Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1439 Crimson Fever

The woman from the Buffalofolk halted abruptly in her stride. Her body locked rigid, quaking fiercely for a moment, until she willed herself to steady. She pressed on toward the sturdy iron chest, retrieving the object that Earthshaker had ordered.

Earthshaker, an Alpha at the height of his might, caught every flicker of terror and longing in her bearing. He uttered not a word.

She served as his First Wife, tied to him well before the Buffalofolk submitted to the Stoneheart Horde. Yet her lineage ran weak, her talents capped. No matter the vast reserves he'd funneled into her cultivation, she lingered trapped, failing to even touch the Hero stage.

Her worth shone in other ways. As one of his own race, she proved fertile and sturdy. She had borne him numerous mighty sons.

Earthshaker harbored no foolish loyalty to one alone. His estate brimmed with females from diverse races—some seized in battles, others offered by flatterers. He claimed them in his chambers without pause. Within the Stoneheart Horde, blending lineages to forge tougher, varied heirs wasn't forbidden; it formed a key tactic. Even Orion, their King, sired offspring of blended blood who emerged as true powerhouses.

Earthshaker merely emulated his King's path.

Still, he cherished a subtle, private fondness for his First Wife. Regardless of the alluring captives crowding his harem, none dared slight her or challenge her role as Matriarch.

The Outer City. The Silent Goblet.

Up on the tavern's second level, Gronthar and Brakthul held their ale mugs paused midway to their lips. As the Grand Elder's presence washed across the city, the fine brew turned bitter as swill.

"Brother," Gronthar declared, slamming his mug down with a solid bang. "Head to the vault. Grab the rare spirits. I'm off to the pens for that fresh dragon-beast cub. We must rush to the Grand Elder's manor right away."

The pair of brothers lingered at the top of the Alpha rank. Much like Prophet Onyx, they had pounded against that barrier for ages. Rendall's rise to the Legendary stage showed the wall could shatter.

Against the shot at Legend status, sacrificing a scarce dragon-beast cub meant little. The parents still lived; more could be bred.

"Got it. Wait for me!" Brakthul leaped to his feet, toppling his seat in his rush.

Gronthar observed his departure, shaking his head in amused resignation. His sibling typically stayed composed, but the lure of advancement turned wise men into idiots.

Throughout the city, in the inner and outer zones alike, matching frenzy unfolded.

As others scrambled to bundle presents and slip into finest attire, Slagor had beaten them there. He leaped from his ride, clutching a sloppily tied bundle, and marched past the Grand Elder's gates.

"Skip the announcement," Slagor dismissed a hurrying maid with a flick of his hand. "I know the old guy's spot."

He ignored the greeting chamber completely, striding boldly to the rear yard where a vast, faded tent stood on the trimmed grass. Slagor understood Rendall well—the Grand Elder despised rigid rituals.

Within the shelter, Rendall occupied the exact position Slagor predicted—lounging on a mat, ripping into a huge roasted meat leg while chugging wine from a wide bowl.

The Outer City. The Bear Compound.

This estate stood apart for its raw chaos. It buzzed with clamor and activity, bear young of every size tumbling in play, scaling trunks, and bellowing across the yard. It belonged to the Thunderstorm Bearmen siblings, Brontes and Steropes. The "estate" consisted of two grand halls crudely joined into one vast, shared lair.

"Brother, that force rolled from the inner city. Rendall's domain," Steropes growled, eyeing his cubs crash into one another. "Could the Old Man have returned?"

Unlike the founding elders close to Onyx, the Bear duo held a looser tie to the heart of command. No swift word had reached them.

"Tough to tell, but let's probe a bit," Brontes replied, gazing inner-ward. He rubbed his jaw, then bellowed a call.

"Vulkan! Over here!"

A sturdy young bearman, nearly matching his sire's height, trudged up. This was Vulkan—once dubbed 'Little Bear,' now a full-fledged fighter.

"Raid your mother's storage. Snag half this season's Honey Mead and cart it to Rendall's place," Brontes ordered. "Convey our respects to the Grand Elder."

Vulkan slung a enormous barrel of brew over his shoulder like a feather.

"And stay sharp," Brontes warned, tone lowering. "Note who's attending. Tally the visitors. Report it all on return."

The World of Eldoria. Port Caelwyn.

A full month had elapsed since the chaos in the Divine Kingdom.

Port Caelwyn gleamed as a coastal gem, perched beside the Westreach Sea. It thrived on trade and excess, renowned for its fish bazaars where strange leviathan flesh fetched fat coin sacks from distant lords.

"I adore this briny gust. It carries the flavor of sorrow."

Atop a bluff gazing over the vast port, Aina lingered in her pale cloak. Raveth, among Hellscream's four Divine Envoys, loomed at her back. "A lone line divides the heavens from the waves," Aina pondered aloud, tone wistful. "Breakers pounding the rocks... seabirds chasing prey. Such beauty. Like a soothing tune."

She spun to face Raveth, gaze sparkling.

To outsiders, it rang as verse. To Raveth, it echoed funeral words.

"Life and death part by a single stroke too," Raveth answered, voice rough as stone. "Hellscream's fall on Port Caelwyn... indeed. It shall be stunning."

The fading orb pierced the clouds, lighting Aina's hooded features from below. Her mouth curved into a glowing, pure grin. "As the light fades and shadows rise, we'll slip into the streets side by side," she murmured. "I bear a present for all."

From her cuff, she drew a glass tube swirling with dark red and black mist. Raising it to the waning glow, she gazed at it fondly, like a cherished one.

"Raveth, care to name this?"

"The Crimson Fever."

"A close ally distilled it," Aina tittered. "It fills folk with such joy they lose their minds. Then, post-delirium, they rest. Eternally."

She dropped the tube, face twisting into feigned sorrow.

"Post-dusk, Port Caelwyn greets dawn no more. A touch tragic, right?"

Raveth stayed mute. He'd grasped years back that Hellscream's Saintess dwelled in madness. Her sympathy heralded carnage. Quiet and submission alone ensured survival near her.

As breeze stirred foliage and the sun sank from sight, Aina trod the grit path to the portals. Her steps danced lightly, full of skip.

At the barriers, she forked over a steep toll without gripe.

Scarce ten minutes past the walls, peril struck her. Aina's allure shone, and she wandered solo. Alleyway ruffians boxed her in, blades glinting.

They rifled her, yanking free her money bag and the Crimson Fever phial.

As a brute clawed at her wrap, aiming to haul her to hidden depths for foul aims, Raveth emerged from nothing. His blade gleamed once. Chill gripped the air.

The rogues, feeling a hunter leagues above them, fled in panic, gripping their spoils—the vial included.

Raveth lunged to chase, but Aina gripped his limb.

"Watch," she breathed, tracking the crooks vanish into the throng with the scourge clutched tight.

"I compelled none. I uncorked nothing. They seized it freely. They sealed their doom."