Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Chapter 1474: Eight-Point Dismemberment

Aina was a native of this world, yet she stood within the inner circle of the coalition’s high command. Her value lay in her knowledge—she was the ultimate guide, holding the keys to the world’s intelligence network. More importantly, she carried the projection of a Demigod, entrusted to her by Orion himself.

"Are you really Orion’s daughter?"

Looking at Elara, Aina felt a crushing sense of inadequacy. She wondered if she had wasted her life. Elara was younger, stronger, and possessed a command over the battlefield that Aina could only dream of.

"My name is Elara Stoneheart," Elara replied, flashing a sweet, disarming smile that seemed at odds with the carnage around them.

Aina felt a sense of dissonance. How could the girl who ruthlessly dismantled enemies be the same person offering this warm, girl-next-door smile?

BOOM!

Another thunderous explosion erupted from the heavens, sending a fresh shockwave rolling toward the ground.

This time, Elara was ready. She didn’t even look up. She simply raised her trident slightly, releasing a pulse of magical dampening that neutralized the shockwave before it could scour the coalition’s lines.

"Is the ’Holy Order’ actually holy?" Aina asked, her voice trembling as she watched the devastation. "They don’t seem to care if their own believers live or die."

The Templars fought with reckless abandon. Their aura suppression and the fallout from their attacks were wiping out the faithful just as effectively as the invaders were.

"There is no such thing as a truly Holy Order," Elara said, her gaze turning cold. "Just thieves and hypocrites in white robes. As long as there are saints, there will be sinners. Who is more evil—the Holy Son and his Goddess, or the creatures from the Abyss? The line is thinner than you think. Some wear their rot on the outside; others are rotten in their bones, their souls, and their faith."

Elara glanced at Aina, a flicker of appreciation in her eyes. She saw something in this Seeker of Change—a woman who, amidst the destruction, seemed to be gestating something new, something unknown.

"Sister Isabella is amazing!" Aina exclaimed, looking past Elara to the sky.

She saw Isabella, descending like a Valkyrie.

In reality, Isabella’s majestic entrance hit a wall immediately. She charged a Templar, but her Golden Dragon mount was swatted away like a fly in the first exchange.

Isabella reacted with lightning speed. Initiating a bloodline technique, she dissolved the physical form of the Golden Dragon, reforming it as a suit of radiant, living armor that clamped around her body.

"If Hulk and Kraken could punch above their weight class, then so can I!"

Isabella looked magnificent—a warrior goddess clad in gold, metal dragon wings unfurled behind her, a dragon lance in her grip.

"Supersonic Pierce!"

Hummm!

The lance in Isabella’s hand screamed, a resonance that sounded like a dragon’s roar. Man and weapon merged into a singular blur of gold, a dragon-shaped projectile slamming into a Templar who wielded a long spear.

For a Lord like Isabella, fighting an Archlord left no room for tricks. She had to pour every ounce of her soul and strength into a single, do-or-die strike.

To the onlookers below, it looked like a collision of ice and fire—a stalemate of raw, destructive force.

"Hah! That’s Orion’s girl for you! Facing down an Archlord while still a Lord!"

On the other side of the chaotic aerial melee, Makareth saw Isabella’s desperate charge and felt a surge of adrenaline. Ignoring the three Templars besieging him, he forced his way through their formation, closing the distance on a fourth target.

"Didn’t anyone teach you that marksmen are soft targets at close range?"

Makareth’s massive hand clamped onto the skull of the Templar who had been raining holy arrows down on the undead and dragon beasts.

The demon was losing himself to the bloodlust, treating this life-or-death struggle like a twisted game.

"Tell me," Makareth grinned, "how would you like to die?"

The Templar struggled violently in his grip, firing point-blank blasts of holy light from his bow into Makareth’s chest. But against the demon’s Forbidden Earth Spell defense, the attacks merely rippled like stones thrown into a pond.

"Not a talker? Then let’s try the Eight-Point Dismemberment. Heh heh heh..."

Makareth’s laughter was a mix of madness and malice. He raised his fel-flame scimitar.

The first cut slashed across the Templar’s chest, left to right.

The second cut gutted the abdomen.

The third severed the thighs.

Fourth and fifth—upward strokes that took off both arms.

Momentum building, the sixth and seventh cuts cleaved through the shoulders.

Finally, with a roar of ecstatic fury, Makareth delivered the eighth strike: decapitation.

The laughter died, replaced by pure demonic intent.

The True Demon raised a massive leg and stomped down. He sent the severed stone head plummeting like a meteor. It crashed into the center of Dolame Square, smashing directly into the statue of the Goddess, toppling it.

To the believers below, it was the ultimate blasphemy.

Far away, in the Agaman Central Diocese.

In the council chamber, the priests and Inquisitors watched the sacrilege unfold in silence.

"Damn him! He is desecrating the divine! That is a capital sin!"

"He is a True Demon from the Abyss," the Inquisition Commander’s voice floated through the room, dark and pragmatic. "Did you expect manners? There is nothing a creature like that won’t do."

"The Templars won’t last much longer," sighed Maelric, the Red Cardinal.

The six Archlord-level Templars were the Andor Diocese’s final line of defense. If they fell, the diocese would fall with them, becoming a dark pasture for false gods, a place where the Holy Light no longer reached.

"Abyssal Demons, Forbidden Spells, Dragons, Dragon Knights..." The Inquisition Commander leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the combat styles of Makareth, Isabella, and Kaedros. "Maelric, this isn’t a simple raid by the chaotic evil faction."

"This isn’t a random incursion," he continued. "It’s an organized coalition."

If this were a standard Abyssal invasion, a distress signal would bring exorcists swarming from every corner of the Holy Order to aid them. But an invasion by an unknown, organized political power? That changed the calculus. External support would be scarce.

The Holy Order was monolithic in name only. It was fractured into factions. Different dioceses shared a deity but diverged wildly on policy, philosophy, and values.

It was like wine—one man savored the vintage, another retched at the smell. You couldn’t force a man who hated wine to save a vineyard just because you liked it.

Specifically, the dioceses that had expanded into the Abyssal World itself viewed demons very differently. They would likely ignore Maelric’s plea for help.

"Gentlemen," the Commander said, his voice steel. "This is our pasture. These are our sheep. The enemy is strong, and we stand alone. We either stand together, or we’ll be slaughtered with the flock."