Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1474 Eight-Point Dismemberment

Though a native to this realm, Aina had earned her spot in the coalition's high command inner circle. Her true worth came from her deep understanding—she served as the supreme navigator, commanding the world's vast information grid. Even more vital, she bore the Demigod's projection, passed to her personally by Orion.

"Are you truly Orion's daughter?"

As she gazed at Elara, Aina was hit by an intense wave of self-doubt. She pondered if her entire life had been pointless. Elara outshone her in youth, power, and an iron grip on the chaos of war that Aina could only envy from afar.

"I am Elara Stoneheart," Elara answered, offering a charming, innocent smile that clashed wildly with the slaughter surrounding them.

A disconnect washed over Aina. How could this fierce slayer of foes also deliver such a friendly, approachable grin?

BOOM!

Yet another deafening blast thundered from above, unleashing a new surge of force toward the earth below.

Elara anticipated it this time. Without so much as glancing skyward, she lifted her trident just a bit, sending out a wave of magic suppression that nullified the incoming blast before it ravaged the coalition's formations.

"Is the 'Holy Order' truly holy?" Aina questioned, her tone shaky as she observed the widespread ruin. "They show no regard for whether their followers survive or perish."

The Templars battled with utter disregard for safety. Their aura's pressure and the backlash from their strikes eradicated the devout as ruthlessly as the attackers did.

"No Holy Order is ever truly pure," Elara stated, her expression hardening into ice. "Only bandits and pretenders draped in white. Where saints exist, sinners follow. Which is worse—the Holy Son and his Goddess, or the Abyssal monsters? The boundary blurs easily. Some display their corruption openly; others fester deep in body, spirit, and devotion."

Elara turned to Aina, a spark of respect lighting her eyes. In this harbinger of transformation, amid the ruin, she sensed the birth of something fresh and mysterious.

"Sister Isabella is incredible!" Aina burst out, peering beyond Elara toward the skies.

There, Isabella plunged down like a mythical warrior maiden.

In truth, Isabella's grand arrival met instant resistance. She lunged at a Templar, only for her Golden Dragon steed to be batted aside like an insect right away.

Isabella countered with swift precision. Activating her bloodline power, she broke down the dragon's solid shape, reshaping it into gleaming, animated armor that enveloped her form.

"If Hulk and Kraken can strike beyond their level, then I'll do the same!"

Isabella appeared awe-inspiring—a divine fighter in golden plating, with metallic dragon wings spread wide, clutching a dragon spear.

"Supersonic Pierce!"

Hummm!

The spear in Isabella's grasp howled, its vibration echoing like a beast's bellow. Rider and lance fused into a golden streak, a draconic bolt crashing into a spear-bearing Templar.

For someone at Lord rank like Isabella, clashing with an Archlord allowed no clever maneuvers. She channeled all her essence and might into one desperate, all-in assault.

From the ground, spectators saw it as a clash of frost and flame—a deadlock of brutal, shattering power.

"Ha! That's the daughter of Orion! Taking on an Archlord at just Lord level!"

Amid the frenzied sky battle elsewhere, Makareth caught sight of Isabella's bold rush and felt his pulse race. Brushing off the trio of Templars hounding him, he broke their encirclement, lunging toward a fourth foe.

"Didn't anyone warn you that ranged fighters are vulnerable up close?"

Makareth's enormous fist seized the head of the Templar who had been unleashing sacred bolts on the undead and draconic creatures.

The fiend was surrendering to savage urges, turning this deadly fray into a macabre sport.

"Tell me," Makareth leered, "what's your preferred way to meet your end?"

The Templar thrashed wildly in his hold, unleashing close-range flares of divine energy from his bow straight into Makareth's torso. Yet against the demon's Forbidden Earth Spell barrier, the hits just spread out like pebbles in water.

"Not one for words? Fine, let's go with the Eight-Point Dismemberment. Heh heh heh..."

Makareth's chuckle blended insanity and cruelty. He hoisted his infernal-flame blade.

The initial slash carved the Templar's chest from left to right.

The next one ripped open the belly.

The third lopped off the legs at the thighs.

The fourth and fifth—rising cuts that removed both arms.

Gaining force, the sixth and seventh hacked the shoulders apart.

At last, with a bellow of wild rage, Makareth unleashed the eighth blow: a clean beheading.

The mirth faded, giving way to sheer infernal purpose.

The True Demon lifted a colossal foot and slammed it down. He hurled the detached stone skull earthward like a shooting star. It struck Dolame Square's heart, demolishing the Goddess's effigy and sending it crumbling.

For the worshippers beneath, it represented the gravest outrage.

Distant, within the Agaman Central Diocese.

In the assembly hall, the clerics and Inquisitors observed the desecration without a sound.

"Curse him! He's profaning the sacred! That's an unforgivable offense!"

"He is a True Demon of the Abyss," the Inquisition Commander's tone drifted across the space, grim and realistic. "Were you anticipating courtesy? Such a beast knows no limits."

"The Templars won't endure much more," Maelric, the Red Cardinal, murmured with a heavy breath.

Those six Archlord-tier Templars formed the Andor Diocese's last bastion. Their defeat meant the diocese's collapse, transforming it into shadowed ground for impostor deities, where the Holy Light's touch vanished.

"Abyssal Demons, Forbidden Spells, Dragons, Dragon Knights..." The Inquisition Commander bent ahead, his gaze sharpening as he dissected the fighting methods of Makareth, Isabella, and Kaedros. "Maelric, this goes beyond a mere assault from the forces of chaos and evil."

"This isn't some haphazard breach," he pressed on. "It's a coordinated alliance."

In a typical Abyssal assault, a call for aid would summon purifiers from across the Holy Order's expanse. Yet an attack from an enigmatic, structured entity? That shifted the equation. Help from outside would be minimal.

The Holy Order appeared unified only in title. Fissures divided it into rival groups. Various dioceses honored the same god but clashed sharply in doctrines, beliefs, and principles.

It resembled wine—one person relished its bouquet, another gagged at the aroma. You couldn't compel a wine-hater to defend a winery merely because it appealed to you.

In particular, dioceses that had pushed into the Abyssal realm regarded demons in a wholly distinct light. They would probably dismiss Maelric's cry for assistance.

"Gentlemen," the Commander declared, his words like forged iron. "This is our domain. These are our charges. The foe is mighty, and we're isolated. We unite or perish alongside the herd."