Titan King: Ascension of the Giant - Chapter 1293

Chapter 1293: Now it’s yours

The Tower of Skulls

Reklos hadn’t stepped in earlier for a reason. He had been watching from the sidelines, waiting to see which way the wind blew.

Worse, Eudan’s invasion had clearly happened with Reklos’s tacit approval. He had opened the door and watched the wolves walk in.

“You’re a demigod,” Orion said, his voice cutting through the smoky air. He raised the scythe, pointing the blade directly at the phantom’s throat. “If someone kicked down your front door and slaughtered your people, would you offer them a handshake?”

Orion didn’t wait for an answer. “If you think you can walk away from this with a simple apology, you’re mistaken. If you leave now without paying the price, the Conquest Legion marches on Iron-Forged Ridge at dawn.”

His eyes burned with cold resolve. “We settle this with blood. One of us dies, or it doesn’t end.”

Reklos recoiled. He hadn’t expected the Over-tier warrior to be this unhinged. This wasn’t standard abyssal diplomacy; this was a death threat.

Orion didn’t give him time to process the insult. He channeled his energy, merging his consciousness with the relic weapon in his hands.

BOOM!

A torrent of violent force erupted, slamming into the demigod phantom.

“You’ve invited a plague upon yourself!” Reklos roared as his form began to disintegrate under the assault. “House Julius is swarming into the Sixth Layer. This isn’t over!”

It wasn’t just a parting curse; it was a statement of fact. And, knowing Reklos, a promise to stir the pot.

Reklos had just returned from the Gray Battlefield, his divine power tapped out. He had no interest in a drawn-out war of attrition with a lunatic like Orion right now. But he would happily point House Julius in Orion’s direction and watch the fireworks from a safe distance.

Orion watched the phantom fade. He knew the trouble coming his way. The Abyssal Ruler, the noble houses, the vengeful demigods—it was a gathering storm.

He didn’t care.

To plant a flag in the Abyss, you had to water the soil with blood. The Conquest Legion needed a reputation, and today, they earned one.

Orion had already run the calculations. Worst-case scenario? He calls in the cavalry. The brothers from the Champions Alliance. If the Abyssal Ruler personally stepped into the ring, Orion would beg Commander Thresh to intervene.

And if even Thresh couldn’t handle it? Then they would pack up, leave the Sixth Layer, and carve a path into a higher dimension.

“Kill him,” Orion said, his voice flat.

He turned his back on the battlefield.

He looked at the last surviving Chaos Demon Arch Lord, huddled in the air, radiating despair. Orion wouldn’t dirty his weapon on him.

“Let the new blood practice,” he muttered.

Below, the Conquest Legion surged. The air twisted as the Arch Lord let out a final, gurgling roar—a futile struggle against the inevitable.

The Donough Blood-Crow Nest became a slaughterhouse. Darkness and carnage were the currency of the Abyss, and today, Orion was rich. Every falling demon, every detonation of void energy, was just another line in the history of this cursed world.

Three days later.

The screams had faded. The chaotic destruction had settled into a grim silence.

Every invader was dead.

In their place stood a monument. A Tower of Skulls—a massive pyramid of bone rising over three thousand feet into the air at the border of the Donough Blood-Crow Nest.

It was engulfed in Demon Fire. In the Abyss, these flames were eternal. They would burn as long as the world existed, a lighthouse of warning illuminating the boundary between Orion’s territory and Iron-Forged Ridge.

But in the Abyss, nothing went to waste.

Eparus and his mages stood at the base of the bone tower, weaving a massive Coalescence Formation. The blood and spiritual residue of the fallen army were being repurposed.

One by one, new forms stepped out of the blood-red mist. Nearly two thousand newly born Scourge Wardens emerged, their eyes glowing with fresh hunger, ready to bolster Orion’s ranks.

“My Lord,” Eparus said, bowing low. His face was flushed with excitement. “The curse formation is active. Any entity that tries to dismantle the Bone Mountain will be ravaged by the power of Calamity.”

Not only had they suffered zero casualties, but their army had also grown. It was a perfect victory.

“Good,” Orion said, casting one last look at the burning pyre. “Let’s go home. We have work to do.”

The war wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

The Titanion Realm. Serpent Isle.

Syltharion. Once the glorious capital of the Serpentfolk and the Medusa Queen’s base of operations.

Now, the streets were silent. The Serpentfolk were gone.

In their place roamed the Gorgons.

The Serpentfolk who refused to be turned had been slaughtered or had taken their own lives. A lucky few had fled into the ocean before the blockade closed in, drifting away on the currents to uncertain fates.

“I have to admit,” Lycanor said, leaning against the balcony of the royal palace, “I didn’t think she had it in her.”

She and Lysinthia stood at the highest point of Syltharion, looking out over the conquered city and the vast expanse of the Jynx continent beyond.

“That Medusa Queen was stubborn. Dragging this war out for seven years… and all because of that damn snake.”

Lycanor gestured to the massive creature coiled around the base of the palace. The giant serpent, once vibrant, was now mutated into a sleek, obsidian black. Its head swayed gently in the void, its massive forked tongue tasting the air as it fawned over Lysinthia.

“That is a Shaka,” Lysinthia corrected gently, her voice cool and composed. “The Sleeper. The King of Serpents.”

“Yeah, yeah. King of Serpents,” Lycanor waved her hand dismissively. “And now it’s yours..”

Truth be told, Lycanor was jealous. The snake was an Upper Legendary beast—a guardian deity of an entire race. For Lysinthia to not only break it but convert it into a loyal thrall was a terrifying feat of necromancy.

“Sister,” Lysinthia said, ignoring the envy in Lycanor’s tone. She smiled, a rare expression of warmth. “Give me a little more time. Then we can go home.”

Serpent Isle was finally unified, but the real work was just starting.

Lysinthia had learned administration under Lilith herself, managing the logistics of the Stoneheart Horde. She knew that conquering a territory was easy; making it profitable was hard.

She needed to integrate the Gorgon population, seize the assets left behind by the Serpentfolk, and establish a resource pipeline. She had to build teleportation arrays to bring in administrators from the Tribe.

“Fine, fine,” Lycanor sighed, stretching her arms. “We’ve been here over a decade. What’s a few more days?”

She was in a good mood. The war was done. She was finally free. She planned to visit her homeland, maybe take a tour of the human kingdoms and the dragon lands. Living in a damp swamp full of snakes was hell for a blood elf.

“Thank you,” Lysinthia said softly.

The two sisters shared a smile. Over ten years of fighting side-by-side had forged a bond deeper than blood.

Utessar Continent. The North.

Deep within the insectoid territory, the Northern Coalition was mobilizing.

Lords from dozens of alien races were gathering, holding hushed councils and plotting borders. The air was thick with political intrigue. Everyone wanted a bigger slice of the pie.

In a secluded wing of the Lokiviria Royal Palace, far from the noise of the war council, the atmosphere was different.

This was the residence of the Clown avatar. It was the center of gravity for the Alliance of the Hundred Races.

Lokiviria stood before the heavy doors. He had come straight from the meeting.

He straightened his robes, took a breath, and knocked gently.

“Master,” Lokiviria called out respectfully. “May I enter?”