(KOTG) Ch 11: The Nature Of The Titan Born, The Voice Of The King!

I've seen a lot of things in my life—not that it's been a particularly long one, mind you. I've tripped down a flight of stairs in front of a crowd, eaten gas station sushi (do not recommend), and once mistook a bee's nest for a "weird fruit." But this? What I was seeing right now? This absolutely took the cake, the plate, and probably the whole bakery.

The screams were the first thing to really hit me—confident war cries suddenly turning into shrieks of pure panic. I stood there on Kyvareth's open palm, balancing myself like I was in the world's worst amusement park ride. Down below, chaos unfolded.

My soldiers—my giant soldiers—rushed the poor Vytharion troops with smiles on their faces like it was a game. No weapons in hand. They didn't need any. I watched in horror as one of them picked up a soldier no taller than her toe and... tore him apart like wrapping paper on a birthday gift. Another had two men caught between her fingers and crushed them with a casual flick, as if she were cracking her knuckles.

Screams echoed, loud, short, and then... quiet.

And then came the stomping. Soldiers flattened like they were nothing but bugs on a windshield. For those who were lucky enough to get close, they tried stabbing at the giantesses' legs, but their weapons bounced off their skin like toothpicks. Useless. Absolutely useless.

"Oh gods," I whispered, my stomach twisting.

One soldier leapt onto a giant's foot and tried to climb. She just snorted and backhanded him across the canyon like he was a frisbee. I don't even think she looked.

"This is horrible." I barely said it out loud, but I felt the words claw their way out of me anyway.

I turned to Lysera. She stood with her arms crossed, completely still, her face stone cold. She watched the massacre like it was just another Tuesday. No flinch, no frown, nothing.

Kyvareth wasn't any better. I looked up at her, expecting... something. Regret, hesitation, doubt? Nope. She had the same cold expression. Maybe a little tired, if anything. That's when it hit me.

This wasn't new to them.

This is what they do.

The Vorshaldians—the Akyri—they weren't just tall, powerful warriors. They were bred for this. Made for this. War, slaughter, domination. I was standing in the palm of a people who didn't just accept violence—they thrived in it.

And just when I thought I'd seen the worst of it, one of the women—I didn't catch her name—picked up a man and dangled him over her open mouth like he was a snack.

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" I said, waving my arms like a madman. "You've got to be kidding me! This can't be happening."

My heart pounded so hard I thought it was going to punch its way out of my chest. I could feel my body shaking, my hands trembling as I clutched Kyvareth's fingers like they were the last solid thing left in the world.

"This isn't right..." I muttered. "None of this is right..."

And then I did something I hadn't planned to do. Not even a little.

"STOP!!!" I screamed.

I clenched my eyes shut, not wanting to see even another second of it. And just like that... silence.

Pure, thick silence.

Slowly, I opened one eye.

Every single one of the giantesses had stopped. Dozens of massive faces stared back at me—shocked, wide-eyed, even... scared? Their bodies, covered in blood, sweat, and dust, were suddenly frozen in place.

Kyvareth didn't say anything at first. Then I heard her voice, soft but loud enough to echo off the canyon walls.

"The voice of the king."

"Huh?" I blinked. "What does that mean?"

Before she could answer, one of the Vytharion soldiers tried to make a run for it. One of the giant women grabbed him with one hand, lifting him by the back of his armor like a misbehaving puppy.

"I said stop!" I yelled again, more forcefully this time.

The woman froze, looked at me, and... set him down. Gently.

I think my heart actually stopped.

All of them—every single Titan-born warrior—just stood there. Still. Silent. Watching me. The tiny guy. Their king.

"Great," I thought. "Now what?"

I could feel their eyes boring into me. Some looked confused. Others seemed scared. A few still had blood on their hands and didn't quite know what to do with them. And me? I was trying to figure out how I went from "guy who doesn't know how to put armor on" to "guy who just halted an army of skyscraper-sized women mid-rampage."

I let out a shaky breath. "Okay. Cool. So... we're listening to me now. That's... a thing."

I glanced at Kyvareth. She smiled softly, like she'd expected this all along.

Lysera, on the other hand, didn't look thrilled. Her brow twitched, her jaw tight. I think she was actually biting the inside of her cheek. But she didn't argue.

I looked out at the battlefield again. Bodies everywhere. Some broken, some mangled, others just... gone. And it wasn't just the enemy.

I saw faces of my own soldiers, bloodied, panting, not with exhaustion, but excitement.

And that's when I realized... I wasn't just their king. I was their brake. The only thing standing between their instincts and total annihilation.

"Alright," I said under my breath, "time to figure out how to do damage control with an army of murder-happy titans. Easy."

Kyvareth knelt down again, her voice soft, almost apologetic. "What are your orders, my king?"

I stared at her, then at Lysera, then at the whole bloody mess around me.

"I have no idea yet," I said honestly. "But we're not killing anyone else. Not today."

Somewhere, deep in the canyon, a gust of wind blew past, like the land itself was sighing in relief.

And all I could think was, "I seriously hope there's a handbook for this king stuff."

*** 

Atop a towering cliff of stone and sun-bleached rock, a lone figure stood, her silhouette framed against the afternoon sky. The wind tugged gently at her long, light brown hair, sending the strands whipping around her like silk ribbons. Her armor, more ceremonial than practical, gleamed beneath the sun's rays—silver trimmed with deep violet, a color worn only by the most ancient lineages of the Titan-born. She looked every bit like a statue carved from the old world, unmovable and poised, and yet... her eyes held something soft. Something warm.

Below her, the canyon lay stretched out like a battlefield frozen in time.

The carnage had come to a sudden, unexpected halt. Vytharion soldiers, once defiant and battle-ready, now stood slack-jawed and pale. Some had dropped their weapons. Others simply stared, unable to comprehend the fact that they were still alive. Their would-be executioners—those towering warriors of Vorshalda—stood frozen mid-stride, mid-snarl, hands still slick with blood and dust, and yet they did not move. Not anymore. Not after his command.

The woman's blue eyes turned toward the center of it all.

There, nestled in the enormous hand of Kyvareth, stood the man they now called king. So small he could fit in a pocket, and yet... somehow taller than them all in that moment. His face was tight with unease, his jaw set, but he held himself like someone trying to carry the weight of a hundred lifetimes on shoulders half-prepared for the burden.

And still... he had stopped them. With nothing but his voice, his will.

A smile curved across the woman's lips—slow, reverent, proud. She exhaled, letting the moment wash over her. The sunlight caught her cheek as it blushed pink.

"You were right," she said, her voice nearly stolen by the wind. Her gaze lifted skyward, as if speaking to someone far beyond sight. "He is the one who will lead us."

The woman's hands, once clenched, relaxed by her sides.

Down in the canyon, the Vorshaldians had fallen still. Unmoving. Watching. Waiting. And above them, that single tiny man stood tall, completely unaware of the ripple he'd just sent through a people once ruled only by war and tradition.

Her smile deepened. It wasn't the grin of a warrior. It wasn't the smirk of someone who had witnessed violence and hungered for more. No. It was something far rarer among her kind.

It was hope.

"All hail the king," she whispered.

And the wind carried her words away.