Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1477 Straight for the Throat

"Father and Leonidas have issued the order. The full Andor Diocese must be offered as fuel for the ritual, followed by a direct thrust into the Agaman District—the core of the Holy Order."

Elara's tone remained firm, her words shedding light on why Orion had refrained from broadcasting to the team during the intense fight.

"Father seeks a swift conclusion to this campaign. By endangering Agaman, we compel the Holy Order to pull guards from their surrounding dioceses and send them rushing to the middle. It's a trap for the siege."

"Going right for the jugular, huh?"

Makareth folded his arms, stroking his chin in contemplation while his mind delved into the Survivor's Platform. He reached out to Leonidas and Orion.

"No profound tactical motive," Leonidas's telepathic reply drawled, laced with feigned gravity. "You faced six foes alone, young one. Orion felt envious. He believes you're overshadowing his spotlight. Keep in mind, Makareth, Orion is the main hero here. He craves the acclaim."

Makareth brushed aside the banter. He wasn't naive; a Demigod wouldn't covet what an Archlord possessed.

"Drop the nonsense," Makareth sent in response. "What's with the haste? We're dominating the war of attrition."

Once Makareth tossed in some required praise for Leonidas's 'genius perception,' the Demigod at last revealed the true purpose.

"The quicker we wrap up this conflict, the faster you claim your domain beyond the Abyss," Leonidas answered, his voice carrying a sly prod. "Or have you lost interest in territory?"

The aim was clear: Leonidas aimed to provoke him. He desired Makareth to unleash fury. The fiercer Makareth battled, the lighter the load on fellow allies. Makareth grasped it fully—the two leaders believed the assault dragged on. They craved a lightning assault.

"Got it. We'll shift our approach."

Makareth broke the psychic connection and raised his eyes to Elara, his face growing stern.

"Isabella, Kaedros, pay attention. As soon as the sacrifice rite ends, the trio of us leads the charge. We pave the way for the Undead Legion, wiping out the bigger threats. Should an Archlord appear, we overwhelm them as one."

With the plan demanding a bold assault, they could no longer restrain themselves. They needed to step down from their high positions and massacre the common soldiers to lure the foe's top fighters.

"Sister," Makareth addressed Elara, facing her. "At the critical time, we'll require your ranged firepower. Clear the field for us."

In Makareth's view, Elara served as the ideal stabilizer—a sorceress capable of dominating the field from afar.

"Have no doubts," Elara assured, her tone serene. "I ensure your protection."

Makareth, Isabella, and Kaedros grew quiet.

This wasn't overconfidence; it was unshakeable confidence. They abruptly understood that the destructive magic she had just cast was probably nowhere near her full power.

"Then let's commence."

Makareth's words grew icy and sinister. Infernal wings erupted from his back, ripping the atmosphere as he propelled toward the densest enemy group. As a Demon, notions of regulations, dignity, or doubt held no place in his veins.

Isabella and Kaedros shared a quick glance, gave a casual shrug, and surged forward behind him.

"A genuine Demon," Aina whispered, observing Makareth's form slicing across the heavens. "For a Demon, laws are merely barriers to shatter."

"Sister Aina," Elara murmured gently, moving to her side. "Demons embody disorder. They serve as the innate foes of Order. Should you aim to dismantle the current world order, Makareth stands as the finest weapon at your disposal."

At its essence, war proved straightforward. In minor clashes, it represented clashing desires. On grand scales, it formed the endless loop of ruin and renewal.

"You're correct," Aina agreed, a genuine grin gracing her mouth. "I guess I ought to express gratitude to him."

Wasn't this precisely her desire?

"Simply keep in mind," Elara went on, her eyes locked on the fiery skyline. "When transformation ignites, it won't halt. Our role extends beyond igniting the blaze; we must steer its path. Else, a pursuer of reform turns into mere a bringer of devastation."

Aina sank into profound reflection. Pursuing alteration demanded a blueprint for the aftermath of the ruins.

Forward Battlefield.

"Fine young warrior. You've inherited your father's resolve."

Ursa towered above Anubis. The Gnoll leader fared poorly. He had faced a surprise attack from three Holy Order Templars. He slew them all, yet the triumph claimed an arm, and a gruesome slash over his belly revealed his innards.

"My father is a legend," Anubis rasped, spewing blood. "I fall short of him. I haven't secured my spot in the Horde's annals yet."

"Heh... hehehe."

Ursa chuckled, her laugh deep and hearty. Gazing at Anubis, she inevitably recalled her son, Steelblade. She felt sure that elsewhere in the fray, her offspring demonstrated he was no less hardy than Dirtclaw's whelp.

"One thing you're spot on about. Your old man isn't merely hard to slay; he's forged like adamant."

Ursa crouched down, extracting a small, elaborate case from her gear. She retrieved a lone alchemical tablet and forced it down Anubis's throat.

"Gulp it down. It'll tingle and scorch. Endure it."

Without pausing for reply, Ursa seized Anubis's lost arm, aligned it to the stump, and secured it firmly with a treated bandage. She ripped open a sachet of glowing dust and poured it straight into the gaping belly injury.

The dust sizzled upon contact with the blood, bubbling up right away before solidifying into a living barrier that sealed the gash.

"You're consuming refined gold, youngster. I acquired that from the Coalition Treasury using my personal merits. Limb regeneration is merely an extra; it fortifies your frame for good." Ursa clapped his shoulder with force. "Once this conflict ends, I'll track down Dirtclaw and make him reimburse me. Plus extra."

Ursa and Dirtclaw held a profound connection. Her bragging merely served to ease the youth. Formally, they ranked as equals, yet Dirtclaw had risen swiftly with alarming pace, linking the Horde's original veterans with the fresh warriors.

"I seem like a fool," Anubis groaned, attempting to rise. He was youthful, an Alpha-level fighter bearing the Hell-Drake Hound lineage. He accustomed to conquest, not spilling blood in the dirt.

"A fool?" Ursa's gaze sharpened. "No. This is honor."

She indicated the closed injury on his torso.

"Wounds and achievements form the sole wealth a fighter requires. That one? That's worth boasting. Upon returning to the Horde and displaying that mark to new soldiers, you won't face mockery. You'll encounter jealousy. That sign shows you endured the inferno without crumbling."