Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Chapter 1458: When a Demigod Answers

"You may not realize this," Theodore began, his voice projecting across the silent square, "but excluding our garrison, the Northern Bastion of Menethis now shelters nearly two million souls."

He paused, letting the number sink in. "Two million. Even if we strictly rationed the thinnest gruel, the daily grain requirement is a nightmare."

Two million. That was the grim tally of survival. When the Empire had cast them out, the initial exodus had been a slaughter. Many had fled into the wilds, turning to banditry or dying in the mud. More had fallen during the long, brutal march, their bodies marking the road to this bastion.

Even here, death hadn’t stopped—claimed by the siege defense, or worse, by the toxins in the insect meat when hunger drove men to madness.

"I must speak the hard truth," Theodore said, his face a mask of grim resolve. "Our granaries are empty."

The silence broke. It wasn’t a murmur, but a chaotic rumble of panic that swept through the plaza. The terror lasted for an hour, a storm of weeping and shouting that slowly exhausted itself into a sullen, fearful quiet.

"We can’t eat the carapace meat! It’s poison!"

"We’re dead! There’s no hope left!"

Theodore didn’t flinch. He released his Legendary aura, a heavy, tangible pressure that smothered the hysteria instantly, forcing the crowd into submission.

"This is not a sanctuary!" he boomed. "The Northern Bastion is a graveyard. We were abandoned here. I was abandoned here, just like you."

He stood with them, united in resentment against the Kingdom that had fled. The crowd wept, the sound a low, mournful keen. Many knew the score, but they stayed silent, pinning their last desperate hopes on the Prince to pull a miracle from the ashes. In another life, Theodore might have been that miracle. But not today. Not alone.

"Cruel, isn’t it?" Theodore’s voice dropped, thick with self-loathing. "I told myself I could lead us to a new dawn. But the swarm never ends. And the worst truth? The real invasion hasn’t even started. The abyssal gates haven’t fully opened. If we are breaking now, what happens then? Where is our salvation?"

He roared the last words, pacing the dais like a caged lion.

General Oswin Calder stood behind his prince, face impassive. He knew the ratio: nine parts grim reality, one part calculated performance. It was theater—the essential skill of kings and politicians—and Theodore was playing his role to perfection.

"I am in agony," Theodore continued, his voice cracking. "Watching our food vanish, seeing no path to survival... I have failed you."

The admission hung in the air. The weeping in the square turned desolate, the sound of a people accepting their doom.

"If there is no hope left..." Theodore whispered, a sound amplified by magic to reach every ear, "...can we not forge our own?"

The crowd stilled.

"If there is one power on this continent that can grant us life, it is him," Theodore said, his voice rising with a fanatic’s fervor. "The Demigod of the Stoneheart Horde. The consort of Princess Ava. The father of Prince Kronos. The greatest power to rise in ten thousand years."

He threw his arms wide. "The Giant King, Orion Stoneheart!"

The name struck a spark.

"Giant King!"

"Giant King!"

The chant began as a ripple and grew into a wave. Theodore seized the momentum. He turned and ripped the black canvas from the towering structure behind him.

The statue of a Titan—four faces, eight arms—loomed over the square, carved from cold stone but radiating power.

"We have no gold left," Theodore cried out. "But we have the spoils of our survival, the weapons of our enemies! And we have our souls! I offer it all to the Giant King! Grant us sanctuary!"

He prostrated himself before the idol. Like a falling wave, two million people dropped to their knees, heads touching the dirt.

"Giant King, hear us! Grant us sanctuary!"

The prayer shook the earth, a unified, desperate thunder of faith. It was a spectacle of devotion rarely seen in the history of human kingdoms.

Far away, in the heart of Stoneheart City.

Orion opened his eyes.

A torrent of faith energy, remarkably pure and dense, was flooding into his palm. Through the metaphysical link, he saw the vision of the Northern Bastion—the statue, the kneeling masses, the desperate, thundering prayers.

He hadn’t expected Theodore to play this card so definitively. It was a monumental gift—not just to Orion, but to the Horde, and to the future foundation of Ava and Kronos.

It was a masterstroke designed by Theodore and King Harold. To survive, the Prince couldn’t just join the Horde; he had to integrate his people so thoroughly they became inseparable from it. Theodore had succeeded. The struggle, the despair, the revelation—it had all been a crucible to forge this moment.

He was buying his people a ticket onto the only ship that wasn’t sinking.

"Two branches, one tree. The lineage survives," Orion mused, sensing the intent. "Sly old foxes."

As a Demigod, the motives of the human King Harold and the Saint .

***

The prayers in the Northern Bastion of Menethis did not cease. They became a rhythmic, thrumming heartbeat beneath the sky.

"We beseech the Giant King! Grant us sanctuary! Shield the Northern Bastion!"

The air grew heavy. As the collective will of two million souls poured toward the stone effigy, a transformation took hold. The rough-hewn features of the four-faced Titan began to shift. Stone flowed like wax, sharpening, refining, until the statue bore the undeniable, terrifyingly lifelike visage of Orion Stoneheart.

Seeing the idol accept their offering, Theodore fell to his knees again, his voice cracking with desperate fervor.

"We pledge our allegiance to the Stoneheart Horde! We offer our souls to the Giant King! We submit to your will!"

