Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1365 The Weight of a Demigod

To Orion, comparing the Witch and the Clown was like weighing a flickering candle against a raging forest fire. While both were merely avatars, the raw power fueling them originated from vastly different tiers of existence.

"If that is your assessment," Leonidas pondered, his gaze sharpening, "then it is highly probable the Clown has achieved ascension. He is a genuine Demigod."

He swirled the wine within his chalice, his features growing somber. "Alexander had his suspicions during their previous encounter. If the Clown has truly stepped over that threshold and possesses the full spiritual backing of the Cult’s faith... he will be a catastrophic opponent to face."

For a Demigod of the First Step like Leonidas, engaging the Clown in a direct duel was now a high-stakes gamble with unfavorable odds.

"Hulk, what is your take on the Witch?" Leonidas inquired. The very nature of the question served as a silent acknowledgment that Orion had become the benchmark by which they gauged all power.

"She is weak," Orion replied without hesitation. "Her soul is devoid of the necessary density and purity required of a true ascendant. She poses no real threat."

While this was a blunt observation of reality for the two giants, it felt like a stinging insult to Kraken, who was listening silently nearby.

He had dedicated years to fighting the Witch. She was his ultimate rival, the insurmountable barrier he had repeatedly failed to break. Even her mere avatar had radiated a suffocating pressure that weighed on him only moments prior.

Yet, Orion brushed her aside as if she were nothing more than a bothersome gnat.

She is insignificant to him.

The subtext was painfully obvious: If the Witch was nothing, then Kraken, who struggled to match her, was even less than that.

Kraken seized a wine pitcher and consumed half its contents in a single, defiant gulp. He slammed the container onto the table, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

"Fine," Kraken spat, his eyes ignited by a fresh, predatory fire. "If she isn't a concern for you, then leave her to me. I will be the one to end her life."

He required a target. He needed a peak to conquer.

"That’s the way, Squiddy!" Leonidas bellowed, throwing a massive arm around Kraken’s shoulders and clashing their cups together. "I like that ambition."

The combination of alcohol and brotherhood dulled the sharp edges of Kraken's self-doubt. He exhaled slowly, regaining his composure.

"After what just happened," Kraken asked, his voice becoming firmer, "do you believe the Cult of Four will still attempt to bring us into their ranks?"

"Without a doubt," Leonidas answered instantly. "In fact, they will move even faster now."

"Power is a magnet for them. By challenging the Clown, Orion demonstrated that we aren't mere petty warlords. Unless the Pontiffs are utter fools, they are bound to return with a far better proposal."

Leonidas tipped his glass toward Orion.

"Consider the logic. If you were the Clown, would you permit a power capable of obliterating your avatar to align with the Sea Race? Of course not. Furthermore, they haven't even laid eyes on me yet. In their minds, the 'First Grand Marshal' remains a terrifying enigma."

"They are anticipating us," Leonidas smirked. "And they are trembling."

The Unknown Depths, Silverwood Realm

The surface of the ocean split apart.

A creature of monstrous proportions emerged, its sheer mass blotting out the moonlight. It was a whale spanning fifteen miles, a floating continent of ancient scars and barnacles. With a thunderous roar of water, it crashed back into the depths, plunging toward the dark abyss.

Inside the titan, the laws of gravity and physics were warped.

Deep within the whale’s hollow interior lay a grand palace constructed of bone and coral. This served as the nomadic stronghold for Valerius, the Pontiff of the Cult of Four overseeing the Silverwood naval campaigns.

Valerius presided at the head of a long stone table. To his sides, the spectral images of two other Pontiffs flickered: the Clown and Yriel.

A fourth entity, another Demigod projection, sat silently in a guest chair. The Witch, looking weary and shamed, stood further back in the gloom.

"Atlantis has surpassed all our estimates," Valerius declared, his voice booming through the cavernous hall. "Our strategy to trap them with a superficial recruitment offer is finished. We must change our approach."

"The intelligence provided by High Priestess Nym’zarith was... overly hopeful." Valerius spared a glance at the Witch before returning his focus to the table. "Their actions are transparent. They are pragmatists who won't commit until the rewards are tangible."

"The question, gentlemen, is this: are we prepared to offer them a genuine piece of the prize?"

The Clown reclined in his seat, appearing disinterested. He showed no resentment regarding the destruction of his avatar. To him, the construct was merely a tool, and the divine essence used to manifest it was drawn from the Cult’s offerings rather than his own personal Dantian.

"Their Second Marshal is a confirmed Demigod," the Clown remarked, inspecting his claws. "Following the logic of their hierarchy, the hidden First Marshal must be one as well. That makes two Demigods."

He looked up, his painted grin lacking any trace of sincerity. "Two Demigods possess enough weight to shift the entire balance of this war."

"Pontiff Valerius," the Clown added, "you ignore them at your own peril."

Valerius fell into a pensive silence.

The deadlock with the Sea Race had persisted because the Cult had misread the board. They had permitted a rogue element to capture Current’s Bend, assimilate the neutral tribes, and construct a stronghold right under their noses.

"I have a suggestion," Yriel intervened.

Yriel had recently lost his territory on the Moonlight Continent to the Champions Alliance and was now aiding Valerius in hopes of establishing a base for a future offensive.

"If Atlantis wields two Demigods, why treat them as mere underlings? Why not integrate them into our inner circle properly?"

Yriel leaned forward intently. "We should send a petition to the four Archbishops. Offer them a seat."

A heavy silence descended upon the chamber.

"We provide them with the vacant Pontiff position in exchange for their absolute fealty. I am confident the Great Four Gods would welcome two Demigod practitioners into the faith."

Valerius and the Clown traded a meaningful look.

Granting one of the twelve Pontiff seats was a monumental decision, requiring the ultimate sanction of the Archbishops.

The Clown’s gaze shifted momentarily to the Witch lurking in the shadows.

A position had become available years ago after a Pontiff perished during an inter-planar invasion. The Clown had been pulling strings to install the Witch in that vacancy. It was his support that maintained her status.

However, Yriel and Valerius were focused on the grand strategy.

By converting Atlantis, they would immediately gain two Demigods. By sponsoring them for the seat, they would secure formidable political partners within the Cult hierarchy.

The Witch was merely a Pseudo-Deity. Atlantis offered the genuine article.

The Clown was cornered. He could not dispute the strategic logic without appearing small-minded.

"Pontiff Yriel," Valerius said measuredly, "I believe your reasoning is sound. However, before we offer a crown, we must test the quality of their souls."

"We must encounter these Marshals in person. We need proof of their devotion and loyalty."

Valerius rose, his mind made up. He was intrigued.

"We shall present them with the trial."