Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

Orion raised a hand, and the roaring and hissing of the undead armies fell silent.

"The plaza is overflowing," he announced, his voice cutting through the sudden quiet. "The war begins now."

It was a command, and the signal for the entire army to advance.

Clymene nodded, then turned and leaped onto the back of a swooping Blight Wyrm. She let out a bone-rattling roar that echoed to the heavens, and the legions on the plaza began to march in disciplined order out of the camp.

Only then did Orion turn back to Tangere.

"Our objective is the Black Tower. Take your Plague-thralls and join the vanguard. I believe that after this battle, you will have absorbed enough plague essence to reach the peak of the Legendary level."

"Done," Tangere replied without a moment's hesitation. With a two-million-strong undead army at his back, he felt confident enough to take on the whole world, let alone a single tower.

"As for you two," Orion said, addressing Aerin and Caesar, "the camp must be guarded during the war. Straggling demonic monsters will undoubtedly appear in the vicinity, and it will be your job to clean them up."

Aerin and Caesar were still only Alpha-level. Throwing them into the meat grinder of the main battlefield was out of the question. They were too weak, and the risk of a fatal accident was too high. Orion felt a sense of responsibility for them and had no intention of letting them take unnecessary risks before they reached the rank of Lord. He didn't want a reputation for getting his allies killed.

"As you command, my lord," Caesar said with a solemn bow.

"As you command, my lord," Aerin echoed.

The atmosphere was grave. They both understood they couldn't contribute to the main assault. Just mopping up the remnants would be more than enough to keep Caesar's five thousand Shield Warriors busy.

"Guard our home," Orion said. With that, he leaped into the air, landing gracefully on the back of another Blight Wyrm and joining the invading column.

Tangere followed suit, launching himself into the air and landing on a third wyrm. After a series of guttural calls to one another, the great beasts flew out of the camp in formation.

"Captain, is... is my lord leading the army himself?"

The camp wasn't that large, and the commotion in the plaza had been impossible to ignore. Every Wood Elf had been roused from their homes. The braver ones had crept to the edge of the plaza to watch, while the more timid observed from the safety of their treehouses.

Xylia and Angel were among the brave. They stood by the plaza, their eyes a mixture of awe and terror, watching the silent, orderly columns of the undead march out of their home.

"Yes," Xylia whispered, her voice filled with wonder. "My lord has gone to war." The sight had completely shattered their understanding of the camp's true power.

"Let's go!" she said after a moment, her mind made up. She grabbed Angel's arm and began running back toward the Elf Treehouses.

"Captain, what are you doing?" Angel asked, letting herself be pulled along in a daze.

"Gather the squad! Grab your gear! We're marching with them!"

"What?!" Angel's eyes went wide with disbelief. "Captain, are you...?"

"Don't just stand there! If we don't hurry, we'll lose them!"

Fifteen minutes later, a fully equipped elven squad, led by Xylia, after a hasty farewell to Aerin, fell in with the rear of the undead army and marched out of the camp.

"Aerin, my lady, why didn't you stop them?" Caesar asked, watching the small squad of elves disappear into the forest.

"I couldn't. And I shouldn't," Aerin replied with a sad smile. "They may face great danger on that battlefield. They may not return. But it is their choice to make. They are different from us, Caesar. They are the guardians of the Wood Elves, born for battle. I am not yet their queen. They would not listen to me now."

She shook her head. It wasn't that she didn't want to stop them; she simply didn't have the authority. Xylia was an Alpha-level guardian, a position that, before the fall of their race, held more practical authority than Aerin's own title as a figurehead elder. Her current leadership status was largely due to her connection with Orion, Caesar, and Tangere. It was that connection alone that allowed her to command the respect of a portion of her people.

"But I believe," she continued, her eyes growing sharp and clear, "that after they witness this war, they will learn to truly fear my lord. And in time, they will learn to respect me. And you, Caesar. When you advance to the rank of Lord, you will be my official ally. That will only hasten their submission."

Aerin looked at Caesar, a genuine smile on her face. She knew with absolute certainty that he was destined to reach the Legendary level. He was her future. She understood a simple truth: if you lack internal power, you must rely on external strength. She would use the power of her allies to unite the Wood Elf race under her rule. She was realistic about her own abilities; she knew she would not be reaching the Legendary level anytime soon.

"My lady Aerin, you have my word," Caesar said earnestly. "When I become a Lord, I will help you."

"I know you will," she replied. "I believe in you."

Godforsaken Land, on a mountain ridge.

After descending upon the battlefield and personally annihilating all remaining Legendary-level Gnasher Race commanders, Orion withdrew from the main combat. He now stood atop a high ridge, ignoring the battle raging in the Death Spiral Zone below, his gaze fixed on the roiling black clouds in the sky.

The clouds masked the demigod battle from all senses. They were thick and dark, layered like an inverted funnel. A sliver of brilliant gold and a sliver of pure white occupied opposite halves of the vortex, trimming the edges of the storm.

Orion could feel it. The heart-stopping radiance of the sword light in the sky was growing stronger, more intense. That could only mean one thing: his brother Arthas had gained the upper hand.

Within the void of warring realities, the two divine powers were locked in a struggle with only one possible outcome. It was a battle of pure attrition. There was no escape.

"Apologies," Arthas's voice echoed from the heavens, cold and final. "This Godforsaken Land is mine."

He swung his sword. A flash of light, a fusion of bone-white fire and divine power, sliced deep into the stone statue. The being had changed since it first appeared. Worn down by the constant struggle, its form had grown rigid, its features becoming clearer, more stone-like.

"I will remember your aura," the statue grated, a last-ditch effort to save face. "Our feud begins today!"

Arthas paid the threat no mind. He swung his sword again, and the statue was shattered into a million pieces, which were then incinerated into fine ash by the bone-white flames.