Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Chapter 1471: A Wager of Blood

Makareth chose his words with surgical precision. When he spoke of "you Archlords," he deliberately excluded himself.

He held too many trump cards to be lumped in with the rank and file. Having successfully ascended, Makareth was itching to test his new limits. He didn’t want a peer; he wanted to clash steel with the projection of a Demigod.

"If the enemy sends reinforcements, I will hold the line against one Archlord."

The voice was sharp, cutting through the tension. Isabella stood tall, clad in fitted combat leathers that accentuated her lethal grace. She looked every inch a Valkyrie.

She was at the peak of the Legendary rank, yet she was volunteering to stall an Archlord. It was a suicidal declaration that earned her the immediate respect of the room.

Most remained silent. Since her arrival, Isabella had worn a mask of icy approachability, a sign that said keep away.

"Sis, are you sure you can handle that?"

Makareth was the exception. They were old war dogs, comrades who had bled together for years. Even with his new title of Archlord, he still addressed her with the familiar, affectionate "Sis." It wasn’t condescension; it was genuine concern.

Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Why? You want to spar?"

"I beat you once. I can beat you twice."

It was true. When they first met, Isabella had lost to him.

"Forget I asked," Makareth laughed, waving a hand. "But seriously, Sis. Why not team up with me? Together, we’d be unstoppable."

He was trying to protect her. As an Archlord, he had the weight to shield her on the battlefield.

"Not necessary," Isabella said, her tone flat. "I came here to sharpen my blade, not hide behind yours."

"Makareth, do you look down on me?"

The air in the room tightened. Isabella was dead serious.

"Never," Makareth replied, his smile turning feral. "I just wanted to see how much you’ve improved these past few years. How about a wager?"

"If reinforcements arrive, let’s see who claims the first Archlord head."

It was a grim game they had played countless times in the Dragon battlefields of the Emerald Dream Realm. It was a game they both loved.

"Done."

Isabella’s answer was instant. Years of governing vast territories in the Emerald Dream Realm, fueled by the feedback of resources and Faith Energy, had brought her to the precipice.

Alexander had sent her here for this exact reason. She was at the bottleneck. She needed the fire of combat, the razor’s edge of life and death, to force her evolution.

So these are the other Survivors, Aina thought, watching the exchange.

Confident. Arrogant. Wild. Paranoid. Cold... and utterly fearless.

Aina’s perception of the group shifted. She had thought Orion was a battle-crazed anomaly, singular in his obsession. But seeing Makareth and Isabella, she realized the truth: Orion wasn’t the outlier. They were all lunatics.

Birds of a feather, indeed.

"We should remain cautious," Elara’s crisp voice cut in. "A faction that controls an entire world will not be simple to dismantle."

"Underestimating the enemy is the quickest way to the grave."

As a frontline commander, Elara felt obligated to temper the testosterone in the room.

"Agreed," Kaedros rumbled. "We must keep our guard up."

The Dragonblood warrior aligned himself with Elara, creating a subtle counterbalance to the reckless confidence of Makareth and Isabella.

They were a team. For the machine to work, they needed both the gas and the brakes. Different perspectives were the only way to see the full picture and avoid walking into a massacre.

Agaman Diocese. The Cathedral Great Hall.

In the sanctum of the central cathedral, the air was heavy with incense and dread.

The Council of the Holy Order was in session.

Present were Cardinal Maelric and the High Priests governing the six key dioceses: Andor, Stellaris, Twilight Vale, Sena, Silvermoon, and Gulaba.

Alongside them sat the Inquisition. The Shadow Commander occupied a seat of honor, flanked by his six lieutenants—shadowy figures responsible for enforcing the Order’s will in each district.

Of the High Priests, five were present only as shimmering, translucent projections, their forms bridged across vast distances by the Order’s secret arts. The only one present in the flesh was the replacement for Father Orel—the man who hadn’t even made it to the Andor Diocese before the war broke out.

"Gentlemen. Dolame Square is under siege. vast tracts of the Andor Diocese’s pastures have fallen. The enemy is prepared."

Cardinal Maelric’s voice was calm, resonant, and utterly devoid of panic. The loss of a diocese seemed like a minor accounting error to him.

"This is a coalition of the damned. Undead, Dragon Beasts, human traitors, monster legions, and Abyssal filth. They are claws of the darkness."

"They did not come for the pasture or the lambs. They came for the slaughter."

Maelric raised his staff, pointing it at the massive crystal chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling.

The artifact hummed. A thick mist poured from the crystal, swirling in the center of the hall before thinning into a pane of perfect clarity.

Maelric chanted a syllable, and the scrying mirror flared to life.

Horror played out in high definition.

An Undead legion swept through a village like a plague wind. Life was extinguished instantly, leaving behind only rot and bleached bone.

A Dragon Beast leaped atop a diocesan fortification, snapping a screaming guard in half with a single bite.

And then there were the Plague Zombies. Wherever they shambled, the Order’s defenders collapsed, too sick to fight, waiting to be butchered like sheep in a pen.

"Heretics!"

"Evil from the Abyssal World! Hellspawn!"

"The cause of the war no longer matters," Maelric declared, silencing the rising murmur. "What matters is unity. We must protect the Goddess’s pasture. We must purge these invaders."

Any faction that infights during an invasion is doomed to fall. The Agaman Holy Order knew this. The swift convening of this council proved they were ready to stand together.

"Expel the heathens!" one of the projected priests hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"It is a senseless massacre," another mused, frowning at the carnage. "Do they intend to destroy the world entirely?"

"Declare a Holy War!"

Some of the priests were already rolling up their sleeves, eyes burning with zealotry.

Maelric raised his staff again, demanding silence. He turned to the man seated in the shadows beside him—the Commander of the Inquisition.

"When Dolame Square was first established," the Shadow Commander rasped, his voice like dry leaves on stone, "we buried six Templars beneath its foundations."

The hall went deathly silent.

"The Inquisition has already sent the activation signal," the Commander continued. "The moment the invaders breach the perimeter of Dolame Square, the Templars will wake."

He looked around the room, his eyes cold and empty.

"I imagine you are all just as curious as I am to see... exactly how strong our enemy truly is."