Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1477 Straight for the Throat

"Father and Leonidas have issued the order. We must offer up the whole Andor Diocese as fuel for the ritual, then thrust a spearhead right into the Agaman District—the core of the Holy Order."

Elara's tone remained firm, her words explaining the reason Orion hadn't used a direct mind-link to distract the rest during their fierce clash.

"Father desires a swift conclusion to this campaign. By endangering Agaman, we compel the Holy Order to pull defenses from their other dioceses and hurry them to the heart. It's a cunning siege snare."

"Going straight for the jugular, huh?"

Makareth folded his arms, stroking his chin in contemplation while his mind delved into the Survivor's Platform. He sent a quick ping to Leonidas and Orion.

"No profound tactical motive," Leonidas's telepathic response drawled, laced with feigned gravity. "You faced six foes simultaneously, kid. Orion felt envious. He believes you're overshadowing his spotlight. Remember, Makareth, Orion's the main hero here. He craves the fame."

Makareth brushed aside the banter. He wasn't naive; he understood a Demigod wouldn't covet the feats of a simple Archlord.

"Drop the nonsense," Makareth shot back mentally. "Why the haste? We're dominating the war of attrition."

After Makareth tossed in some routine praise for Leonidas's 'genius foresight,' the Demigod at last revealed the true purpose.

"The earlier we wrap up this war, the quicker you claim your domain beyond the Abyss," Leonidas answered, his voice carrying a sly prod. "Or have you lost interest in territory?"

The aim was clear: Leonidas was provoking him. He aimed for Makareth to unleash fury. The fiercer Makareth battled, the lighter the load on their fellow allies. Makareth grasped it fully—the two leaders felt the invasion dragged on too long. They craved a lightning assault.

"Got it. We'll shift our approach."

Makareth broke the psychic connection and raised his eyes to Elara, his face growing stern.

"Isabella, Kaedros, pay attention. As soon as the sacrifice rite ends, the three of us lead the charge. We carve the way for the Undead Legion, wiping out the bigger threats. If an Archlord appears, we overwhelm them as one."

With a plan centered on a bold thrust, they couldn't waste time restraining themselves anymore. They needed to step down from their heights and butcher the common troops to lure the foe's elite forces.

"Sister," Makareth addressed Elara, facing her. "When the time strikes, we'll rely on your artillery aid. Clear the field for us."

In Makareth's view, Elara served as the ideal mainstay—a sorceress capable of dominating the battle from afar.

"Have no doubts," Elara assured, her voice serene. "I ensure your protection."

Makareth, Isabella, and Kaedros went quiet.

It wasn't overconfidence; it was unshakeable assurance. They abruptly comprehended that the destructive incantation she had just cast was probably nowhere near her full power.

"Then let's commence."

Makareth's words grew icy and sinister. Infernal wings erupted from his back, ripping the atmosphere as he propelled toward the densest enemy horde. As a Demon, notions of rules, honor, or doubt held no sway in his veins.

Isabella and Kaedros shared a quick glance, shrugged their shoulders, and surged forward in pursuit.

"A genuine Demon," Aina whispered, observing Makareth's form slashing across the heavens. "For a Demon, rules merely serve as barriers to shatter."

"Sister Aina," Elara murmured gently, moving to stand next to her. "Demons embody chaos. They prey naturally on Order. If you aim to topple the current world order, Makareth stands as the keenest weapon you could desire."

At its essence, war stayed straightforward. In minor clashes, it pitted interests against each other. On grand scales, it formed the timeless loop of ruin and renewal.

"You're correct," Aina agreed, a genuine grin gracing her mouth. "I guess I ought to express gratitude to him."

Hadn't this been precisely her desire?

"Keep in mind," Elara went on, her eyes locked on the fiery skyline. "Once transformation ignites, it can't be halted. Our role isn't merely to kindle the blaze, but to steer its path. Without that, a Seeker of Change turns into mere a bringer of devastation."

Aina sank into profound reflection. Pursuing alteration demanded a clear picture of the world rising from the embers.

Forward Battlefield.

"Fine young one. You've inherited your father's tenacity."

Ursa towered above Anubis. The Gnoll leader looked battered. He had faced a surprise attack from three Holy Order Templars. He slew them all, yet the triumph left him minus an arm, with a gruesome slash over his belly revealing his innards.

"My father is legendary," Anubis rasped, spitting blood. "I'm far from matching him. I haven't secured my spot in the Horde's annals yet."

"Heh... hehehe."

Ursa chuckled, her laugh deep and hearty. Gazing at Anubis, she inevitably recalled her son, Steelblade. She was convinced that elsewhere on the battlefield, her offspring was demonstrating he was no less hardy than Dirtclaw's whelp.

"One thing you're spot on about. Your old man isn't merely hard to fell; he's forged like unyielding diamond."

Ursa crouched down, retrieving a small, elaborate case from her gear. She extracted a lone alchemical tablet and forced it between Anubis's lips.

"Gulp it down. It'll sting and itch like mad. Endure it."

Without pause for reply, Ursa seized Anubis's lost arm, aligned it to the stump, and wrapped it securely with a healing bandage. Then she ripped open a sachet of glowing dust and poured it straight into the gaping belly injury.

The dust sizzled upon contact with the blood, bubbling up before solidifying into a living barrier that sealed the gash tight.

"You're consuming refined gold there, kid. I traded my own merit tokens at the Coalition Treasury for it. Limb regeneration is merely a bonus; it forges your body stronger for life." Ursa clapped his shoulder firmly. "After this war concludes, I'll track down Dirtclaw and make him reimburse me. Plus extra."

Ursa and Dirtclaw maintained a profound connection. Her bragging simply masked her effort to uplift the youth. In truth, they ranked as equals, though Dirtclaw had climbed the ladder with alarming pace, linking the Horde's veteran elders to the rising stars.

"I feel ridiculous," Anubis groaned, attempting to rise. He was youthful, an Alpha-tier fighter bearing the Hell-Drake Hound lineage. He accustomed to conquest, not spilling blood in the dirt.

"Ridiculous?" Ursa's gaze sharpened. "Hardly. This is honor."

She gestured to the mended slash on his torso.

"Scars and achievements form the sole wealth a warrior requires. That one? It's a tale to boast. Return to the Horde and flash that mark to the newbies—you won't hear mockery. You'll witness jealousy. It shows you braved the inferno and emerged unscorched."