Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1458 When a Demigod Answers

"You might not be aware," Theodore started, his words echoing through the hushed plaza, "but apart from our troops, the Northern Bastion of Menethis now harbors close to two million individuals."

He halted briefly, allowing the figure to resonate. "Two million. Even with the most severe rationing of watery porridge, the daily need for grain poses a daunting challenge."

Two million. That marked the harsh count of those enduring. When the Empire discarded them, the first flight had turned into a massacre. Numerous had escaped into the wilderness, resorting to robbery or perishing in the filth. Others had perished amid the extended, savage journey, their corpses littering the route to this stronghold. Even in this place, mortality persisted—taken by the efforts to defend against the siege, or even more dreadfully, by the poisons within the insect flesh when starvation pushed people to desperation.

"I have to deliver the harsh reality," Theodore declared, his expression etched with stern determination. "Our storehouses of grain stand barren."

The quiet shattered. Rather than a whisper, a tumultuous wave of dread surged across the square. The fright endured for an hour, a tempest of sobs and yells that gradually burned out into a brooding, anxious hush.

"We can't consume the shell meat! It's toxic!"

"We're doomed! No hope remains!"

Theodore remained steadfast. He unleashed his Legendary aura, an oppressive, palpable force that quelled the frenzy right away, compelling the assembly to yield.

"This isn't a haven!" he thundered. "The Northern Bastion serves as a burial ground. We've been forsaken here. I was forsaken here, exactly as you were."

He aligned himself with them, bound together in bitterness toward the Kingdom that had escaped. The gathering sobbed, the noise a subdued, sorrowful wail. Plenty understood the situation, yet they held their tongues, fastening their final frantic expectations on the Prince to conjure a wonder from the ruins. In a different existence, Theodore could have embodied that wonder. But not on this day. Not by himself.

"Isn't it ruthless?" Theodore's tone lowered, laden with self-disgust. "I convinced myself I could guide us toward a fresh beginning. Yet the horde never ceases. And the most dire fact? The true onslaught hasn't truly begun. The abyssal portals remain unbreached. If we're crumbling at this point, what will occur then? Where lies our deliverance?"

He bellowed the final phrases, striding the platform like a trapped beast.

General Oswin Calder positioned himself behind his sovereign, features stoic. He recognized the blend: nine portions of stark truth, one portion of deliberate display. It constituted drama—the vital art of rulers and leaders—and Theodore executed his part flawlessly.

"I suffer deeply," Theodore went on, his tone breaking. "Observing our provisions dwindle, perceiving no route to endurance... I have let you down."

The confession lingered in the atmosphere. The lamentations in the plaza grew forlorn, the echo of a populace embracing their fate.

"If no hope endures..." Theodore murmured, the utterance boosted by sorcery to touch every listener, "...why not craft our own?"

The throng quieted.

"If a single force on this land can bestow upon us existence, it is he," Theodore proclaimed, his pitch escalating with zealous intensity. "The Demigod of the Stoneheart Horde. The partner of Princess Ava. The sire of Prince Kronos. The mightiest entity to emerge in ten thousand years."

He extended his arms broadly. "The Giant King, Orion Stoneheart!"

The title ignited a flame.

"Giant King!"

"Giant King!"

The refrain commenced as a murmur and swelled into a surge. Theodore grasped the surge. He pivoted and tore away the dark cloth from the immense form at his rear.

The effigy of a Titan—four visages, eight limbs—towered above the plaza, hewn from icy rock yet emanating might.

"We possess no wealth anymore," Theodore shouted. "But we hold the trophies of our endurance, the arms of our foes! And we hold our spirits! I dedicate everything to the Giant King! Bestow upon us refuge!"

He bowed low before the icon. Like a cascading tide, two million individuals sank to their knees, foreheads pressing the soil.

"Giant King, heed us! Bestow upon us refuge!"

The invocation quaked the ground, a collective, frantic roar of belief. It formed a display of loyalty seldom witnessed in the annals of mortal realms.

Distant, within the core of Stoneheart City.

Orion stirred, his eyes fluttering open.

A rush of faith energy, strikingly clear and compact, surged into his hand. Via the ethereal connection, he beheld the sight of the Northern Bastion—the sculpture, the prostrate multitudes, the frantic, resounding invocations.

He hadn't foreseen Theodore deploying this strategy so resolutely. It represented a grand boon—not merely to Orion, but to the Horde, and to the enduring base for Ava and Kronos.

It was a brilliant maneuver crafted by Theodore and King Harold. For endurance, the Prince couldn't merely align with the Horde; he needed to merge his followers so completely they fused inseparably with it. Theodore had triumphed. The ordeal, the anguish, the disclosure—it had all served as a forge to shape this instant.

He was securing his followers passage onto the sole vessel not foundering.

"Two limbs, single trunk. The bloodline persists," Orion pondered, detecting the purpose. "Cunning veterans."

As a Demigod, the intentions of the human King Harold and the Saint .

***

The supplications in the Northern Bastion of Menethis persisted without end. They evolved into a steady, pulsing rhythm under the heavens.

"We implore the Giant King! Bestow upon us refuge! Guard the Northern Bastion!"

The atmosphere thickened. As the shared resolve of two million beings streamed toward the stone likeness, a change seized it. The crude contours of the four-faced Titan started to alter. Rock shifted like molten material, honing and polishing, until the sculpture displayed the unmistakable, alarmingly vivid countenance of Orion Stoneheart.

Witnessing the idol embrace their tribute, Theodore knelt once more, his pitch fracturing with urgent zeal.

"We vow our loyalty to the Stoneheart Horde! We tender our spirits to the Giant King! We yield to your command!"

