Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Chapter 1457: Bleeding Horizons

As for the Volunteer Corps, think of them as the Horde’s irregulars—mercenaries, drifters, and hard-bitten travelers who called the Stoneheart Horde home.

They had too much baggage or too little discipline to join the regular legions, yet they still wanted to bleed for the Horde. It was a grassroots militia—rough around the edges, but fiercely effective.

Organizing them killed two birds with one stone: it relieved pressure on the main army and gave these restless souls a way to earn a heavy pouch of coin.

The North. The Northern Bastion of Menethis.

The sunset was bleeding across the horizon, a brilliant, dying light. To Prince Theodore, standing high atop the battlements, it felt like a premonition.

His silhouette against the red sky was gaunt. The Northern Bastion of Menethis had lost its former majesty. Days of relentless siege had stripped away the glory, leaving behind a fortress that reeked of desolation and decay.

The stone beneath his boots was pockmarked with craters and gouges—scars from mandibles and acidic bile. Exhausted soldiers lay where they fell, sleeping amidst shattered shields and notched blades. Every inch of the wall screamed of the cruelty of war.

They had just repelled another wave of the Swarm. For now, the Bastion held. It was the "City of Hope" for the abandoned, the last stronghold of humanity after the Capital vanished.

Theodore bore the weight of that hope, and it was crushing him.

He knew the truth: he and his city were at their breaking point. A few more waves, and the walls would be nothing more than a dinner plate for the insectoids. The civilians huddled inside would be nothing more than biomass.

It wasn’t that Theodore was weak, or the walls too thin. It was the logistics. The influx of refugees had drained the reserves King Harold had left behind. And with the Swarm choking the wilderness, they couldn’t farm.

"Your Highness, the battlefield is cleared," a voice reported. "The edible insect meat has been moved to the storehouse."

Insect meat. That was their lifeline. But it was a poisoned chalice.

To get the meat, they had to kill the bugs. To kill the bugs, soldiers had to die. Worse, the meat was mildly toxic. The hardened soldiers and knights could metabolize it—in fact, the trace toxins seemed to temper their bodies, making them stronger. But for the common folk? It was a gamble. At best, violent illness; at worst, death.

It created a grim dichotomy: the civilians were starving while consuming the dwindling grain reserves, while the army was feasting on the enemy and evolving.

"General... the sun is going down," Theodore murmured.

It was a vague statement, but General Oswin Calder understood the subtext.

Oswin was over a hundred years old, a relic of a bygone era. He was one of the few nobles with a spine, a man who had personally donned his armor to escort the cast-off commoners to the Bastion when the Capital fled. Theodore respected him more than his own father, naming him Vice-Castellan.

"Aye, Your Highness. It’s setting," Oswin replied, his voice gravel.

It wasn’t just the sun. It was them. The city. The thousands of lives behind them. The last vestige of human authority on the continent.

"General, is the preparation complete?"

" It is. Center of the plaza. Covered in black cloth, under heavy guard. No one has seen it."

Oswin hesitated, then asked the question plaguing his mind. "Your Highness... is this truly the way? Should we not send an envoy to the Stoneheart Horde first?"

Theodore shook his head. As the last sliver of the sun vanished, he turned from the wall.

"No need. The power of a Demigod is not something we can measure with our logic. He will know."

The image of the Giant King, Orion, dominated his thoughts. It felt surreal. How many years had it been? He remembered traveling to the Stoneheart Horde to retrieve his sister, Princess Ava. Back then, Orion was a lord. Now, he was a demigod.

"Tonight is the night," Theodore said, his voice hardening. "The Swarm has retreated. The soldiers and civilians are desperate for a miracle. Move all the insect corpses to the plaza. If we are to make an offering, we must show sincerity."

Night fell over the Northern Bastion.

Word spread through the refugee camps and barracks: gather at the central plaza. Relief rations were to be distributed. Aside from those too weak to walk, the entire city poured into the square.

But there was no grain. No soup kitchens.

Instead, the people found a mountain of dead insects piled high, flanking a massive, three-hundred-foot statue shrouded in heavy black canvas. Bonfires roared in front of it, illuminating a makeshift altar.

Confusion rippled through the crowd. Then, Prince Theodore stepped up to the altar.

He released the aura of a Lord, a heavy pressure that silenced the thousands of murmuring voices instantly.

"Citizens. You have heard the rumors," Theodore’s voice boomed across the square. "I am here to confirm them. They are true."

"The Capital is gone. The Nobles have fled to another continent."

He didn’t sugarcoat it. He laid the betrayal bare.

"You believe this place is a sanctuary. A City of Hope. It is not."

A low thrum of noise rose from the crowd—the sound of thousands of people whispering, gasping, and realizing their doom all at once.

Then came the wails. The curses.

"That bastard Emperor!"

"Cowardly pigs!"

"They left us to die!"

Theodore let them scream. He needed them to vent. He needed them to understand the absolute hopelessness of their position.

Only when they realized they were dead could he offer them a new life.

Fifteen minutes passed. The roar of the crowd slowly died down into a suffocating, heavy silence. No one called for order. They simply ran out of rage, leaving only fear.

Thousands of eyes fixed on Theodore, waiting for the end.

Prince Theodore felt the weight settle on his shoulders—a physical pressure, heavier than plate armor. It was the collective gaze of a dying city.