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

As Myxara let out a piercing shriek, the entirety of the Wormholes Realm vibrated with a chittering response.

Instantly, the hive mobilized. Size and age meant nothing; mindless drones and sentient Insectfolk alike swarmed toward the center, forming a living wall around their matriarch. As her kin arrived, Myxara barked a stream of guttural commands.

Then, a strange phenomenon began to take shape.

The strongest of the brood—hulking, armored beetles—began to sprint in a wide circle around Myxara’s nest, running directly against the rotation of the howling magical hurricane battering them. At first, their progress was agonizingly slow. The wind threatened to peel them from the ground.

But as the swarm grew thicker, a critical mass was reached. The sheer density of chitin and muscle began to cut through the resistance. Insectfolk with wings took to the air, banking hard, flying low and gritty against the gale.

Gradually, a counter-vortex formed—a cyclone of bodies spinning in opposition to the magic, fighting wind with wind.

This was the cunning of Broodmother Myxara.

Seeing the magical storm failing to breach the inner sanctum, Myxara let out a breath of relief, though she didn’t stop directing her children to feed the living engine of the vortex.

It was a war of attrition now.

Outside, at the cavern entrance.

"He’s coming out," Gustalon muttered. He didn’t waste another word, his focus narrowing entirely on manipulating the terrifying tempest inside the Wormholes Realm.

"Who goes there?"

"Who dares attack my nest?"

A voice thick with rage boomed from the darkness. A heartbeat later, Eryndor stepped into the light at the realm’s threshold. His massive, armored frame bristled with aggression as he stared down Dirtclaw and Gustalon.

"Heh... what’s wrong?" Dirtclaw grinned, a predatory mix of excitement and bloodlust swirling in his eyes. "Now that you see us, has your confidence crumbled? Can’t support that arrogance anymore?"

Eryndor’s hostility was palpable, but beneath it, he hesitated.

"Who are you? Why ambush us?"

Eryndor was a newly ascended Archlord. As Dirtclaw had correctly gauged, he lacked the spine to instantly engage two enemies of equal standing.

"Who are we?" Dirtclaw threw his head back and laughed—a loud, exaggerated sound that echoed off the canyon walls. To him, Eryndor’s posturing was pathetic.

"Damn Insectfolk. You squat on Stoneheart Horde territory, you refuse to bend the knee, you pay no tribute... I should be asking you what the hell you think you’re doing."

Dirtclaw cut his laughter short. His expression turned grim, his voice dropping to a dangerous, interrogating growl.

"Stoneheart Horde? Your territory?"

Confusion flashed across Eryndor’s face. He distinctly remembered the exit of the Wormholes Realm being leagues away from any giant borders. Did the realm shift? Did something change while I slept?

Seeing the confusion, Dirtclaw bared his teeth again.

"You haven’t been rotting in that hole so long you turned stupid, have you? You didn’t know the Stoneheart Horde united the continent? This is the Titan Continent now. Or did you miss the memo?"

Eryndor heard the layers of meaning in Dirtclaw’s tone—disdain, pity, amusement. It was the way a city noble looked at a backwater savage who had never seen paved roads.

That look snapped something inside him.

Rage. Pure, blinding rage.

"You... look down on me?"

Eryndor ground the words out through clenched mandibles.

His origins were a sore spot—a banished offshoot of the Lokiviria bloodline, cast out by his own brother. Since his earliest memories, Eryndor had lived in humiliation. Exiled, impure of blood, and hunted by foreign races. Dirtclaw’s sneer was salt in a festering wound.

"You look down on me?!"

Eryndor roared and threw a punch aimed to pulverize Dirtclaw’s heart.

Dirtclaw simply shifted his left foot, rooting himself to the earth, and fired a counter-punch. Since his transformation and ascension, a contest of raw physical strength was exactly what he craved.

BOOM!

The impact sounded like a war hammer striking a titan’s drum.

Eryndor was launched backward, smashing into the cliff face with enough force to leave a crater in the solid rock.

"Had enough?" Dirtclaw dusted himself off. "If not, let’s go again. I’ll be waiting in the sky."

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

This was the arrogance of power. Dirtclaw wasn’t satisfied yet; he wanted to drag the Insectoid Archlord into a total war to test the depths of his own new strength. He was baiting Eryndor, questioning his manhood, challenging him to a duel.

Under normal circumstances, if Eryndor had any pride or ambition, he wouldn’t refuse a direct challenge. More importantly, the battlefield was the Titan Continent—the land watched by Orion. Fighting here meant Dirtclaw could go all out without worrying about protecting Gustalon.

"I am not finished!"

It wasn’t just refusal; it was unyielding defiance. Eryndor had dignity. He was an Archlord now, an untouchable sovereign. Broodmother Myxara had told him as much when he ascended.

From that moment, Eryndor had dreamed of marching out of the Wormholes Realm, uniting the insect races, devouring the heathens, and challenging the stars. And now, Dirtclaw was offering him the chance to break his chains.

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

But Eryndor had never weathered true storms. His path to the title of Archlord had been too smooth, too sheltered.

Back in the cave, the departure of the two titans didn’t even draw a glance from Gustalon.

He knew that against Dirtclaw, who now held the authority of the Divine Kingdom, a lower-tier Archlord like Eryndor was nothing more than a sparring partner.

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

Gustalon was genuinely surprised by Broodmother Myxara’s performance. Few enemies had ever deciphered a counter to his wind magic so quickly.

She had done it.

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

Inside the Wormholes Realm, the hurricane raged on.

The magical storm was massive, but the counter-cyclone built of insect bodies was holding its own. In the friction between the two forces, the drones on the outer rim were being torn apart by the thousands, but their sacrifice bought Myxara and the core hive precious relief.

"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 indifferent voice rode the wind, echoing through every tunnel of the realm.

Myxara gave no response. The living vortex showed no sign of slowing.

"What a waste."

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