Titan King: Ascension of the Giant - Chapter 1280

Chapter 1280: You are me, and I am you
Godforsaken Land. The Sea of Sand.

In the endless expanse of the desert, an oasis is a miracle.

Amidst the whipping wind and stinging grit, the patch of vibrant green stood defiant—an emerald set in an endless sea of gold.

Suddenly, in the southeastern quadrant of the Sea of Sand, the shimmering heat waves were broken by the arrival of a strange procession. It was a squad of shamans, their robes adorned with foreign sigils, materializing out of thin air.

“This is the world our ancestor claimed,” one of them rasped, checking a glowing compass. “The coordinates match perfectly.”

“The records were right,” another muttered, squinting against the glare. “It really is a sea of sand.”

“Cut the chatter. Set up the perimeter ward. Mask our signatures. Now.”

These weren’t random wanderers. They were operatives sent by Grand Magus Faraday.

After the Eltar Mage Alliance had failed miserably in the Sea of Sand, they had turned on Faraday’s family, demanding exorbitant reparations for the botched operation. Unable to strong-arm the Alliance, the family had turned their predatory gaze toward the faction occupying this desert.

Three years of silence had lulled the Stoneheart Horde into a false sense of security—or so they thought. It had certainly given Faraday’s people enough time to prepare.

Now, their vanguard had arrived.

But just as the shamans finished erecting their cloaking barrier, the sand beneath them began to vibrate.

The Dune-Wyrm Roc, the physical manifestation of the Desert’s Authority, coalesced from the swirling grit. It didn’t screech; it roared—a sound of grinding tectonic plates. A terrifying sand-twister erupted instantly, shredding the magical barrier like wet tissue paper.

The shamans didn’t even have time to scream. The vortex consumed them, dragging them down into the crushing depths of the Sea of Sand. They wouldn’t just die; they would sink to the bottom, preserved and reanimated as undead guardians of the very world they tried to steal.

For Soraya, who held the reins of the Desert’s Authority, swatting these flies was effortless.

But the implications were heavy.

Orion is asleep, chasing the rank of Demigod, she thought, her gaze steeling. The Sea of Sand is mine to protect.

It wasn’t just duty; it was territorial instinct. This was her domain. It was the foundation of her power, her only path to becoming an Arch Lord or even a Demigod. She wouldn’t let it fall.

“I can handle this trash myself,” she mused, “but the Horde needs to know.”

Soraya wasn’t arrogant enough to hide intelligence. If a threat appeared that she couldn’t crush, she knew Orion would have contingencies in place. Even if she couldn’t personally call upon the heavy hitters of the Champions Alliance, the Stoneheart Horde had its ways. Elara and Caelus could travel to the Valkorath Realm and contact Lilith. If she asked, Arthas, Leonidas, Alexander, or the Deputy Commander would step in out of respect for Orion.

“My small scorpions have been resting long enough,” Soraya whispered, a cruel smile touching her lips. “Time for a drill.”

As a Broodmother, she didn’t fear war. She welcomed it. The only thing she feared was a Demigod dropping from the sky. Anything less? With the Desert’s Authority backing her, she was untouchable.

Standing in her palace, looking out over the golden dunes, the hot wind hit her face. It felt like the breath of a beast waking up.

***

Time didn’t walk; it ran.

Ten years had passed since Orion sealed himself away.

Valkorath Realm. Garland.

Inside the secret chamber, the air hummed with power. The Gray Crystals and the Thunder-Core relics were gone, turned to dust. In the center of the room, the Bloodline Seed hovered, beating rhythmically like a disembodied heart.

“Now… it’s your turn.”

Orion’s voice echoed from within the seed.

He had consumed everything. Not just the artifacts, but his own [Body of Faith]. Unlike the external crystals, the [Body of Faith] had melted into the seed effortlessly, a reunion of power rather than a conquest.

Zzzzt!

Arcs of blue electricity snapped across the surface of the seed. It was the power of lightning—Orion’s signature weapon, and the one force the mysterious Flower Goddess would recognize.

He was casting a lure.

The lightning danced over the microscopic white seed buried deep within his core. At first, nothing. Then, as the specific laws of lightning brushed against it, the mark reacted.

It woke up.

The white speck flared, shifting instantly into a kaleidoscope of colors. It rooted itself into the energy, sprouting and blooming into a magnificent, seven-colored lotus.

It looked empty, a flower made of light. But Orion’s senses, sharpened by a decade of meditation, saw the truth.

The petals weren’t just light. They were etched with naturally occurring runes—faint, shifting, and incredibly complex.

“From a seed to a bloom, forming a natural teleportation array,” Orion marveled. “What a brilliant design.”

It was subtle, seamless, and divine. This was the craftsmanship of a God.

As the seven-colored lotus fully opened, the beacon was lit.

High atop the Summit of Skyblade, Commander Thresh paused mid-swing. He lowered his blade and turned his gaze toward Garland.

“Mentor,” a young voice asked, “is something wrong with my Daddy?”

Caelus was sharp. He had tracked the Commander’s gaze instantly.

At sixteen, Caelus was a striking figure. He possessed the blood of the Giant Tribe and the Garland Tribe, yet he carried the hulking frame of neither. Instead, he had the lithe grace of an elf, inheriting the exquisite, almost impossible beauty of his mother, Violet. He was, without contest, the most handsome man in the Stoneheart Horde.

“No, not wrong,” Thresh said, a hint of admiration in his gruff voice. “Your father is just… starting trouble. The path he’s carving out for himself surprises even me.”

Thresh looked at the boy. Caelus stood firm, his expression calm, devoid of panic.

“You trust him that much?”

“Yes,” Caelus said simply. “Daddy brought my Mother and me back from the dead. He broke through impossible barriers. This won’t stop him.”

“Fair point,” Thresh chuckled. “Your Daddy is a gambler, but he never bets unless he knows the cards.”

Thresh didn’t elaborate. He was a teacher, not a gossip.

“Go,” Thresh waved him off. “Training is over.”

Caelus bowed and descended the mountain. He knew he couldn’t enter the sealed chamber, but he wanted to be close to Garland, to stand guard in his own way.

But the moment he was out of earshot of the Commander, the stoic mask crumbled.

“Oh god, oh god,” Caelus muttered, pacing frantically as he walked. “Daddy’s not actually gonna blow himself up, right?”

“Should I tell Mom? She’s still in Stoneheart City. What about the aunties?”

“Maybe we should sneak into the basement? Just a peek?”

The cool, composed warrior was gone. In his place was a neurotic, chatterbox teenager.

Suddenly, a second voice—cold, deep, and dripping with disdain—echoed inside his head.

Will you shut the hell up? Do you think Daddy is a coward like you? He doesn’t panic when things get hard.

“Coward? Trash?” Caelus snapped back, arguing with the air. “Excuse me? You are me, and I am you. Are you calling yourself trash?”

He huffed, kicking a stone. “Besides, Mentor said it on day one: A mage never engages in melee with brainless brutes who only know how to charge forward.”

“It’s not running away,” Caelus said, raising a finger as if lecturing his inner demon. “It’s called tactical positioning. It’s called the art of kiting. Do you even game, bro?”

***

Note: Previously, I designed a Tower Defense setting, which was originally intended to function essentially as a game world. Consequently, I may have overused gaming terminology, leading to some inconsistencies. Theoretically, only the “Survivors” should be familiar with these terms, while the native inhabitants should not. I plan to gradually reduce this usage in future content to improve narrative consistency.