and our resolve be etched into the annals of this continent's history! Let the bards sing of this day for generations to come!"

It was a post-battle summary artfully disguised as a pre-battle rallying cry.

The main contingent of the Alliance of the Hundred Races was drawing near—two days away, at most. The siege of the previous night had left the defenders utterly exhausted. Soldiers leaned against the cold stone of the battlements, their faces a tableau of numbness and hatred. Their armor was fractured, their bodies caked with drying blood. They desperately needed a reason to remain standing.

"Blah, blah, blah. Who is he attempting to deceive?"

Elara’s voice, dripping with disdain, pierced the inspiring rhetoric. It was hushed enough that only Pallas could hear it.

Pallas blinked, turning his massive head to gaze at his elder sister with confusion.

"What are you staring at?" Elara scoffed. "Take notes, kid. This is Politics 101. It's the art of the hustle."

Her words struck Pallas like a physical blow.

Hustle?

A series of question marks seemed to hover above the giant’s head, but clarity swiftly followed. Pallas was indeed a Giant, yet he also possessed the blood of a Succubus. He was not unintelligent; he simply preferred to avoid using his brain if unnecessary. He immediately grasped the underlying meaning.

Elara was shrewd enough to confine her commentary to a private channel. She had no intention of publicly humiliating Prince Theodore. While his feelings were of no concern to her, as the Eldest Daughter of the Stoneheart Horde, she understood the obligations inherent in her status.

"Sis, what's the plan?" Pallas inquired.

Pallas was intelligent, but fundamentally indolent. Why analyze a complex geopolitical situation when Elara could simply provide him with the explanation?

"We do precisely what is required of us," Elara stated, raising three fingers. "We don't flee. We don't flinch. And we don't flex."

"Don't flex?"

"This war belongs to the Alliance of Four, yet the setting is the Human Kingdom," Elara clarified, her tone pragmatic. "We are the supporting cast, Pallas. Not the protagonists. We perform our duty, we assist them in holding the line, but we do not attempt to seize the spotlight."

"Understood," Pallas nodded, stifling a yawn. "In that case, I'm going to collapse. I require a nap."

If he didn't have to concern himself with administration or grand strategy, he intended to disengage. The siege had been his first true defensive battle, and it had drained him both mentally and physically.

"Hold your horses. You can sleep after the loot distribution," Elara said.

This time, she did not lower her voice. She wanted Theodore to hear.

The Northern Bastion of Menethis had just endured a massive Beast Tide. The terrain outside was covered in high-value carcasses. Even for the affluent Stoneheart Horde, such an abundance of raw materials—hides, cores, bones—represented a fortune.

Pallas might not care about the gold, but the Bloodline Warriors under his command needed those resources to upgrade their gear and Cultivation. Elara was not about to permit the Human Kingdom to claim all the profit simply because they were "allies."

Pallas's eyes brightened. It wasn't greed; it was the prospect of returning home with gifts. He envisioned the smiles on the faces of the tribal elders who had always cherished him. It was time he repaid their kindness.

"Your Highness..." Pallas began, turning towards Theodore, who had just concluded his speech.

"The battle is concluded," Theodore smoothly interjected, anticipating the request. "According to protocol, the spoils of war will be cataloged and distributed immediately. I will personally oversee the allocation for you and the Stoneheart Horde."

Theodore had not missed the exchange. In fact, he welcomed it. Distributing loot was the quickest method to restore morale. As the Commander-in-Chief, he needed his army content and compensated before the main enemy force arrived. He viewed Elara’s comment not as a threat, but as a helpful reminder.

"Heh, sounds good. I'll await your favorable news, Your Highness," Pallas grinned. "I'm going to catch some Z's. Wake me when the invaders arrive so I can slay more."

With that, Pallas signaled his personal guard and lumbered off the wall, his stride relaxed and heavy.

Theodore observed the retreating figure of the Giant Prince and shook his head. Pallas proved easier to manage than anticipated.

"Just like Kronos," Theodore mused. "They all prefer to conceal their violence behind a facade of harmless indifference."

He gazed at the departing giant. "But the world forgets... you are Giants. You are the royalty of the Stoneheart Horde. There is no such thing as a gentle Giant."

In the view of the Stoneheart Horde elders, the calm temperaments of Caelus, Pallas, and Kronos represented an evolution—a clear indication of Orion’s unique bloodline. But to outsiders like Theodore, it appeared as a terrifying form of restraint. It was the calm preceding the storm.

Valkorath Realm. The Primordial Void.

Far removed from the politics of the bastions and the Abyss, Orion had entered a state of profound metaphysical transformation.

He was suspended in the absolute nothingness of the Primordial Void.

Orion had compressed his entire existence—his power, his will, his essence—into a singular point: a Bloodline Seed.

Submerged in the chaotic, unformed energies of the void, the seed began to pulse. It was being cleansed, refined, and tempered by the very fabric of creation.

Then, it fractured open.

It did not merely grow; it erupted. The seed germinated into a magnificent, cosmic World Tree. And within its branches, a new singularity materialized.

A small world was born.