Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1439 Crimson Fever

The woman of the Buffalofolk halted abruptly in her stride. Her body locked rigid, quaking fiercely for a moment, until she willed herself to steady. She pressed on toward the sturdy iron chest to retrieve the object Earthshaker had ordered.

An Alpha at the height of his strength, Earthshaker caught every subtle quiver of dread and expectation in her bearing. He uttered not a word.

She served as his First Wife, tied to him well before the Buffalofolk yielded to the Stoneheart Horde. Yet her lineage ran weak, her talents capped. No matter the vast reserves he funneled into her cultivation, she lingered trapped, failing to even touch the Hero stage.

Her worth shone in other ways. From his own stock, she proved fruitful and sturdy. She had borne him numerous mighty sons.

Earthshaker harbored no mushy loyalty to one alone. His domain brimmed with females from diverse races—some seized in battles, others offered by flatterers. He claimed them in his chambers without pause. Within the Stoneheart Horde, blending lineages to forge tougher, varied heirs wasn't forbidden; it formed a key tactic. Even Orion, their ruler, sired offspring of blended roots who emerged as true powerhouses.

Earthshaker merely echoed his King's path.

Still, he cherished a private, subdued fondness for his First Wife. Regardless of the array of alluring outsiders in his collection, none dared slight her or challenge her role as Matriarch.

The Outer City. The Silent Goblet.

Up on the tavern's second level, Gronthar and Brakthul held their ale mugs paused midway to their lips. As the Grand Elder's presence washed across the city, the fine brew turned sour like stale runoff.

"Brother," Gronthar declared, slamming his mug down with a solid clunk. "Head to the vault. Snag the rare-edition liquors. I'm off to the enclosures to snatch that fresh dragon-beast whelp. We must rush to the Grand Elder's manor right away."

The pair of brothers lingered at the top of the Alpha tier. Much like Prophet Onyx, they had pounded futilely at that barrier for ages. Rendall's rise to the Legendary stage showed the wall could shatter.

Against the shot at Legend status, sacrificing a scarce dragon-beast whelp meant little. The parents still breathed; more could always follow.

"Got it. Hold off till I return!" Brakthul bolted upright, toppling his seat in his rush.

Gronthar eyed his departure, shaking his head in a bitter grin. His sibling typically stayed composed, yet the lure of advancement turned wise heads to simpletons.

Throughout the city, in the inner zones and outer reaches alike, such frenzy unfolded.

As others hustled to bundle presents and slip into finest attire, Slagor had beaten them there. He leaped from his ride, clutching a sloppily tied bundle, and marched past the Grand Elder's compound gates.

"Skip the formal call," Slagor dismissed, brushing aside a hurrying maid. "I know the old fellow's spot."

He ignored the greeting chamber completely, sauntering directly to the rear yard where a broad, faded pavilion stood on the trimmed grass. Slagor understood Rendall. The Grand Elder loathed rigid rituals.

Within the pavilion, Rendall occupied the exact place Slagor figured—lounging on a mat, ripping chunks from a huge roasted meat shank and swigging from a wide wine basin.

The Outer City. The Bear Compound.

This home stood apart for its raw chaos. It buzzed with clamor and bustle, bear young of every size tumbling in play, scaling trunks, and bellowing across the yard. It belonged to the Thunderstorm Bearmen siblings, Brontes and Steropes. The so-called "estate" merged two grand halls into one vast, shared lair.

"Brother, that force rolled from the inner zones. Rendall's turf," Steropes growled, eyeing his young clash in rough tussles. "Reckon the Old Man's returned?"

Unlike the founding elders' tight inner group like Onyx, the Bear pair held a looser tie to top command. No swift word reached them.

"Tough to tell, but let's probe a bit," Brontes replied, gazing inner-ward. He rubbed his jaw, then bellowed a summons.

"Vulkan! Over here!"

A sturdy young bearman, broad and almost matching his sire's height, trudged up. This was Vulkan—once dubbed 'Little Bear,' now a full fighter.

"Raid your mother's storage. Grab half this season's Honey Mead haul and lug it to Rendall's place," Brontes ordered. "Inform the Grand Elder we offer

our regards."

Vulkan slung a enormous wine barrel over his shoulder like a feather.

"And stay sharp," Brontes warned, tone lowering. "Note who's present. Tally the visitors. Report every detail on your return."

The World of Eldoria. Port Caelwyn.

A full month had slipped by since the Divine Kingdom upheavals.

Port Caelwyn gleamed as a coastal gem, perched by the Westreach Sea's brink. It thrived on trade and excess, renowned for fish bazaars auctioning strange leviathan flesh to distant lords for fat coin sacks.

"This briny gust here delights me. It carries the flavor of sorrow."

Atop a bluff gazing over the vast port, Aina lingered in a pale mantle. Trailing her was Raveth, among Hellscream's four Divine Envoys. "The heavens and ocean divide at one thin edge," Aina pondered, tone wistful. "Surging waves battering rocks... seabirds chasing prey. So lovely. Like a

soothing tune."

She spun to face Raveth, gaze sparkling.

To outsiders, it rang as verse. To Raveth, it echoed funeral words.

"Existence and demise divide at one thin edge too," Raveth answered, voice rough like stones. "Hellscream's fall on Port Caelwyn... indeed. It shall be

lovely."

The fading orb sliced clouds, lighting Aina's hooded chin. Her mouth bent into a glowing, pure grin. "As dusk falls and night rises, we'll enter the town

side by side," she stated. "I've a present for all."

From her cuff, she drew a glass tube brimming with twisting dark red and blood mists. She raised it to the waning glow, gazing fondly as at a paramour.

"Raveth, can you name this?"

"The Crimson Fever."

"A close ally distilled it," Aina chuckled. "It fills folk with such joy they

lose their minds. And post-frenzy, they rest. Eternally."

She dropped the tube, face turning to feigned sorrow.

"Post-sunset, Port Caelwyn won't greet dawn anew. A touch tragic, right?"

Raveth stayed mute. Ages back, he'd grasped the Hellscream Saintess's total madness. Her sorrow heralded carnage. Quiet and compliance alone ensured survival near her.

As gusts stirred foliage and the orb sank from sight, Aina trod the grit path to the portals. Her steps danced light,

bouncy.

At the town portals, she forked over a steep toll without gripe.

Scarce ten minutes past the barriers, peril struck

her. Aina shone fair, solitary. Local ruffians pinned her in a dim lane, blades glinting.

They rifled her, yanking her money sack and the glass tube of

Crimson Fever.

As a brute groped her wrap, aiming to haul her to gloom for foul aims, Raveth emerged from nothing. His blade gleamed once. Chill gripped the air.

The rogues, feeling a hunter leagues above, fled in panic, gripping their pilfered goods—including the tube.

Raveth lunged to chase, but Aina gripped his limb.

"Watch," she breathed, tracking the crooks vanish into the throng

clutching the blight.

"I pushed none. I uncorked nothing. They picked it up. They sealed their doom."