Titan King: Ascension of the Giant-Chapter 797: Call Me Sister

The Colosseum, in the private box reserved for the Giant King.

Orion stood on the high platform, watching the combat in the arena below with the same intensity as any other spectator.

"Daddy... Daddy!"

The child perched on Orion’s neck was not Pallas, but his adopted daughter, Elara. Pallas himself was relegated to his father’s broad shoulder, from where he repeatedly called out, trying to get Orion to remove the usurper. In Pallas’s young mind, Elara was occupying his throne.

Orion glanced at Pallas from the corner of his eye but said nothing, a faint smile on his lips. He wanted his son to learn to solve his own problems. Besides, Elara was his acknowledged daughter, the eldest, and with that title came all the rights and privileges thereof.

"Remember, Pallas," Elara said, her voice bright and teasing. "When your big sister is here, this spot belongs to me."

With the Deputy Commander preoccupied with the unfolding situation in the Emerald Dream Realm, Orion had taken the opportunity to bring Elara back to Stoneheart City. It was time his people came to know all his children. It wouldn’t do for the eldest daughter and the prince of the Horde to walk through their own territories unrecognized.

Pallas, seeing his pleas to his father were having no effect, could only stare sullenly at Elara, his gaze eventually fixing on the fragrant, unknown fruit she was nibbling on.

"Call me ’sister’, and I’ll give you one," Elara said, her shrewd eyes crinkling like a little fox’s as she began her gentle entrapment. "My mentor suggested I find these, you know. They help you grow big and strong, and let you feel the flow of magic."

The temptation was too great.

"The fruit is delicious," she cooed. "Don’t you believe me? Have a bite."

She held the other half of the fruit to Pallas’s lips. The two-year-old, having no sense of guile, instinctively took a bite.

Crunch.

The fruit was crisp and melted in his mouth with an exceptional sweetness. A warm current spread from his stomach through his entire body—it was a wonderful feeling.

"See? Delicious, right?" Elara asked. "Call me sister, and I’ll give you the fruit."

She quickly pulled her hand back just as Pallas leaned in for a second bite, leaving him hanging.

Pallas looked at the fruit in her hand, then up at her smiling face, his little brow furrowed in thought and hesitation.

"Sister," he finally mumbled, the word soft and sweet.

Elara beamed, her victory complete. She handed the half-eaten fruit to Pallas, who took it and immediately took another large bite. As he chewed, a new thought formed in his little head: maybe this sister wasn’t so bad. At least she kept her word.

But just as he had that thought, Elara’s other hand flipped over, revealing a new fruit, this one much larger and perfectly whole.

"This one is mine, of course," she declared. "I already gave you the one I promised."

Pallas looked at the magnificent fruit in her hand, then down at the twice-bitten one in his own, a feeling of deep injustice beginning to dawn on him.

"Call me sister again," Elara said, taking a bite of her own perfect fruit and leaning close to him, "and I’ll show you a magic trick."

"Sister!" Pallas said again, the promise of another reward overriding his nascent sense of being swindled.

"Good boy," Elara chirped. While still nibbling on her fruit, she stretched out her other hand and pointed a finger at Pallas. The boy watched, curious, and then suddenly found himself floating into the air, slowly orbiting his father’s head.

"Flying... I’m flying!" he squealed. "Daddy... Sister!"

For Pallas, this first taste of flight was a novel and exhilarating experience. Under Elara’s control, he giggled and spun with delight.

"Sister, sister, more! More flying!" he cried when she set him back down on Orion’s shoulder. He now completely ignored his father, his eyes fixed on Elara, the word ’sister’ spilling from his lips with sweet frequency.

Oh, my sweet, simple boy, Orion thought, watching them play with the smile of a proud father. So easily won over.

He was astonished by Elara’s growth. Under the Deputy Commander’s tutelage, her core personality hadn’t changed, but her mind had been sharpened to a razor’s edge. That wise old mentor certainly had a way with his disciples.

"Well done, Elara," Orion said aloud. He produced a piece of world essence, no bigger than a human fingernail, and popped it into her mouth. He then affectionately ruffled her long pink hair until it was a complete mess. She didn’t mind in the slightest, leaning into his touch with a happy sigh.

As Orion enjoyed the moment with his children, the Colosseum’s managers, Nico and Kadir, finished their duties and came to the VIP box to await his summons.

Just then, the current match ended, and the next combatant was led into the arena: a tall, tree-like creature. An Ashenveil Grove-Warden(Ashenveil Sprite).

Orion beckoned, and Nico and Kadir approached. He gestured toward the creature.

"My Lord," Fatty Nico began, ever the comprehensive source of information, "that is a spoil of war, purchased from the cavalry regiment."

Orion said nothing, indicating for him to continue.

"Those Ashenveil Sprites who surrendered willingly were sent to the front lines in the other realm. Those who refused... were sold to us. A shipment of demonic wolves, Windfoot Freaks, petrifying lizards, and Bloodreavers came with them. Of the lot, the Grove-Wardens and the Bloodreavers are the strongest fighters. Many of them can be promoted to gladiators."

The word ’gladiators’ caught Orion’s attention. He knew that for a slave to earn that title, they had to win ten consecutive duels just to become a Novitiate.

"How many gladiators does the Colosseum have now?"

"Three hundred and two, My Lord," Nico reported promptly. "Nine Champion-tier, twenty-two Proven-tier, and the rest are Novitiates."

The numbers were impressive. Novitiates and Proven were one thing, but the Champions were typically Alpha-level powerhouses.

Orion looked away from the Grove-Warden in the arena and met Nico’s eyes. The portly manager, ever perceptive, understood the unspoken question immediately.

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