Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1495 Wind Against Wind

A piercing shriek tore from Myxara, causing the entire Wormholes Realm to shudder with a chittering reply.

The hive mobilized instantly. Age and size became irrelevant; both mindless drones and sentient Insectfolk rushed toward the center, constructing a living barricade around their matriarch. As the kin converged, Myxara barked out guttural commands.

Then, an odd phenomenon manifested.

The most powerful of the brood—hulking beetles encased in thick armor—sprinted in wide circles around Myxara’s nest, moving directly against the rotation of the ferocious magical hurricane. Their movement was agonizingly sluggish at first, as the wind threatened to rip them from the earth.

However, once the swarm attained a critical mass, the immense density of muscle and chitin managed to slice through the resistance. Insectfolk with wings took flight, banking aggressively and flying low against the gale.

Gradually, a counter-vortex emerged—a cyclone of living beings spinning against the magic, countering wind with wind.

This displayed the strategic brilliance of Broodmother Myxara.

Seeing that the magical tempest failed to penetrate her inner sanctum, Myxara exhaled in relief, though she continued to command her offspring to sustain the living engine of the vortex.

It had become a war of attrition.

Outside, near the cavern entrance.

"He’s emerging," Gustalon muttered. He wasted no further energy, focusing his entire attention on manipulating the terrifying tempest within the Wormholes Realm.

"Who goes there?"

"Who dares to assault my nest?"

A voice heavy with rage boomed from the shadows. Moments later, Eryndor strode into the light at the realm’s threshold. His massive, armored frame radiated hostility as he glared at Dirtclaw and Gustalon.

"Heh... what is the matter?" Dirtclaw grinned, his eyes gleaming with a predatory blend of bloodlust and excitement. "Now that you see us, has your confidence evaporated? Can you no longer sustain that arrogance?"

Eryndor’s hostility was palpable, though he hesitated deep down.

"Who are you? Why ambush us?"

Eryndor was an Archlord who had recently ascended. As Dirtclaw had correctly intuited, he lacked the resolve to immediately engage two enemies of similar stature.

"Who are we?" Dirtclaw threw his head back and let out a boisterous, exaggerated laugh that bounced off the canyon walls. To him, Eryndor’s posing seemed pathetic.

"Curses to you Insectfolk. You squat on Stoneheart Horde lands, refuse to kneel, and pay no tribute... I should be the one asking what you think you’re doing."

Dirtclaw abruptly ceased his laughter. His expression darkened, and his voice dropped into a dangerous, interrogating growl.

"Stoneheart Horde? Your territory?"

Confusion flickered across Eryndor’s features. He distinctly recalled the Wormholes Realm exit being located leagues away from any giant borders. Had the realm shifted? Had something changed during his slumber?

Observing the uncertainty, Dirtclaw bared his teeth once more.

"Have you been rotting in that hole so long you’ve lost your senses? You didn't realize the Stoneheart Horde united the continent? This is the Titan Continent now. Or did you somehow miss the announcement?"

Eryndor perceived the layers of meaning behind Dirtclaw’s tone—the disdain, the pity, and the amusement. It was the gaze of a city noble directed at a backwater savage who had never encountered civilization.

That look ignited something within him.

Rage. Pure, blinding fury.

"You... look down on me?"

Eryndor forced the words through his clenched mandibles.

His past was a sensitive subject; he was a banished offshoot of the Lokiviria bloodline, cast away by his own brother. Throughout his life, Eryndor had endured humiliation. Exiled, blood-tainted, and pursued by foreign races, Dirtclaw’s smirk acted like salt upon a festering wound.

"You look down on me?!"

Eryndor roared and delivered a punch aimed to shatter Dirtclaw’s heart.

Dirtclaw simply shifted his left foot, anchoring himself to the ground, and unleashed a counter-punch. Since his transformation and ascension, a contest of raw physical power was exactly what he desired.

BOOM!

The collision echoed like a war hammer striking a massive drum.

Eryndor was blasted backward, slamming into the cliffside with enough force to crater the solid rock.

"Had enough?" Dirtclaw dusted himself off. "If not, let’s continue. I’ll wait in the sky."

With a manic laugh, Dirtclaw stomped the earth and rocketed upward, shattering the rock as he ascended toward the clouds.

This was the arrogance of absolute power. Dirtclaw wanted more; he intended to drag the Insectoid Archlord into a total conflict to gauge the limits of his newfound strength. He was baiting Eryndor, questioning his resolve, and challenging him to a duel.

Under ordinary circumstances, any Archlord with pride or ambition would accept such a challenge. More importantly, the battlefield was the Titan Continent—land watched over by Orion. Fighting here meant Dirtclaw could exert his full force without worrying about protecting Gustalon.

"I am not finished!"

This was not merely a refusal; it was unyielding defiance. Eryndor possessed dignity. He was an Archlord, an untouchable sovereign. Broodmother Myxara had told him as much upon his ascension.

From that instant, Eryndor had envisioned marching out of the Wormholes Realm, uniting the insect races, devouring the heathens, and challenging the stars. Now, Dirtclaw offered him the chance to finally shatter his chains.

If Myxara were present, she would have shrieked, "Return! It’s a trap! Win or lose, death awaits!"

However, Eryndor had never weathered true storms. His path to becoming an Archlord had been far too sheltered.

Back in the cavern, the departure of the two titans didn't even earn a glance from Gustalon.

He understood that against Dirtclaw, who now wielded the authority of the Divine Kingdom, a lower-tier Archlord like Eryndor was little more than a training dummy.

"Interesting. Fighting wind with wind... she understands elemental counter-play. Is it a bloodline legacy?"

Gustalon felt genuine surprise at Broodmother Myxara’s display. Few opponents had ever deciphered a counter to his wind magic with such speed.

She had actually done it.

"A pity," Gustalon sighed, a faint smile touching his lips. "Insects will always be insects. They love to spin their own cocoons and lock themselves within."

Inside the Wormholes Realm, the hurricane raged on.

The magical storm remained immense, but the counter-cyclone composed of insect bodies held its ground. In the friction between the two forces, the drones on the outer rim were shredded by the thousands, yet their sacrifice purchased precious relief for Myxara and the core hive.

"Submit. Dissolve the formation. Sign a contract with My Lord, and you will be spared."

"Submit. Dissolve the formation. Sign a contract with My Lord, and you will be spared."

Gustalon’s detached voice rode the wind, echoing throughout every tunnel of the realm.

Myxara offered no reply. The living vortex showed no signs of faltering.

"What a waste."

It was a sincere regret. A Broodmother at the peak of the Legendary rank would have been a formidable asset for the Horde. Gustalon hated destroying such potential.