Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1474 Eight-Point Dismemberment

Though originating from this very realm, Aina had secured a place in the coalition's elite command circle. Her importance stemmed from her deep understanding—she served as the supreme navigator, gripping the vital threads of the world's spy network. Even more vital, she bore the manifestation of a Demigod, bestowed upon her directly by Orion.

"Are you truly Orion's daughter?"

Gazing at Elara, Aina experienced an overwhelming wave of inferiority. She pondered whether her existence had been squandered. Elara appeared more youthful, more powerful, and commanded the chaos of war in ways Aina could scarcely imagine.

"My name is Elara Stoneheart," Elara responded, offering a charming, soothing grin that clashed sharply with the surrounding slaughter.

Aina sensed a jarring contradiction. How could this fierce destroyer of foes display such an innocent, approachable expression?

BOOM!

A deafening blast thundered from above, unleashing another powerful surge that barreled toward the earth.

Now prepared, Elara didn't bother glancing skyward. She merely lifted her trident a bit, emitting a wave of magic suppression that nullified the oncoming surge before it ravaged the coalition's ranks.

"Is the 'Holy Order' truly holy?" Aina questioned, her tone shaky as she observed the widespread ruin. "They appear utterly indifferent to whether their followers survive or perish."

The Templars battled with wild disregard. Their aura controls and the debris from their assaults erased the devout ranks as thoroughly as the attackers did.

"No Holy Order is ever purely holy," Elara stated, her eyes icing over. "Only bandits and pretenders draped in white garments. Where saints exist, sinners follow. Who bears greater malice—the Holy Son and his Goddess, or the beasts from the Abyss? The boundary blurs easily. Some display their corruption outwardly; others fester deep within their cores, their spirits, and their beliefs."

Elara turned her eyes to Aina, a spark of respect shining through. In this harbinger of transformation, she detected potential—a figure who, amid the chaos, nurtured an emerging mystery, something fresh and unforeseen.

"Sister Isabella is incredible!" Aina burst out, peering beyond Elara toward the skies.

Up there, Isabella plunged down like a mythical warrior maiden.

In truth, Isabella's grand arrival met instant resistance. She lunged at a Templar, yet her Golden Dragon steed got batted aside effortlessly on the initial clash.

With swift reflexes, Isabella activated her heritage power, breaking down the dragon's solid shape and reshaping it into gleaming, vital armor that enveloped her form.

"If Hulk and Kraken managed to outperform their levels, then I will too!"

Isabella presented a stunning sight—a divine fighter sheathed in golden scales, expansive dragon wings of metal spreading from her back, clutching a fierce dragon lance.

"Supersonic Pierce!"

Hummm!

The weapon in Isabella's hold howled, its vibration echoing like a beast's bellow. Rider and lance fused into a golden streak, a draconic bolt crashing against a spear-bearing Templar.

For a Lord of Isabella's caliber, clashing with an Archlord allowed no deceptions. She channeled her entire essence and might into one decisive, all-in assault.

To those watching from below, the encounter resembled a clash of frost and flame—a deadlock of brutal, shattering power.

"Hah! That's the daughter of Orion! Taking on an Archlord as merely a Lord!"

In the midst of the frenzied sky battle elsewhere, Makareth witnessed Isabella's bold rush and felt a rush of excitement. Disregarding the trio of Templars hounding him, he broke through their blockade, advancing on yet another foe.

"Didn't anyone warn you that ranged fighters become easy prey up close?"

Makareth's enormous fist seized the head of the Templar who had been showering sacred bolts upon the undead hordes and dragon creatures.

The fiend surrendered to his savage urges, turning this desperate fight into a perverse sport.

"Tell me," Makareth smirked, "what's your preferred way to meet your end?"

The Templar thrashed wildly in his grasp, unleashing close-range bursts of divine radiance from his bow straight into Makareth's torso. Yet against the demon's Forbidden Earth Spell barrier, the strikes only disturbed the surface like pebbles in water.

"Not one for words? Then we'll go with the Eight-Point Dismemberment. Heh heh heh..."

Makareth's chuckles blended insanity with viciousness. He hoisted his infernal-flame blade.

The initial slice carved horizontally across the Templar's torso, right to left.

The next one ripped open the belly.

The third hacked apart the legs.

Fourth and fifth—rising slashes that removed both limbs.

Gaining force, the sixth and seventh shears bisected the collarbones.

At last, with a bellow of wild rage, Makareth unleashed the eighth blow: beheading.

The mirth faded, giving way to sheer infernal purpose.

The genuine fiend lifted a colossal foot and crushed downward. He hurled the detached rocky cranium earthward like a shooting star. It struck the heart of Dolame Square, demolishing the Goddess's effigy and bringing it crashing down.

For the worshippers beneath, it represented the gravest outrage.

Distant, within the Agaman Central Diocese.

In the assembly hall, the clerics and interrogators observed the desecration in stunned quiet.

"Curse him! He's profaning the sacred! That's an unforgivable offense!"

"He's a True Demon from the Abyss," the Inquisition Commander's words drifted across the space, grim and calculated. "Were you anticipating civility? Such a being knows no limits."

"The Templars can't hold out much more," Maelric, the Red Cardinal, murmured with a heavy breath.

The half-dozen Archlord Templars formed the Andor Diocese's ultimate safeguard. Their defeat meant the diocese's collapse, transforming it into a shadowed domain for impostor deities, where the Holy Light's glow would vanish.

"Abyssal Demons, Forbidden Spells, Dragons, Dragon Knights..." The Inquisition Commander bent closer, his gaze sharpening as he dissected the tactics of Makareth, Isabella, and Kaedros. "Maelric, this goes beyond a mere assault from the forces of disorder and malice."

"This isn't some haphazard breach," he pressed on. "It's a coordinated alliance."

In a typical Abyssal assault, a call for aid would summon purifiers from across the Holy Order's expanse. However, an offensive from an unidentified, structured entity? That shifted everything. Aid from outsiders would prove rare.

The Holy Order claimed unity, but fractures ran deep into rival groups. Various dioceses honored the same god yet clashed on doctrines, ideals, and principles.

It mirrored spirits—one person relished the bouquet, another gagged at the aroma. You couldn't compel a spirit-hater to defend a distillery merely because you enjoyed it.

In particular, those dioceses that had ventured into the Abyssal realms saw demons through altered lenses. They would probably dismiss Maelric's desperate summons.

"Gentlemen," the Commander declared, his tone unyielding as iron. "This is our domain. These are our followers. The foes are formidable, and we're isolated. We unite or perish alongside the masses."