Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Giant City—despite the name, it actually belonged to the gnomes.

Blood Elf Elanor arrived here with boarfolk Boarion and another Blood Elf in tow, all of them fleeing from the north.

"Ms. Elanor, this way!"

King Brimli of Giant City made a welcoming gesture, guiding Elanor and the other two into a massive palace.

"Ms. Elanor, what's the situation in Whitecloud City these days?"

The gnome king's question left Elanor impassive, though Boarion's expression darkened. After all, Boarion was missing an arm—clear evidence of what had happened back in Whitecloud City.

"Hmph!"

There was no way boarfolk Boarion could hide his suspicion that Gnome Brimli was just rubbing it in.

"It's not looking good," Elanor said. "For some reason, the invading races from the north have banded together like glue, and there are way too many of them."

She fixed her gaze on Brimli. "Boar City has fallen. Giant City is next. I suggest you take your best troops and your people out of here. We'll make a stand together in the Blood Elves' City of Blessings."

Gnome Brimli knitted his brows. "Ms. Elanor, why not defend Giant City instead? I have countless subjects, a legion of ballistae, and a lot of arrow towers…"

Elanor shook her head calmly. "There are six Legendary-level beings in that coalition, plus dozens more at Alpha-level. Giant City's walls won't hold. Brimli, take your elites and your nobles—follow me out."

Still, Brimli refused to give up so easily. He tried to press the point. "What about everyone else? Can we evacuate all of my people?"

Another shake of Elanor's head, plus a sigh. "There's not enough time."

"Ms. Elanor, are the invaders really that strong? With me, boarfolk Boarion, Faelar, and you, we'd have four top fighters. Can't we hold them off?"

Truth be told, Brimli's question made Elanor waver for a moment. But reason quickly clamped down on any such idea. Memories of how she'd been double-teamed by Lokiviria and Bluehide—and how Orion nearly killed Boarion—left her edgy and frustrated.

"When did those northern races get so freakin' strong?" she muttered under her breath. "Even if I can hold off two at once, it's still not enough. Boarion almost died just the other day. And there are too many of them. Gnomes alone can't block that kind of force."

Elanor paused, then glanced at the other Blood Elf. "Faelar, pass the news back to our people. Tell our king to be ready for a defensive counterattack."

"Yes, Ms. Elanor!"
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Gnome Brimli watched them, a flash of regret and dejection in his eyes. Such is the curse of being a subordinate race; at crucial moments, you don't get to call the shots.

"Ma'am, I need to go make some preparations," Brimli said. "Otherwise there's gonna be chaos."

Elanor gave a brief nod, her face as blank as ever. Given the current situation, much like the boarfolk, a large chunk of the gnomes would be left behind. They'd serve as a rear-guard distraction to buy time for everyone else to evacuate.

As for Elanor herself, she had zero pity for other races. She knew perfectly well how this world worked: the strong devour the weak. That's just how it is.

"Boarion," she said, turning, "how's your injury?"

She needed to know if Boarion could still fight effectively. If not, they'd lose a major power.

"Ms. Elanor, I'm good!" Boarion boasted. "Once I get back to the City of Blessings, I'll chop off one of my brother's arms and have it grafted onto me. Give me half a month, and I'll be back in peak shape."

That was the beauty of being boarfolk—they multiplied like crazy and boasted impressive regenerative powers.

"Glad to hear it."

Elanor moved to the window and gazed northward, toward Boar City. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Those six lords are deadly at both close and long range, and their attacks pack a punch—plus, they've got a Glacial Dragon. A dragon… could it be connected to that White Dragon I heard about?"

…

Boar City was drowning in a twisted kind of celebration. The moment Orion stepped inside, he heard a bone-chilling chorus of chewing noises. Insectoids, ogres, cave spiders, snow wolves, serpentfolk, and scorpions were all feasting on boarfolk flesh.

By comparison, the centaurs were a bit more reserved—though not by much. The centaurs only ate the boarfolk's internal organs. After finishing one, they moved on to the next, clearly enjoying themselves all the more if it was still alive.

"Everyone, this is just the beginning," Lord Jorik called out with a hint of excitement in his voice. A great victory in the opening battle had left him itching to reclaim all the dragon territory he'd lost.

"This definitely isn't the real south," another chimed in. "Once we break through the boarfolk lands, we'll hit the gnome territory, then the giants. Finally, we reach the Blood Elves' domain—that's where things really get juicy, and where we can all carve out our share."

"Yeah," said Bluehide. "And even juicier than that is the human Utessar Kingdom. Now that's prime pickings."

While speaking, Bluehide's smaller head used both hands to blow at the drifting clouds of smoke, as if blowing bubbles.

All of a sudden, Earthshaker hurried over to Orion. "Lord, the prophet over there just ran into some trouble."

"Who's the conflict with?" Orion frowned, about to say something, when an alpha-level insectoid also jogged up, looking agitated.

Earthshaker glanced at the insectoid. Orion raised a hand to calm Earthshaker, signaling him to wait.

Just then, Lokiviria himself strolled up, cutting Orion off mid-question. "Orion, my people say that's their food. Food is fair game. If your folks can't get it, then you'd better move on."

Lokiviria let out a sinister laugh, his tone dripping with menace. He was just doing business the way his kind always did.