"Grant us your divine protection! We are your people!"

It was no longer a plea for aid; it was a total, unconditional surrender.

"To the Faithful, I grant Sanctuary."

The voice did not come from the air. It resonated from the stone itself, vibrating in the marrow of every man, woman, and child.

Hummmm.

The vibration deepened, shaking the dust from the ruined buildings.

"To the Faithful, I grant Sanctuary."

A second wave of sound, grander and more imperious than the first, swept over the city. Divine power coalesced around the statue, igniting it with a blinding, prismatic brilliance that pierced the gloom of the insect-choked sky.

"To the Faithful, I grant Sanctuary."

Orion’s voice, ancient and distant, thundered a third time, rolling across the Bastion like a physical force.

The light exploded outward. It washed over the city, chasing away the shadows. For fifteen minutes, the miracle held the populace in a trance. When the brilliance finally faded, the sky was no longer open to the swarm. A translucent, golden barrier now arched over the Northern Bastion—a divine aegis.

The buzzing of the insectoids outside thumped harmlessly against the shield. They could not pass.

Prince Theodore stood up. He looked at the golden dome above, his chest heaving. He exhaled a breath that felt like it had been trapped in his lungs for years.

"My Lord... we... we actually did it."

Behind him, General Oswin Calder was weeping openly. The miracle meant more than survival; it meant they had been seen. They were under the gaze of a Demigod.

"Yes, General. We did." Theodore turned, his expression altering. The frantic desperation was gone, replaced by a somber gravity. "But listen to me closely, Oswin. Do not call me ’Prince’ again. From this moment on, I am the Castellan."

"The Kingdom is gone. Its glory and its protection have fled. We are no longer subjects of the Crown. We are citizens of the Stoneheart Horde."

It should have been a humiliating admission for royalty, but Theodore spoke the words with profound relief.

"My father was right," he murmured, half to himself. "My shoulders were too narrow to hold up the sky alone."

He scanned the plaza, watching the people staring up at the golden barrier in reverence. This was a moment of myth, a story they would tell their grandchildren.

Leaving a squad of honor guards at the statue, Theodore led Oswin away from the square.

They walked slowly. Since the founding of the Bastion, Theodore had rarely walked these streets; he had only ever rushed through them in crisis. Now, he saw the cost.

Ruins lay on every side. The flying insectoids had ravaged the upper levels of the city. Shops that had once bustled were now gaping maws of broken timber and shattered glass. Looted storefronts, collapsed doors... and from the shadows, the low, constant moans of the wounded and the starving.

The glory was gone. Only the wreckage remained.

"It will return," Theodore whispered, a vow to the empty street. "I will make this city breathe again."

"Castellan," Oswin said, struggling with the new title as he shook off the awe of the ritual. "What is our next move? The shield protects us, but the granaries remain empty."

"Rest easy, General. His Majesty has granted us the means."

Theodore stopped and turned, producing an object from his robes. It looked like a compass, but constructed of obsidian and humming with arcane energy.

"What is that?"

"A Rift Anchor. A gift from the Giant King."

Orion was not a god who took without giving. He had accepted the mass conversion and the heavy tribute of faith; the barrier was the immediate shield, but the Anchor was the lifeline.

"Once installed, this will tear a stable path through the ether," Theodore explained. "We will be linked directly to Stoneheart City. Grain, medicine, reinforcements—they will flow from the capital."

"Castellan... we..." Oswin stammered, the reality of their salvation finally hitting him. They weren’t just delaying death. They were going to live.

"Remember, Oswin. No more ’Prince.’ Just Castellan." Theodore’s eyes were sharp. If he clung to his royal title, he would be an insult to the true royalty of the Horde—Prince Kronos. Theodore knew his place.

"Understood... Castellan."

Oswin nodded deeply. But as he watched Theodore’s back, the old general spoke silently to himself. You may not be a Prince of the Horde, my Lord. But you will always be the Prince of Menethis to me.

Stoneheart City, The Royal Spire.

The skies to the north churned with metaphysical weight. A massive projection of a Titan had flickered in the ether, a disturbance strong enough to alert Lilith instantly.

She had come to the Spire, finding Orion amidst the aftershocks of the ritual. As husband and wife, solitude often led to passion.

Now, the storm had passed. The room was quiet, save for the crackle of the hearth. Lilith lay curled in Orion’s lap, her skin flushed, listening as he recounted the political theater Theodore and Harold had orchestrated.

"Whether it was calculated or desperate, they showed commitment," Lilith mused, resting her head against his massive chest.

The Northern Bastion was filled with commoners—people without magic, without power, just ordinary souls looking for safety. Bringing them into the Horde provided a massive battery of faith, and by stripping them of their national identity, Theodore had minimized the risk of future rebellion.

"They didn’t need to go so far," Orion said, his hand idly cupping her breast, thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over the soft skin—a habit he indulged in during their quiet moments. "For the sake of Kronos and Ava, I would have pulled them from the fire regardless."

Lilith leaned into his touch, a small, contented smile playing on her lips. She enjoyed his possessiveness; being the object of a Demigod’s affection was a heady drug.

"Heh... that is not the same, my love," she purred.

"There is a world of difference between being a refugee saved by charity, and being a subject protected by duty. That father and son pair... they knew exactly what they were doing."