Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Chapter 1439: Crimson Fever

The Buffalofolk woman froze mid-step. Her frame seized up, trembling violently for a heartbeat, before she forced herself to calm down. She resumed her walk to the heavy iron chest to fetch the item Earthshaker had demanded.

Earthshaker, a Alpha at the peak of his power, saw every twitch of fear and hope in her posture. He said nothing.

She was his First Wife, bound to him long before the Buffalofolk had bent the knee to the Stoneheart Horde. But her blood was thin, her potential limited. Despite the mountain of resources he had poured into her cultivation, she remained stuck, unable to even breach the Hero level.

Her value lay elsewhere. She was of his own kind, fertile and robust. She had given him many strong sons.

Earthshaker was not a sentimental monogamist. His manor was filled with women of various species—some captured in raids, others gifted by sycophants. He took them to his bed without hesitation. In the Stoneheart Horde, mixing bloodlines to produce stronger, more diverse offspring wasn’t taboo; it was strategy. Even Orion, their King, had children of mixed heritage who were veritable monsters of power.

Earthshaker was simply following his King’s example.

Yet, he held a specific, quiet affection for his First Wife. No matter how many exotic beauties filled his harem, none were permitted to disrespect her or threaten her status as Matriarch.

The Outer City. The Silent Goblet.

On the second floor of the tavern, Gronthar and Brakthul sat with mugs of ale halfway to their mouths. The moment the Grand Elder’s aura swept over the city, the expensive liquor suddenly tasted like dishwater.

"Brother," Gronthar said, setting his mug down with a heavy thud. "Go to the vault. Get the limited-edition spirits. I’m going to the pens to grab that newborn dragon-beast cub. We need to get to the Grand Elder’s estate immediately."

Both brothers were stuck at the peak of the Alpha level. Like the Prophet Onyx, they had been hammering against that ceiling for years. Rendall’s ascension to the Legendary realm was proof that the ceiling could be broken.

Compared to the chance of becoming a Legend, a rare dragon-beast cub was a trivial sacrifice. The breeding pair was still alive; they could always make another one.

"Right. Don’t start without me!" Brakthul scrambled up, knocking his chair over in his haste.

Gronthar watched him go, shaking his head with a wry smile. His younger brother was usually the calm one, but the scent of power made fools of them all.

Across the city, in both the inner and outer districts, similar scenes were playing out.

While others were frantically wrapping gifts and donning their best formal wear, Slagor had already arrived. He hopped off his carriage, a carelessly wrapped package in hand, and strode through the gates of the Grand Elder’s estate.

"Don’t bother announcing me," Slagor said, waving off a rushing servant girl. "I know where the old man is."

He bypassed the reception hall entirely, swaggering straight into the backyard toward a large, weathered tent pitched on the manicured lawn. Slagor knew Rendall. The Grand Elder hated stiff ceremonies.

Inside the tent, Rendall was exactly where Slagor expected him to be—sitting on a rug, tearing into a massive roast leg of meat and guzzling wine from a bowl.

The Outer City. The Bear Compound.

This particular estate was unique in its lack of decorum. It was a riot of noise and motion, with bear cubs of all sizes wrestling, climbing trees, and roaring in the courtyard. It was the home of the Thunderstorm Bearmen brothers, Brontes and Steropes. The "estate" was actually two large mansions that had been smashed together to create a sprawling, communal den.

"Brother, that pressure came from the inner city. Rendall’s place," Steropes rumbled, watching his cubs body-slam each other. "You think the Old Man is back?"

Unlike the inner circle of original elders like Onyx, the Bear brothers were a step removed from the core leadership. They hadn’t received immediate confirmation.

"Hard to say, but we should test the waters," Brontes said, looking toward the inner districts. He scratched his chin, then roared a name.

"Vulkan! Get over here!"

A young bearman, strapping and nearly as tall as his father, lumbered over. This was Vulkan—formerly known as ’Little Bear,’ now a warrior in his own right.

"Go to your mother’s cellar. Take half of this year’s batch of Honey Mead and haul it to Rendall’s estate," Brontes commanded. "Tell the Grand Elder we send our respects."

Vulkan hefted a massive cask of wine onto his shoulder as if it were a twig.

"And keep your eyes open," Brontes added, his voice dropping. "See who else is there. Count the guests. Tell me everything when you get back."

The World of Eldoria. Port Caelwyn.

A month had passed since the events in the Divine Kingdom.

Port Caelwyn was a jewel of the coast, sitting on the edge of the Westreach Sea. It was a city of commerce and indulgence, famous for its seafood markets where exotic leviathan meats were auctioned off to inland nobles for heavy pouches of gold.

"I love the salty breeze here. It tastes like tears."

On a cliff overlooking the sprawling harbor, Aina stood wrapped in a white cloak. Behind her stood Raveth, one of the four Divine Envoys of Hellscream.

"The sky and the sea are separated by a single line," Aina mused, her voice dreamy. "Waves smashing the reef... gulls hunting the fish. It’s beautiful. Like a lullaby."

She turned to look at Raveth, her eyes bright.

To anyone else, it was a poetic observation. To Raveth, it sounded like last rites.

"Life and death are also separated by a single line," Raveth replied, his voice a gravelly rasp. "The Hellscream descending on Port Caelwyn... yes. It will be beautiful."

The setting sun cut through the clouds, illuminating the lower half of Aina’s face beneath her hood. Her lips curled into a radiant, innocent smile.

"When the sun goes down and the dark comes out, we’ll go into the city together," she said. "I have a gift for everyone."

From her sleeve, she slid out a crystal vial filled with swirling black and crimson smoke. She held it up to the dying light, admiring it as if it were a lover.

"Raveth, do you know what this is called?"

"The Crimson Fever."

"A good friend of mine brewed it," Aina giggled. "It makes people so happy they go mad. And after the madness, they sleep. Forever."

She lowered the vial, her expression shifting to one of mock pity.

"After sunset, Port Caelwyn will never see the sun again. It’s a little sad, isn’t it?"

Raveth said nothing. He had learned long ago that the Saintess of Hellscream was utterly insane. Her pity was just a precursor to slaughter. Silence and obedience were the only ways to survive her company.

As the wind rustled the leaves and the sun dipped below the horizon, Aina stepped onto the sandy road leading to the gates. She walked with a light, skipping gait.

At the city gates, she paid a hefty entrance fee without complaint.

She hadn’t been inside the walls for more than ten minutes when trouble found her. Aina was beautiful, and alone. A group of local thugs cornered her in an alley, knives flashing.

They patted her down, stripping her of her coin purse and the crystal vial of Crimson Fever.

When one of the thugs reached for her cloak, intending to drag her into the shadows for darker purposes, Raveth stepped out from the ether. His sword flashed once. The air grew cold.

The thugs, sensing a predator far beyond their league, scrambled away in terror, clutching their stolen loot—including the vial.

Raveth made to pursue, but Aina placed a hand on his arm.

"Look," she whispered, watching the thieves run deeper into the crowded city with the plague in their hands.

"I didn’t force them. I didn’t open the bottle. They chose to take it. They chose their own fate."