Orion's gaze flashed cold, but he said nothing. After a moment, he merely nodded, agreeing with Lokiviria's perspective.

"You heard him—whoever's got the bigger fists wins the food."

Turning his head with a faint smile, Orion looked at Earthshaker.

Earthshaker hung his head, muttered a dispirited "Got it," and shuffled away.

As soon as Earthshaker and that Alpha-level insectoid were gone, Jorik, Gareth, Ironhoof, and Bluehide all burst out laughing, joking as they walked that food didn't really need to be fought over since it was there for everyone.

Of course, these jokers hadn't spoken up a moment earlier—now they were all buddy-buddy, and Orion could tell they didn't have the purest intentions.

Meanwhile, across the city, Onyx, Rockwell, and Slagor were in a tense standoff with a few hundred boarfolk knights and some insectoids.

Having received Earthshaker's update, all three showed a glint of savagery in their eyes. The insectoid troops across from them looked just as bloodthirsty.

"Charge!"

Nobody could say who shouted it first, but both sides clashed in a wild brawl. After a bloody scuffle, the Stoneheart Horde—who had activated Blood Sharing—emerged victorious, and Onyx took those few hundred boarfolk knights under his own cannon-fodder command.

Scenes just like this were playing out all over Boar City. In the northern coalition, every race had its own customs and approach, so scuffles were inevitable.

However, with Orion and the other five Legendary-level powerhouses camped here, nothing got too far out of hand. Any dispute that reached those six ended the same way: whomever was stronger got first dibs on the loot.

In the early stages, Orion more or less shrugged off those incidents. He chalked it up to differing ways of doing things. But as the bickering and infighting ramped up, he suddenly realized this was how internal strife began—this was a recipe for disaster.

Still, even understanding the problem, he couldn't stop it. Each of the six lords was technically on equal footing yet might as well have been miles apart in temperament. Unless they could find some fair, balanced way of splitting spoils—and there wasn't one—violence over loot was bound to spiral.

They hadn't even fought that many battles yet, and already folks were at each other's throats over spoils. That was not a good sign.

Right then, Orion felt any grand hopes of conquering the south slipping away.

"If that's how things are gonna be," he thought, "the best I can do is steer clear of trouble and grab as many resources as I can."

…

Utessar Kingdom.

Within the Falkor Ashvale Earldom.

"Father, we need to leave here and take everything to the royal capital!"

Torin Ashvale was seething inside. He found his father's stubbornness downright maddening. Earl Falkor Ashvale would rather die where he stood than abandon the land his family had built up over many generations.

"Go, Torin," Falkor said, slumping back in his chair, exhaustion lining his face. "Take the family's gold and leave."

The central region's war had already spread at a terrifying speed, and in just a few days, the fighting would reach this territory, turning it into a slaughterhouse.

Torin Ashvale did want to leave, but not empty-handed. Sure, his father was letting him take all the gold—but without troops or territory, Torin would hold no sway back in the royal capital. So if he left, it had to be with both money and an army.

He walked behind Falkor's chair and gently massaged his father's shoulders, his voice soft and convincing.

"Daddy, please. If we stay any longer, the invaders will arrive. Every soul here will be butchered. Blood will run in the streets. If we go now, we can start over!"

But Falkor merely stayed quiet, letting his son knead the tension from his muscles. Only after a long silence did he murmur the kingdom's classic vow of fealty:

"When foes appear, face them without fear… remain brave and true…"

That was Falkor's reply—his way of refusing his son once again.

Splurt!

"Fueled by integrity… unbowed even in death…"

Falkor never got to finish. A blade was suddenly pressed to his neck.

"You… how dare you…"

Splurt!

Torin didn't speak a word. Another stab finished his father off. Falkor Ashvale was gone for good.

"Father, I tried to warn you many times, but you refused me over and over." Torin's voice was calm.

"If I'd been the earl, our family would've risen to dominate this kingdom long ago. Rest in peace, Father."

That very night, news quickly spread that Earl Falkor Ashvale had been assassinated by enemy scouts. Baron Torin Ashvale took over the earldom's reins and seized total control.

In the study, Earl Falkor's body had already been laid to rest in a coffin. Torin gazed out into the darkness of the north, his mind awash with conflicting thoughts.

"I can't believe I actually killed my own father."

Torin Ashvale was a "survivor" who retained memories of a previous life on Earth—where he had a father of his own. And while he respected Falkor Ashvale, he never felt a deep bond with him.

So despite feeling some pangs of remorse, he was also grimly excited by what he'd done. It was a strange, tangled mix. He treated this world like a giant game—no laws, no morals, no rules. So why hold back?

"Now that I've got the earldom's army, I'll rebuild the Ashvale family bigger and stronger than ever! First, though, I need to bail on this place—staying means certain death."

At dawn the next day, Baron Torin Ashvale left the territory his family had nurtured for generations, taking with him all the household's assets and the earldom's troops.

A lot had gone down the previous night. Falkor Ashvale's personal guards and high-ranking officers were accused of colluding with the enemy and were executed on the spot. Ruthless and cunning, Torin's purge kept the rest of the knights and militiamen too scared to step out of line.

"Royal capital, here I come!" he declared under his breath. "I can't wait to see how you'll treat us 'cowardly nobles' once faced with a horde of invaders."