Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1457 Bleeding Horizons

Regarding the Volunteer Corps, consider them the Horde's irregular forces—mercenaries, wanderers, and toughened nomads who regarded the Stoneheart Horde as their base.

Excess baggage or insufficient discipline prevented them from entering the formal legions, but they yearned to shed blood for the Horde anyway. This formed a bottom-up militia—unrefined at the corners, yet brutally potent.

Structuring them achieved dual gains: it lightened the load on the primary troops and offered these uneasy wanderers a chance to secure a fat sack of gold.

The North. The Northern Bastion of Menethis.

The dying sun bled crimson over the skyline, a vivid, fading radiance. For Prince Theodore, perched tall on the ramparts, it carried the chill of a foreboding sign.

His outline against the scarlet heavens appeared skeletal. The Northern Bastion of Menethis had forfeited its past grandeur. Weeks of unyielding assault had peeled off the splendor, abandoning a stronghold that stank of ruin and rot.

The rock under his feet bore pits and scars—marks from jaws and corrosive spit. Weary fighters slumped where they dropped, dozing among broken barriers and dulled swords. The entire barrier echoed with war's savagery.

They had barely turned back yet another assault from the Swarm. Temporarily, the Bastion endured. It served as the 'City of Hope' for the forsaken, humanity's final redoubt since the Capital disappeared.

Theodore shouldered that hope's burden, and it pressed down on him relentlessly.

He grasped the reality: he and his city teetered on collapse. A handful more assaults, and the barriers would become mere platters for the bugs. The ordinary people sheltered within would turn into mere fodder.

Theodore wasn't feeble, nor were the walls frail. The issue lay in supplies. The surge of escapees had emptied the stockpiles King Harold bequeathed. With the Swarm overwhelming the wilds, farming proved impossible.

'Your Highness, the field of battle stands clear,' a voice announced. 'The consumable bug flesh has been shifted to the warehouse.'

Bug flesh. That sustained them. Yet it proved a tainted gift.

To obtain the flesh, they needed to slay the creatures. To slay the creatures, warriors perished. Even worse, the flesh held slight venom. Seasoned troops and knights could process it—and the faint poisons appeared to harden their forms, rendering them mightier. For the everyday masses? A risky bet. Mildly, severe sickness; severely, demise.

This bred a dark divide: the non-combatants wasted away on shrinking grain supplies, while the military devoured the foes and advanced.

'General... the sun dips low,' Theodore whispered.

The remark held ambiguity, yet General Oswin Calder caught the underlying meaning.

Oswin exceeded a century in age, a survivor from a lost time. Among scarce aristocrats with backbone, he had himself armored up to guide the discarded masses to the Bastion as the Capital escaped. Theodore held him in higher regard than his father, appointing him Vice-Castellan.

'Yes, Your Highness. It's descending,' Oswin answered, his tone rough like stones.

Not merely the sun. It signified them. The settlement. The multitudes of souls at their rear. The final remnant of human rule across the land.

'General, are the arrangements finished?'

'They are. At the plaza's heart. Draped in dark fabric, watched by stern guards. None have glimpsed it.'

Oswin paused, then voiced the doubt gnawing at him. 'Your Highness... is this the right path? Why not dispatch a messenger to the Stoneheart Horde beforehand?'

Theodore denied with a shake of his head. As the final ray of sunlight faded, he pivoted from the barrier.

'Unnecessary. A Demigod's might defies our reasoning. He will sense it.'

The vision of the Giant King, Orion, filled his mind. It seemed otherworldly. How long ago was it? He recalled journeying to the Stoneheart Horde to fetch his sibling, Princess Ava. Then, Orion ranked as a lord. Now, he ascended to demigod.

'This evening marks the moment,' Theodore declared, his tone firming. 'The Swarm pulls back. The fighters and folk crave a wonder. Haul every bug carcass to the plaza. For our tribute, sincerity demands display.'

Darkness enveloped the Northern Bastion.

Rumors circulated through the displaced settlements and quarters: assemble at the main square. Emergency provisions awaited distribution. Save for the bedridden, the whole populace flooded the area.

Yet no cereals appeared. No food lines formed.

In their place, folks discovered heaps of slain bugs stacked tall, bordering a colossal, three-hundred-foot effigy veiled in thick black sheeting. Flames blazed ahead of it, lighting a rough-hewn shrine.

Perplexity swept the throng. Then, Prince Theodore mounted the shrine.

He unleashed a Lord's presence, a dense force that hushed the myriad buzzing tongues at once.

'People. Rumors have reached your ears,' Theodore's words thundered over the expanse. 'I stand to verify them. They hold truth.'

'The Capital has vanished. The elites escaped to distant shores.'

He offered no softening. He exposed the treachery plainly.

'You view this as refuge. A City of Hope. Wrong.'

A subdued buzz emanated from the masses—the noise of countless souls murmuring, inhaling sharply, and grasping their fate together.

Next arrived the sobs. The oaths.

'That wretched Emperor!'

'Spineless swine!'

'They abandoned us to perish!'

Theodore allowed their outbursts. He required their release. He needed their grasp of utter despair in their plight.

Only by acknowledging death could he extend a fresh existence.

Quarter hour elapsed. The tumult from the crowd ebbed into a choking, dense quiet. None demanded calm. They exhausted their fury, baring mere dread.

Myriad stares locked on Theodore, anticipating the conclusion.

Prince Theodore sensed the load upon his frame—a tangible force, weightier than full mail. It stemmed from the unified stare of a perishing metropolis.