Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1433 Iron Hand

Ava abruptly grasped the core issue: the refugees hailing from Soaring Bird City still failed to view themselves as true members of the Stoneheart Horde.

To them, they amounted to nothing but slaves—drafted workers compelled into grueling toil. They figured they were erecting a city for some alien overlord, gaining zero benefits themselves.

This insight hit her hard, causing Ava's face to cloud over. The longer she dwelled on it, the hotter her rage bubbled inside.

"It's all about managing and keeping things in equilibrium," Sylvana, the fox-girl overseer, remarked without glancing up from her documents. Her words came softly, yet carried a keen edge. "You ought to rule with an iron fist."

Sylvana and Ava had long acted as Lilith's trusted aides, right and left. Their bond had strengthened amid endless nights of joint rule; this was Sylvana slipping in a subtle piece of advice.

"Thanks for the nudge," Ava replied, forcing a wry grin. "I'll ensure they get back on track with the timeline."

Lilith, positioned at the primary table, stayed silent on the matter.

At dawn the following day, Ava slipped into her formal knight armor and called together the leaders of the Rose Knight Regiment. Flanked by a unit of Giant sentinels, they left Stoneheart City, journeying southward to Rosethorn.

Within the opulent coach, Ava occupied the middle seat. Garrett and Lambert flanked her left side; Drustan and Klythia took the right.

The quartet of knights maintained stiff bearings. Having heard Ava's rundown of Rosethorn's troubles, their faces had grown solemn.

"Prior to reaching Rosethorn, I require an initial strategy," Ava announced. "And we must define our position clearly."

In reality, Ava had already decided her course. She just wanted their views to hone her determination further.

"My Lady, those stirring up the mess aren't the nobles, and they sure aren't the everyday folk," Lambert, the team's tactician, responded swiftly.

Ava held her tongue, eyeing him, eager for more.

"For the affluent nobles, shifting to Stoneheart City makes perfect sense. Even without instant full access, they've got resources for short stays. They can pay slaves to labor for them or bring in hired swords to meet their building duties at Rosethorn. Sure, they dodge the heavy lifting, but they've got foresight. They won't hold back on funds or sway right from the start."

The knights aboard the carriage dipped their heads in accord. They themselves had poured all their wealth into Rosethorn's prospects.

"The bottom-rung peasants won't rebel either," Lambert pressed on, "since they've got no options. They depend on the Horde for their meals."

"The troublemakers," Lambert's gaze sharpened in revulsion, "are the sellswords, the slavers, and the filthy vermin who tagged along in the exodus."

Sewer rats.

In Soaring Bird City, the backstreets crawled with bullies, pilferers, extortionists, and gang leaders. These leeches survived by draining the life from ordinary people. Gluttony and laziness marked them; they harvested rewards without effort, hauling decent souls into debt and bondage.

They ran shady betting halls and pleasure houses in the dark, deploying dirty schemes to lure in everyday folks—particularly those with lovely spouses or girls—into signing exploitative deals.

Folks like that stood no chance of entry into Stoneheart City. The heart of power enforced tough rules, and its criminal underbelly fell under the Horde's ruthless controllers. These pests couldn't thrive there, so they'd been shoved outward to raise Rosethorn.

Yet villains accustomed to soft lives would never bend to sweat and strain.

After a short spell of feigned obedience, their real colors emerged. They were banding into groups amid the laborers, sparking walkouts, and wrecking the work.

"My Lady, we have to crush these vermin with total might," Lambert urged, his tone sinking to a menacing low. "We need to demonstrate our commitment to the nobles and upright workers. Let them witness that we're the beacon for Rosethorn's destiny."

He met Ava's stare directly, his look laden with weight. "To carve our place in the Stoneheart Horde, a solid Rosethorn forms our base. Be it riches or offerings of Faith, we can't fall short of the rival settlements."

As nobility himself, Lambert read the game board well. He was certain Ava, with her regal roots, perceived even broader vistas.

"Why not just come out and say 'slaughter them to end the disorder' and call it a day?"

The retort burst from Klythia, the hulking shield-bearer.

Lambert rolled his eyes. He frequently puzzled over how Klythia had earned her knighthood. A true knight cloaked their brutality in talk of obligation and glory, neatly sidestepping their ethical oaths.

"Rosethorn belongs to Kronos's domain," Ava stated, her words slicing through the coach like an icy gust. "It's set to be your home. It's your tomorrow."

"No one, regardless of their status, will be permitted to hinder Rosethorn's building."

"Whoever blocks that road," Ava proclaimed, "gets executed without pity."

Humans proved odd beings. Facing an outsider foe, they might unite and perish for a noble fight. But when personal gains hung in the balance, they'd cut down deities and saints to seize their desires.

Up north, Blackstone City.

Having dispatched the initial wave of his clansmen to the Divine Kingdom, Orion settled cross-legged in the teleportation square. He shut his eyes, diving his mind into the Survivor's Platform.

"Got any plague that mimics a zombie sickness? One that drives the afflicted to relentlessly assault every living creature?"

Orion aimed his question at Tangere, the expert in plagues.

Since he'd recruited Tangere himself, Orion planned to bring him on the raid into Eldoria.

"Big Boss, tons of viruses fit that bill," Tangere shot back without delay. "But to be real? They're mostly worthless."

"Magic, energy, mental forces, otherworldly powers, inherited talents... way too many elements and hidden techniques can outright nullify such a bug."

Tangere buzzed with excitement that Orion had sought him out directly. It locked in his spot among the elites. He aimed to assist fully.

"Those bugs only snag regular folks. And even if they hit the masses, any solid fighter mows them down easy. A broad fire spell or group cleansing rite halts the spread cold."

Tangere figured he knew Orion's angle—crafting a bio-weapon to erase hostile troops.

"I don't count on your plague taking out the powerhouses," Orion explained, his inner voice icy. "I aim to eliminate the civilians."

"Huh?"

Tangere froze in shock.

Orion sought to eradicate the ordinary masses? That was... unforeseen.

Tangere now hovered at Legendary's pinnacle; he knew the ways of Archlords and Demigods. In standard terms, civilians were mere cattle. They formed the flock yielding the fleece of Faith.

Typically, invaders shielded the herd to cut down on waste. So why would the Boss want to butcher the stock?