Titan King: Ascension of the Giant - Chapter 1216

Chapter 1216: Your promises are worth less than the dust on my boots

At the heart of the shimmering veil, a black vortex churned—a cancerous swirl of elemental chaos, where fire, wind, water, earth, light, and darkness warred for dominance.

Orion knew this phenomenon all too well. It was a World-Scar.

As a being who had shattered the walls between realms more than once, he understood what he was seeing. The demigod battle had done more than just level the landscape; it had torn a hole in the very fabric of the Abyss. This chaotic barrier was the dimension’s autoimmune response, a desperate attempt to cauterize the wound. Only an Abyssal Ruler could properly mend such damage.

A flicker of grim satisfaction sparked within him. The Scar was still here, which meant the Ruler hadn’t noticed. Which meant the Abyssal Springhead might still be unclaimed. As to why the Ruler had been so negligent, Orion didn’t dwell on it. Beings of that magnitude were likely lost in the depths of their own Divine Kingdoms, pursuing ambitions beyond mortal comprehension.

His gaze fixed on the vortex. All I have to do is step through that maelstrom. That’s the way into the shattered space.

The Springhead is right there. The only way my child will ever be born.

He took a step forward, but his avatar, a demigod in its own right, recoiled. A primal intuition screamed at him. The vortex was a gateway to a deathtrap.

He hesitated, caught between the hope for his family and the certainty of annihilation. The struggle played out across his features, a war of instinct against will.

Then, his expression hardened into a mask of pure resolve. He stepped into the chaos and was gone.

***

The Shattered Space.

Above the incandescent glow of the Abyssal Springhead, the stalemate held. Two demigods, locked in an eternal, grinding tug-of-war.

Alveron’s original self had been a fifth-stage demigod, a being who had condensed a Divine Spark. But the Spark was flawed, incomplete. It could never form a true divine body, could never take that final, sixth step into godhood. So, he had sacrificed it all—his imperfect Spark, his entire Divine Kingdom—and forged it into the Abyssal Springhead.

His current form, the virtue knight, was a mere first-stage demigod. But standing upon the wellspring of his own former power, he had access to an infinite font of divine energy. That was the source of his confidence. That was why he’d had the audacity to groom the calamity lord Zareth as his replacement.

The plan was elegant in its cruelty: have the Springhead consume Zareth. A fourth-stage demigod, one who had already formed a Divine Kingdom, was the perfect sacrifice. His divine essence would coalesce into a new Abyssal Springhead—weaker, yes, but sufficient to take his place in the cosmic balance.

Once Zareth was offered up, Alveron could finally absorb the original Springhead, his own power, into the sanctified heart of the knight. He would slingshot past the mortal coil, re-forming a new Divine Kingdom, a new Divine Spark, a new Divine Calling, and ascend directly to the sixth stage.

A plan millennia in the making was finally reaching its crescendo. Looking at Zareth, a masterpiece of suffering he had sculpted with his own hands, Alveron felt a surge of artistic pride. Watching the fourth-stage calamity lord being inexorably dragged toward the core of the Springhead was like admiring the final brushstrokes on a timeless work of art.

“Zareth, can you even begin to comprehend the pleasure I am feeling right now?” Alveron asked, his voice smooth and conversational. “It is a joy that transcends the flesh, a pleasure beyond the soul. It is the supreme ecstasy of the architect seeing his grand design made manifest.”

He smiled, a benevolent, professorial look on his face. “In my long life, I have come to understand that pleasure exists on four levels. The first is the simple satiation of the body—food, rest, warmth. Base, but necessary. The second is the deeper hunger of the flesh—lust, passion, the fleeting bliss of physical union. The third is the sublimation of the soul—the transcendent joy found in art, in faith, in a moment of pure intellectual discovery.”

“But the fourth,” he said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, “the fourth is a pleasure reserved for the gods. The ineffable satisfaction of a plan that spans millennia, a scheme of infinite complexity, finally, perfectly, coming to fruition. That, my old friend, is what I feel now.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Zareth snarled, the words dripping with the helpless sarcasm of the damned. For every measure of Alveron’s ecstasy, Zareth felt an equal measure of agonizing regret.

If I had known… if I had only known… I would have…

The thought died. What would he have done? He could see it now with perfect, horrifying clarity. There had never been an escape. He had been born in the center of the web. Every path he had ever taken had been one laid out by Alveron. The only way out would have been to see the truth and have the courage to choose oblivion. But it was too late. Trapped within the Springhead’s influence, in this shattered space without coordinates, a place not even a god could reach, he couldn’t even choose to sacrifice himself.

“Give up, Zareth,” Alveron urged. “Embrace your purpose. Become the substitute, and when I have reclaimed my power and ascended to become the Abyssal Ruler once more, I promise I will spare your descendants.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “You must understand, to the being I will become, the people you protect are nothing. Less than insects. Sparing them will be a simple, trivial act of mercy.”

It was the truth. Once Alveron reached the sixth stage, in an age where the true gods were silent, he would be untouchable. The absolute apex of power.

“Your promises are worth less than the dust on my boots,” Zareth spat. “Who would be fool enough to trust the word of a monster like you?”

He wasn’t a fool. He could see the board clearly. He was being dragged toward the altar at the heart of the Springhead, but he could still fight. By sacrificing the countless souls and the reserves of faith within his own Divine Kingdom, he could buy himself time.

It was a slow, self-inflicted death, but it was time. And for a being who had survived for ages, time meant hope. The hope was a sliver, a one-in-a-trillion shot at some unknown salvation, but he would cling to that theoretical, lifesaving straw until his last breath.

He knew Alveron’s offer for what it was: another tool, another lever to try and crush that final spark of hope. The threat against his descendants was not only vile, it was pointless.

A flash of black humor cut through him. Descendants? After millennia, my blood is a drop in an ocean of forgotten names. They mean nothing to me.