Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1322 The Sacrificial Pawn

As the Clown had foreseen, Lokiviria’s spirit crumbled the moment his eyes fell upon the grave.

There were no frantic cries or weeping.

In a daze, Lokiviria turned away and began his descent into the cavern’s darkest depths. He recalled a memory of his mentor mentioning that something ancient and powerful slept in the shadows below. Whatever that power was, Lokiviria intended to claim it.

Vengeance was his only desire; he wanted to see the world reduced to cinders.

Shuffling forward like a hollow shell, a man stripped of his soul, he moved one heavy limb at a time toward the abyss. High above, a glowing gemstone embedded in the rock ceiling recorded every agonizing step he took.

From behind that crystalline lens, the Clown observed the scene, his voice a distorted, low hum in the darkness.

"Will he surrender himself? Will he be the one to spark the sacrificial ritual?"

The Clown leaned forward, mesmerized. "Desperation looks so... pitiful on him, doesn't it?"

"I must confess, maneuvering a pawn to its final square provides a strange sense of fulfillment. I can't believe I wasted so much effort on other tactics before."

Naturally, the Clown had hidden several vital facts. He never informed Lokiviria that the altar at the cave’s floor was constructed from the biological remains of countless Insectoids and various other species. He failed to mention that this entire conflict was a fabrication—a grand deception designed specifically to harvest the flesh and blood of the locals.

The foot soldiers and the Bloodline Warriors perishing on the front lines believed their struggle was for survival and glory. In truth, they were merely raw ingredients.

Furthermore, the Clown had kept secret that the moment Lokiviria set foot on that altar—whether by choice or force—the Sacrificial Ritual would commence. It would serve as a beacon, summoning the Void Insectoids to descend and pillage this realm.

If Lokiviria were to initiate it himself, the signal would be significantly more potent.

Outside, the atmosphere above the field of battle was heavy enough to suffocate.

***

The Northern Bastion of Menethis stood tall over a landscape defined by slaughter. Below its stone walls, animal carcasses were stacked in mounds, creating grisly hills of fur and scales. On the blood-drenched earth, Bloodline Warriors lay shattered, their frames twitching in the final throes of death. The air was thick with the scent of iron, ozone, and burnt flesh.

It was a stifling scene of brutality and hopelessness, of sheer will and a stubborn refusal to submit.

"So," Pallas muttered, his voice echoing with weight. "This is war."

Standing atop the ramparts of The Northern Bastion of Menethis, he looked down at the gruesome tally. Pallas and Elara had been in the center of the fray, their adrenaline masking the terror. Now, however, in the quiet of the aftermath, the reality of the carnage sank deep into Pallas's soul.

"Did Father and the Elders endure hells like this?" Pallas questioned, his brow tightening. "Is this the path the Stoneheart Horde took to rise in the south? Through this much bloodshed?"

Throughout his life, Pallas had perceived his father only as a bastion of power and a figure of command. Now, witnessing the ruin, that perception transformed. He grasped the true scale of what his father—and the Stoneheart Horde behind him—had overcome. It wasn't merely strength; it was greatness tempered in the forge of war.

"Getting cold feet, big guy?"

Elara was perched on Pallas’s massive shoulder, staring toward the horizon with an unreadable gaze. Her eyes showed no sign of revulsion or dread. Instead, she looked as though she had seen such things a thousand times. To her, a conflict of this magnitude was simply another day.

"The previous generation conquered," Elara remarked indifferently. "Now, it is our turn to expand the boundaries."

Pallas shifted his head, his wide eyes blinking at her in bewilderment.

"What? Don't tell me you don't want to do your part for the Horde?" Elara gave him a sharp, sideways look. She scrutinized his expression, searching for any trace of fear or doubt.

She found none. The confusion in Pallas’s gaze vanished, replaced by a hardened, lethal determination.

"Sis," Pallas smirked, "you really are the clever one."

Elara rolled her eyes—not with annoyance, but with a faint, proud smile.

"The war is shifting into cleanup mode," she noted, jumping down. "Go track down that human prince. Press him for our share of the spoils, and let's leave. We're heading home."

Elara glanced toward the horizon one last time, a small frown appearing on her forehead. A nagging intuition tugged at her gut. Something felt fundamentally wrong.

Suddenly, the only place that felt truly secure was the Valkorath Realm and the heart of the Stoneheart Horde.

"You got it," Pallas agreed with a nod. He didn't question her, assuming she was merely feeling homesick.

In truth, after witnessing this meat grinder, Pallas was also ready for the tranquility of the Horde.

***

Deep within the cavern's belly, Lokiviria felt nothing. His despair had evolved from a sharp sting into a heavy, suffocating shroud. He dragged his body toward the altar, inch by agonizing inch.

I am weary. Every battle, every bit of effort... it only earns me more agony.

The world has cast me out. The other races turned their backs on me. They left me to rot just to save their own lives.

Mentor is gone. Mother is dead.

I cannot fix this. I cannot change anything. Everything I labored to build has crumbled into dust.

Gone... it is all gone.

A raw, strangled sound tore from his throat—the sound of a man grieving for his own existence. Lokiviria was spent, not just physically, but in the very core of his being.

He had spent his entire life Cultivating and struggling to grow stronger, hoping to elevate his Tribe and provide a better future. He wanted to be a man of consequence.

And then, a single war—a pointless slaughter—had wiped it all away.

I must destroy it. I must incinerate this place of suffering. I must bring an end to this wretched world.

I seek release. Death is the only path to freedom now.

I will liberate myself. And I will bestow that same liberation upon every living soul.

In a certain light, extremism can look terrifyingly like clarity.

Lokiviria stepped onto the altar. His eyes, once hollow, suddenly flared with a fanatical intensity. A fire ignited within his gaze. His fighting spirit returned, now fueled by a horrific nihilism. He was prepared to throw everything away because nothing held value anymore.

Or so he convinced himself.

"This world requires a reset. If the corruption cannot be purged from within, then I shall invite the plague to wash it away."

"Let the catastrophe begin. I will not be around to witness it. Whether it is good or evil no longer matters."

A distorted grin split his face. "Heh... hehe... I shall bring the dawn to every shackled soul."

"Hope is coming."

Lokiviria opened his arms wide, welcoming the empty void, his face twisted into a mask of grotesque devotion.

Light began to crack across his flesh. Ancient and mysterious arcane runes began to crawl over his skin. This was the technique he had mastered—the Void Body Shaping method, a forbidden art taken from the God-Eater race of the Void Insectoids.

Lokiviria transformed into a beacon. He used his physical form as fuel and his life essence as the signal fire. He was establishing coordinates for the God-Eaters. He was painting a target on the Titanion Realm.

Three minutes.

That was all the time required for Lokiviria to incinerate his entire existence.

With a look of profound, delusional contentment, his body dissolved into a fine, glittering dust.

***

"Flawless execution."

"Orion, you miserable fool. You'll never see this coming. I just betrayed your sanctuary."

The Clown’s voice rang through the vacant cave, shattering the silence only after the final speck of Lokiviria’s light vanished. He had watched the pawn ascend the altar and burn himself out with cold, clinical indifference.

"A pity," the Clown murmured, the gemstone above losing its glow. "Such genuine emotions. A waste of a perfectly good pawn."

"Farewell, Lokiviria."