Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1494 Storming the Hive

Orion let out a sigh, with a rare look of agitation visible upon his features. Terminating any target of Archlord-rank or higher proved to be a logistical nightmare. Given their Body of Faith—a metaphysical anchor—striking them down with a solitary blow was nearly impossible.

Demigods posed an even greater challenge. Since they rarely engaged in combat using their physical bodies, preferring to project avatars or manifestations of pure will, truly ending one necessitated the total destruction of every remnant of their essence.

"If we managed to overcome the Goddess Agaman, the Sea Folk will be no different," Orion asserted, his tone unwavering. This was not born of arrogance, but of cold calculation.

"My apprehension lies not in their martial prowess," he continued, "but in their inclination to abandon fairness. If forced into a corner, they could trigger a colossal tsunami. They would flood the coastal territories, salt the earth, and ruin the very infrastructure we have so recently secured. It is a scorched-earth policy, executed with water."

Orion’s concern was entirely justified. During the initial arrival of the Agaman Holy Order, the Sea Folk had brandished that exact threat to keep the theocracy at bay.

"Understood. We shall bide our time," Leonidas replied with a slow nod. "We will allow the coalition forces to finalize their occupation of the continent and solidify a fortified defensive line along the shore. We must not disturb the leviathan until we are prepared to bring it down."

"Precisely. We wait for the right moment," Orion stated, reclining in his seat. "And when we do strike, our blow will be so decisive they shall have no means of retaliation."

Titanion Realm.

A purge was currently in motion. Under the command of Dirtclaw and Gustalon, the Third and Fourth Legions were executing a sweeping campaign from north to south to wipe out the remaining Insectoid presence.

They were bolstered by multiple Wardens recently arrived from the Divine Kingdom, who treated this operation as a live-fire training exercise. The sheer efficiency of the extermination was chilling.

Daily, convoys of heavy wagons carried vast mounds of Insectoid remains toward Blackstone City. From there, the biomass was processed and distributed to the Cave Spiders and the Scorpion Horde. For species following a Broodmother, the concept of having "too many bodies" did not exist. It was nothing more than a bounty of food.

"This is the location."

Dirtclaw and Gustalon materialized at the base of a towering peak in the central territory.

"Beneath us lies a network of caves," Gustalon remarked, his voice carrying the faint, airy whistle of a breeze. "Deep within, there is a Wormholes Realm."

"If an Archlord intended to conceal their energy signature within this sector, that pocket dimension is the only place capable of containing it."

For Gustalon, the atmosphere functioned as an extensive intelligence network. Wherever the winds traveled, his gaze followed.

"The realm itself is... peculiar," the elementalist observed, tilting his head. "Ordinarily, the entrance would be heavily warded, yet the wind circles the threshold without resistance. There is no barrier present."

This was the precise intelligence Dirtclaw had been seeking.

"So, Gustalon... shall we kick the gates down, or smoke them out?"

Though Dirtclaw was an Archlord in his own right, he remained acutely aware of his own limitations. Concerning reconnaissance and magical utility, Gustalon held a significant advantage.

"Safety first," Gustalon responded. "We shall force them into the open. It is far better to fight on our own terms than to blunder into a snare."

This was not born of timidity; it was a matter of prudence. A concealed Wormholes Realm could harbor anything from ancient defenses to void instabilities or potent toxins. As a warrior’s path in Cultivation progresses, they learn a deeper respect for the unknown.

"As you say," Dirtclaw grunted, moving ahead to act as a shield for the mage. "You flush the prey out; I will handle the slaughter."

Gustalon nodded, and the air around his form began to distort. Wrapping Dirtclaw in wind mana to grant him invisibility, the two vanished, reappearing moments later deep inside the cavern before the shimmering distortion of the Wormholes Realm entrance.

"Are you certain of this?" Dirtclaw whispered. "Why would they choose not to ward the gate?"

He swept his gaze over the area, failing to detect any magical triggers.

"For a being like our Lord Orion, placing a ward upon a hidden portal is equivalent to lighting a beacon in the pitch black," Gustalon softy explained. "It screams of one's presence. The entity within this hive is shrewd. By leaving it unwarded, they provide the best camouflage. It is like hiding a leaf within a dense forest."

"Cunning indeed," Dirtclaw admitted, hefting his weapon. "A shame they are pitting themselves against you."

"The wind is present in every place," Gustalon stated, a note of pride entering his tone. "And absolutely nothing evades my sight."

Lifting a hand, he generated a miniature tornado, no larger than a spinning top, directly in his palm. "Prepare for confrontation."

Dirtclaw loosened his neck muscles and assumed a wide, ready stance. Gustalon infused the construct with Transcendent Power, launching the tiny storm directly into the rift. He shut his eyes, his consciousness tethered to the gale.

Wormholes Realm. Eryndor Paradise.

The name served as a testament to his own ego. Eryndor had christened the realm after himself the moment he ascended to the status of Insect King and took Myxara as his Broodmother.

This served as their sacred refuge. Sustained by the resources harvested from the pocket dimension, Eryndor had successfully reached the rank of Archlord. Utilizing his genetic template, Myxara had produced a legion of hybrid insect-warriors.

Deep within the central breeding pit, the two rulers remained locked together. It was a primal, rhythmic act of feeding and reproduction—one providing, one receiving.

Snap.

The rhythm was abruptly shattered. "The barrier has been breached," Eryndor hissed, pulling away. "We have been discovered."

Their responses were instantaneous. Retracting their specialized organs, they vaulted from the pit as their chitinous armor snapped into defensive position. "Stay within," Eryndor commanded, his voice a grating chitter. "I shall deal with this."

He harbored deep affection for Myxara, not merely because she fashioned his army, but because their souls remained fused. She was his queen.

Yet, before he could take action, the atmosphere within the realm erupted into a scream. A gargantuan hurricane materialized from thin air, expanding instantly to occupy the cavernous space. It tore through the breeding grounds, dragging thousands of Larvae and immense quantities of fluid into its vortex. The entire realm spiraled into absolute pandemonium.

Then came the blades. The hurricane did not merely pummel the hive; it tore it apart. Countless wind blades coalesced within the funnel, projecting outward with tremendous centrifugal force. Larvae and insect-warriors were reduced to mist long before they could let out a cry.

Eryndor watched his kin liquefy, and he roared. A sound echoing between a dragon’s bellow and a locust’s screech erupted from his throat. Launching himself like a projectile, his fist, reinforced with Transcendent Power, struck the very center of the hurricane.

BOOM.

The impact was cataclysmic. The storm shattered, scattering into harmless wisps of vapor. Eryndor stood his ground with a savage grin upon his mandibles, but his triumph lasted only an instant. The wind refused to dissipate. It regrouped instantly, surging with even greater speed and lethality than before. The wind blades grew solid, transforming from invisible forces into translucent guillotines that hacked ruthlessly at the structure of the hive.

"It is an Elemental Storm!" Myxara shrieked from the periphery of the pit. "Eryndor, there is a caster beyond this realm! You must eliminate the summoner, or this tempest will never end!"

She did not wait for an acknowledgment. Upon delivering her tactical warning, the Broodmother retreated into the safety of the breeding pit. She was the mind, the womb, and the future. Eryndor was the blade. She would not perish here.