Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1400 Sacrificial ritual

Eldoria. The Realm of Grimm.

Poets frequently claim that growth resembles starlight—one has to withstand the choking chill of emptiness to genuinely gleam at the break of a fresh tomorrow.

Aina considered that utter nonsense, full of empty sentiment.

For her, true growth had nothing to do with mere endurance; it revolved around cultivation. In particular, nurturing the Blood Curse Tree that loomed right in front of her. She refused to linger for the stars; instead, she drenched the earth with new blood daily, urging the gnarled roots to absorb it greedily.

And on this day, beneath the faint glow of dawn, the tree had finally flowered for the very first time.

Aina grinned. Such a promising sign.

"Your Holiness," a gentle voice interrupted her thoughts. "The preparations are complete. The procession awaits you and the Idol."

Aina drew in a long breath, relishing the iron-tinged, sugary scent of the blood-red bloom once more before stepping back. Two maidservants lingered behind her, their heads lowered, alerting her to the timetable.

"It seems the four Divine Envoys of Hellscream are growing restless."

Aina spun around, her expression holding a smile that blended holy grace with sheer dread.

The so-called "Celebration" served merely as a courteous label for slaughter. It amounted to an enormous, factory-like offering of lives.

Due to the enchanted tempest that enveloped the domain, tales of Grimm had swept through the continent like a raging illness. It had become a taboo territory, drawing in the hopeless and the bold alike. Bands of mercenaries, thrill-hunting explorers, and even frontline units from the pompous Holy Orders had all converged upon it.

Yet the gale showed no mercy. Every one of them met the same grim end.

The parade guided her toward the Sacrificial Plaza. This latest structure in Grimm's shadowy designs stood beside the Windmill Keep, the Slaughterhouse, and Crow's Cabin as a cornerstone of their haven.

Clad in a billowing white robe, her demeanor calm and composed, Aina embodied the perfect Saintess. She made her way down the carved stairs, capturing the attention of countless Hellscream devotees.

At the plaza's bottom—a vast, bowl-like hollow—rested the "guests."

"Look at all these sweet little lambs," Aina murmured fondly.

She knelt low, her fingertips gliding along the chin of a woman warrior sprawled close to the rim. The fighter boasted cropped hair, sun-kissed skin, and refined traits. She appeared utterly at rest.

"Resting so deeply," Aina murmured. "The mighty Stoneheart God will cherish you."

Then, she burst into laughter.

It wasn't the refined giggle of high society. Rather, it was a sharp, wild howl fitting a sorceress from the darkest abysses. It rang out fierce, poisonous, and completely deranged.

"Before we start," Aina declared, her words carrying far and clear, "let us honor the Slumber Plague. It stands as the barrier protecting Grimm!"

She performed an elaborate curtsy toward nothing.

Along the plaza's edge, Grimm's inhabitants echoed her action—some inclining their heads, others removing their caps. This was their way of expressing gratitude to Tangere, the master alchemist.

The Slumber Plague marked his crowning achievement. Any intruder crossing the Eye of the Storm caught it right away. Following a three-day wait, victims plunged into unconsciousness. Force them awake? Their forms would melt into sludge.

It formed the ideal snare. Aina absolutely loved it.

"Brothers and sisters," Aina called out, striding to the main platform. "We stand in a holy instant. We've assembled to present our gift to the Stoneheart God."

She set the statue of Orion upon the black altar and pressed her palms together.

"The Stoneheart fuels our might. It steadies our souls."

"His command knows no bounds. Where offerings flow, blessings follow."

"May we embrace his command with awe and extend his rule across every inch of this realm. To all craving strength: beseech him. Give your offering, and your wishes will come true."

Aina's eyes scanned the plaza's outer circle. Numerous faces there belonged to fresh initiates—wretched individuals who had aligned with Hellscream yet held back full loyalty. This ceremony would forge the unbreakable link tying them to the cause eternally.

Her sight dropped to the heaps of thousands of forms piled like firewood in the funnel's heart.

"Kharos. Raveth. Ashkar. Eryx." Aina's tone grew firm and authoritative. "Come forth."

Four shapes rose from the throng, their cheeks burning with zealous eagerness. They advanced down the stairs to stand beside her.

"Through the Stoneheart's decree," Aina stated boldly, "Hellscream demands four supports. The four Divine Envoys."

"Kharos! The Phantom of the East!"

"Raveth! The Shadow of the West!"

"Ashkar! The Scourge of the South!"

"Eryx! The Iron of the North!"

With every title spoken, the matching fighter moved to their assigned direction encircling the altar.

"Join me in prayer," Aina ordered. "Give your total devotion. Let the exalted Stoneheart behold us and bestow his favor!"

As the vast crowd of followers lowered their heads together, Aina activated the offering rite.

HUMMMMMM.

A profound hum thrummed across the rock. Scarlet glow burst from the symbols etched into the ground, forming a huge, spinning pattern focused on the altar.

The impact on the unconscious ones struck at once.

It felt like some unseen force had seized them. Flows of life force—shimmering and ghostly—started streaming from their eyes, noses, and mouths. Their frames shriveled swiftly, flesh clinging to skeletons, sinews vanishing, until they collapsed into powder.

Even their spirits got yanked howling from their shells, drawn into some hidden realm.

"No... wait! You heretics! This is living sacrifice!"

"Please! No! I surrender!"

"Run! We have to get out of here!"

Cries of torment exploded from the mound.

Not all had succumbed completely to the plague's hold. A few, shielded by relics or raw determination, had pretended to slumber, biding time for flight. Now, the ceremony shredded their safeguards.

Their tortured shrieks bounced around the plaza's barriers.

No soul in Hellscream stirred. No one gave a damn.

The followers fixated solely on the reward. They stared at the altar with ravenous stares, eager to learn if the colossal being beyond would claim the bargain.

Ten thousand souls.

Fifteen minutes passed before the howls ceased and the final form became cinders.

A hush enveloped Grimm.

Next, the arcane array faded away. Every gaze locked onto Orion's statue.

PULSE.

A surge of thick, red radiance burst from the figure. It brought no scorch; instead, it swept across the Hellscream faithful like a soothing wave, seeping through their flesh, filling them with pure, thrilling might.