Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Chapter 1365: The Weight of a Demigod

To Orion, the difference between the Witch and the Clown was the difference between a candle and a forest fire. Both were avatars, yes, but the power fueling them operated on entirely different tiers of reality.

"If you’re saying that," Leonidas mused, his eyes narrowing, "then the Clown has likely ascended. He is a true Demigod."

He swirled the wine in his goblet, his expression darkening. "Alexander suspected as much the last time they clashed. If the Clown has truly crossed that threshold, and if he has the full backing of the Cult’s faith... he’s going to be a nightmare to deal with."

For a First Step Demigod like Leonidas, a one-on-one fight with the Clown was now a gamble with poor odds.

"Hulk, what about the Witch?" Leonidas asked. The question itself was a tacit admission that Orion was now the yardstick by which they measured power.

"She’s weak," Orion said flatly. "Her soul lacks the density, the purity of a true ascendant. She is not a threat."

It was a simple statement of fact for the two giants, but for Kraken, sitting quietly to the side, it felt like a slap in the face.

He had spent years battling the Witch. She was his nemesis, the wall he constantly smashed his head against. Even her avatar had exerted a crushing pressure on him just moments ago.

And yet, Orion dismissed her as if she were a nuisance insect.

She’s nothing to him.

The implication was clear: If the Witch was nothing, then Kraken, who struggled against her, was less than nothing.

Kraken grabbed a pitcher of wine and drained half of it in one long, aggressive chug. He slammed the vessel down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fine," Kraken growled, his eyes burning with a new, dangerous light. "If she’s no threat to you, then leave her to me. I will be the one to execute her."

He needed a target. He needed a mountain to climb.

"That’s the spirit, Squiddy!" Leonidas roared, looping a heavy arm around Kraken’s neck and clinking their goblets together. "Ambition suits you."

The alcohol and the camaraderie softened the edge of Kraken’s insecurity. He took a breath, centering himself.

"After that display," Kraken asked, his voice steadying, "do you think the Cult of Four will still try to recruit us?"

"Absolutely," Leonidas replied instantly. "In fact, they’ll be faster now."

"Strength attracts them. By threatening the Clown, Orion proved we aren’t just local warlords. Unless the Pontiffs are complete idiots, they have to come back with a better offer."

Leonidas raised his glass to Orion.

"Think about it. If you were the Clown, would you let a force capable of crushing your avatar side with the Sea Race? Absolutely not. And remember, they haven’t even seen me yet. To them, the ’First Grand Marshal’ is a terrifying unknown."

"They’re expecting us," Leonidas grinned. "And they are afraid."

The Unknown Depths, Silverwood Realm

The ocean parted.

A creature of impossible size breached the surface, its bulk obscuring the moon. It was a whale, easily fifteen miles in length, a living island of barnacles and ancient scars. With a deafening crash, it slammed back into the water, diving toward the abyss.

Inside the beast, gravity and physics obeyed different laws.

Deep within the whale’s massive internal cavity sat a palace of coral and bone. This was the mobile sanctuary of Valerius, the Pontiff of the Cult of Four responsible for the Silverwood maritime operations.

Valerius sat at the head of a stone table. Beside him flickered the phantom projections of two other Pontiffs: the Clown and Yriel.

A fourth figure, another Demigod phantom, sat silently in the guest seat. The Witch, humiliated and exhausted, stood further back in the shadows.

"Atlantis exceeded our projections," Valerius said, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. "Our plan to offer them a hollow recruitment deal is dead. We need to pivot."

"High Priestess Nym’zarith’s reports were... optimistic." Valerius glanced at the Witch, then back to the table. "But their behavior is clear. They are pragmatists. They don’t make a move until they see the gold."

"Gentlemen, the question is: are we willing to carve out a real slice of the cake for them?"

The Clown leaned back in his chair. He looked bored. There was no trace of anger over his destroyed avatar. To him, the puppet was just a toy, and the divine energy used to create the phantom was paid for by the Cult’s tithes, not his own reserves.

"Their Second Marshal is a Demigod. That is confirmed," the Clown said, examining his fingernails. "If we follow the logic of hierarchy, their unseen First Marshal must be one as well. Two Demigods."

He looked up, his painted smile devoid of warmth. "Two Demigods are enough to tip the scales of this entire war."

"Pontiff Valerius," the Clown continued, "ignore them at your peril."

Valerius fell silent.

The stalemate with the Sea Race had dragged on because the Cult had underestimated the board. They had allowed a rogue faction to seize Current’s Bend, absorb the neutral aquatic races, and build a fortress right under their noses.

"I have a proposal," Yriel spoke up.

Yriel had lost his foothold on the Moonlight Continent to the Champions Alliance. He was here assisting Valerius in hopes of securing a base for a counter-attack.

"If Atlantis possesses two Demigods, why treat them as subordinates? Why not bring them into the fold properly?"

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

The room went still.

"We offer them the vacant Pontiff position in exchange for their total loyalty. I believe the Great Four Gods would welcome two Demigod believers into their flock."

Valerius and the Clown exchanged a look.

Offering one of the twelve Pontiff seats was not a decision they could make lightly. It required the approval of the Archbishops.

The Clown’s eyes flicked briefly to the Witch standing in the shadows.

A seat had opened up years ago when a Pontiff fell during an off-world invasion. The Clown had been maneuvering to place the Witch in that seat. It was his patronage that kept her relevant.

But Yriel and Valerius were seeing a bigger picture.

If they could turn Atlantis, they gained two Demigods instantly. If they sponsored Atlantis for the seat, they gained powerful political allies within the Cult.

The Witch was a Pseudo-Deity. Atlantis offered the real thing.

The Clown was trapped. He couldn’t argue against the strategic value without looking petty.

"Pontiff Yriel," Valerius said slowly, "I believe you are right. But before we hand them a crown, we must verify their souls."

"We need to meet these Marshals face-to-face. We need to see loyalty and piety."

Valerius stood up, the decision made. He was interested.

"We will offer them the test."