"Bestow your sacred safeguard! We are your followers!"

It transcended a request for help; it constituted a complete, absolute capitulation.

"To the Faithful, I grant Sanctuary."

The declaration didn't emerge from the breeze. It emanated from the rock itself, pulsing in the bones of each person present.

Hummmm.

The resonance intensified, dislodging grit from the dilapidated structures.

"To the Faithful, I grant Sanctuary."

A further surge of tone, more majestic and commanding than the initial, rolled over the settlement. Sacred might gathered around the effigy, setting it ablaze with a dazzling, multicolored glow that cut through the murk of the bug-infested firmament.

"To the Faithful, I grant Sanctuary."

Orion's timbre, timeless and remote, boomed a third occasion, surging through the Bastion like a corporeal surge.

The radiance burst forth. It flooded the city, banishing the darkness. For a quarter hour, the wonder ensnared the inhabitants in a daze. When the splendor at last dimmed, the heavens no longer permitted the swarm entry. A sheer, aureate dome now spanned the Northern Bastion—a godly ward.

The droning of the insectoids beyond collided futilely with the barrier. Entry was denied.

Prince Theodore rose. He gazed at the golden vault overhead, his torso rising and falling rapidly. He released a breath that seemed confined within him for ages.

"My Lord... we... we truly achieved it."

At his back, General Oswin Calder shed tears freely. The wonder signified beyond mere continuance; it signified acknowledgment. They fell beneath the scrutiny of a Demigod.

"Indeed, General. We have." Theodore spun around, his countenance shifting. The wild urgency had vanished, supplanted by a grave solemnity. "But heed me well, Oswin. Speak not of 'Prince' henceforth. Starting now, I serve as the Castellan."

"The Kingdom has vanished. Its splendor and its shield have departed. We cease to be vassals of the Crown. We are inhabitants of the Stoneheart Horde."

It ought to have demeaned nobility, yet Theodore uttered the phrases with deep ease.

"My father proved correct," he breathed, partly to his own thoughts. "My frame was too slight to bear the heavens solitary."

He surveyed the plaza, observing the folk gazing upward at the golden shield in awe. This marked an epoch of legend, a tale destined for their descendants.

Assigning a unit of elite sentinels to the statue, Theodore guided Oswin from the plaza.

They proceeded at a measured pace. Since the Bastion's inception, Theodore had seldom traversed these avenues; he had merely dashed along them in turmoil. Now, he beheld the toll.

Debris cluttered every direction. The aerial insectoids had demolished the elevated sections of the city. Merchants' establishments that once thrived now gaped as voids of splintered wood and fractured panes. Pillaged facades, toppled entrances... and from the gloom, the persistent, faint cries of the injured and the famished.

The magnificence had departed. Solely the devastation lingered.

"It shall revive," Theodore breathed, an oath to the deserted thoroughfare. "I shall restore vitality to this city."

"Castellan," Oswin uttered, grappling with the fresh designation as he emerged from the ritual's reverence. "What follows for us? The ward secures us, yet the granaries persist empty."

"Be at peace, General. His Majesty has provided the solution."

Theodore paused and faced him, withdrawing an item from his garments. It resembled a navigational tool, yet forged from dark stone and vibrating with mystical force.

"What might that be?"

"A Rift Anchor. A present from the Giant King."

Orion was no deity who received absent reciprocity. He had welcomed the widespread allegiance and the substantial offering of devotion; the barrier offered instant defense, but the Anchor provided the vital link.

"When placed, this will rip a steady passage through the void," Theodore clarified. "We shall connect straight to Stoneheart City. Supplies of grain, remedies, support forces—they shall stream from the heartland."

"Castellan... we..." Oswin faltered, the truth of their rescue dawning fully. They weren't merely staving off demise. They would endure.

"Bear in mind, Oswin. No further 'Prince.' Merely Castellan." Theodore's gaze pierced keenly. Retaining his noble rank would offend the authentic nobility of the Horde—Prince Kronos. Theodore comprehended his role.

"Clear... Castellan."

Oswin inclined his head profoundly. Yet as he observed Theodore's form ahead, the seasoned commander addressed his inner self wordlessly. You may lack the status of a Horde Prince, my Lord. But to me, you shall eternally be the Prince of Menethis.

Stoneheart City, The Royal Spire.

The northern skies roiled with arcane intensity. A colossal image of a Titan had shimmered in the void, a ripple potent enough to rouse Lilith without delay.

She had arrived at the Spire, discovering Orion amid the ritual's lingering tremors. As wedded pair, isolation frequently sparked desire.

At present, the tempest had subsided. The chamber lay serene, apart from the fire's snap. Lilith nestled in Orion's embrace, her complexion warmed, attending as he narrated the scheming display by Theodore and Harold.

"Be it planned or born of necessity, they demonstrated dedication," Lilith reflected, leaning her head on his enormous torso.

The Northern Bastion brimmed with everyday folk—individuals lacking sorcery, lacking strength, simply regular beings seeking security. Incorporating them into the Horde supplied a vast reservoir of faith, and by divesting them of their homeland ties, Theodore had curtailed the peril of later uprising.

"They needn't have extended so much," Orion remarked, his palm casually cradling her bosom, thumb drawing languid, repeating arcs across the tender flesh—a ritual he savored in their tranquil times. "For Kronos and Ava's benefit, I would have extracted them from peril anyway."

Lilith pressed into his caress, a faint, satisfied grin curving her mouth. She relished his ownership; serving as the focus of a Demigod's regard proved intoxicating.

"Heh... that differs, my love," she cooed.

"There exists a vast divide between a displaced group rescued by benevolence, and a populace shielded by obligation. That sire and offspring duo... they grasped precisely their actions."