Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Chapter 1400: Sacrificial ritual

Eldoria. The Realm of Grimm.

Poets often say that growth is like starlight—that one must endure the suffocating cold of the void to truly shine in the dawn of a new future.

Aina thought that was sentimental garbage.

To her, growth wasn’t about endurance; it was about cultivation. Specifically, the cultivation of the Blood Curse Tree standing before her. She didn’t wait for the stars; she watered the soil with fresh blood every single day, coaxing the twisted roots to drink deep.

And today, under the pale morning light, the tree had bloomed for the first time.

Aina smiled. It was a good omen.

"Your Holiness," a soft voice broke her reverie. "The preparations are complete. The procession awaits you and the Idol."

Aina inhaled deeply, savoring the metallic, sweet fragrance of the crimson flower one last time before pulling away. Two maidservants stood behind her, heads bowed, reminding her of the schedule.

"It seems the four Divine Envoys of Hellscream are getting impatient."

Aina turned, her face wearing a smile that was equal parts beatific and terrifying.

The "Celebration" was just a polite word for a massacre. It was a massive, industrial-scale sacrifice.

Thanks to the magical hurricane shielding the territory, the legend of Grimm had spread across the continent like a fever. It was now a forbidden zone, a magnet for the desperate and the brave. Mercenary Corps, glory-seeking adventurers, and even the vanguard squads of the self-righteous Holy Orders had flocked here.

But the storm didn’t discriminate. They all fell the same.

The procession led her to the Sacrificial Plaza. It was the newest addition to Grimm’s dark architecture, sitting alongside the Windmill Keep, the Slaughterhouse, and Crow’s Cabin as a pillar of their sanctuary.

Dressed in a flowing white gown, her expression serene, Aina looked every inch the Saintess. She descended the stone steps, drawing the gaze of thousands of Hellscream cultists.

At the base of the plaza—a massive, funnel-shaped depression—lay the "guests."

"Look at all these adorable little sheep," Aina cooed.

She bent down, her fingers tracing the jawline of a female warrior lying near the edge. The woman had short hair, wheat-colored skin, and delicate features. She looked peaceful.

"Sleeping so soundly," Aina whispered. "The great Stoneheart God is going to love you."

Then, she laughed.

It wasn’t the polite chuckle of a noblewoman. It was a jagged, manic cackle that belonged to a witch from the deepest pits of Hell. It was loud, venomous, and utterly unhinged.

"Before we begin," Aina announced, her voice projecting clearly, "let us pay tribute to the Slumber Plague. It is the shield that guards Grimm!"

She curtsied theatrically to the air.

Around the rim of the plaza, the citizens of Grimm mimicked her—some bowing, others doffing hats. It was a gesture of thanks to Tangere, the alchemist.

The Slumber Plague was his masterpiece. Any adventurer who breached the Eye of the Storm was infected instantly. After a three-day incubation, they fell into a coma. If they were forcibly woken up? Their bodies would liquefy.

It was the perfect trap. Aina adored it.

"Brothers and sisters," Aina cried out, walking toward the central dais. "This is a sacred moment. We gather to offer our tribute to the Stoneheart God."

She placed the statue of Orion onto the obsidian altar and clasped her hands.

"The Stoneheart is the source of our strength. The anchor of our spirits."

"His will is absolute. Where there is sacrifice, there is reward."

"Let us inherit his will with reverence and spread his dominion to every corner of this world. For those who seek power: pray. Offer your tribute, and your desires shall be granted."

Aina’s gaze swept over the outer ring of the plaza. Many there were new recruits—desperate souls who had joined Hellscream but hadn’t yet fully committed. This ritual would be the chain that bound them to the ship forever.

She looked down at the thousands of bodies stacked like cordwood in the center of the funnel.

"Kharos. Raveth. Ashkar. Eryx." Aina’s voice turned commanding. "Descend."

Four figures emerged from the crowd, their faces flushed with fanatical anticipation. They marched down the steps to join her.

"By the will of the Stoneheart," Aina proclaimed, "Hellscream requires four pillars. The four Divine Envoys."

"Kharos! The Phantom of the East!"

"Raveth! The Shadow of the West!"

"Ashkar! The Scourge of the South!"

"Eryx! The Iron of the North!"

As each name was called, the corresponding warrior stepped onto their designated cardinal point around the altar.

"Pray with me," Aina commanded. "Offer your absolute faith. Let the supreme Stoneheart gaze upon us and grant his blessing!"

As the thousands of cultists bowed their heads in unison, Aina triggered the sacrificial ritual.

HUMMMMMM.

A deep resonance vibrated through the stone. Blood-red light erupted from the runes carved into the plaza floor, creating a massive, swirling formation centered on the altar.

The effect on the sleepers was immediate.

It was as if an invisible hand had gripped them. Streams of vital essence—glowing and ethereal—began to pour from their eyes, noses, and mouths. Their bodies withered rapidly, skin tightening over bone, muscles evaporating, until they crumbled into dust.

Even their souls were dragged screaming from their husks, pulled into an unknown dimension.

"No... wait! You heretics! This is living sacrifice!"

"Please! No! I surrender!"

"Run! We have to get out of here!"

Screams erupted from the pile.

Not everyone had been fully under the plague’s influence. Some, protected by artifacts or sheer willpower, had been feigning sleep, waiting for a chance to escape. Now, the ritual tore through their defenses.

Their agonizing wails echoed off the plaza walls.

No one in Hellscream flinched. No one cared.

The only thing the cultists cared about was the payout. They watched the altar with hungry eyes, waiting to see if the mighty entity on the other side accepted the trade.

Ten thousand lives.

It took fifteen minutes for the screaming to stop and the last body to turn to ash.

Silence fell over Grimm.

Then, the magical formation dissipated. All eyes fixed on the statue of Orion.

PULSE.

A wave of dense, crimson light exploded from the idol. It didn’t burn; it washed over the Hellscream members like a warm tide, soaking into their skin, infusing them with raw, intoxicating power.