Apocalypse Baby

Vess choked.

Her throat felt like scorched earth—dry, cracked, every breath like inhaling smoke from a wildfire that wouldn't die.

Her limbs trembled violently, bark-skin flaking from her elbows and shoulders as she summoned yet another desperate barrage.

Vines erupted from her back and forearms like green lances of fury—sharp, feral, laced with veins glowing gold from the last shreds of her lifeforce.

They screamed across the battlefield with the intensity of something born from instinct, not strategy. Some twisted into serrated claws mid-flight. Others coiled like whips, their barbed tips dancing through the air.

But none of it mattered.

The moment they touched Malik's radius of heat, they combusted.

FWOOSH!

All of them.

Instantly.

Like they had never existed at all.

Disintegrating into nothing but ash.

The attack crumbled mid-flight—black flakes scattered across the air, catching fire before they even reached his feet.

Vess staggered.

Her legs buckled, and she barely caught herself before collapsing entirely.

She was heaving now—thick sap dripping down her cheeks like sweat, though it glowed faintly, almost like tears made of molten gold.

Every step Malik hadn't taken... felt like a step she had to.

And yet, he hadn't moved.

Not a single step.

Not a single twitch.

He just stood there.

Still. Patient.

Like death with its arms crossed, waiting for the struggling prey to give up.

This wasn't a duel.

It wasn't a match.

It was suffocation.

A slow, merciless punishment where every failed attack chipped away at what was left of her spirit.

Her knees trembled.

Her lungs spasmed.

Her core pounded against her ribs like a bird trapped in a too-small cage, screaming to get out.

And this wasn't the first time she'd felt such hopelessness.

He had crushed her before—back in the VIP Combatant Room.

Reduced her to withered husks.

Snuffed her out like the last curl of smoke from a dying incense stick.

She had thought this time would be different.

She had hoped the arena would give her space. Maybe even hope.

That with real rules and real stakes, she'd fare better.

But here?

Now?

Nothing had changed.

He just stood there, letting his heat crawl forward like a tide of apocalypse.

Her legs finally gave, and she hit one knee.

But even now—Vess didn't stop.

She muttered inwardly to herself, breath ragged.

"You have a mission…"

Then she froze, eyes wide.

She hadn't meant to say that.

Mission? What mission?

A spike of confusion stabbed through the pain.

That wasn't her thought.

That voice—soft, calm, buried beneath panic and pain—wasn't hers.

It had come from somewhere foreign.

Like something was speaking through her.

Her breath caught in her throat, frozen in uncertainty.

"You have a mission," the voice echoed again. Louder this time, but still... not her own.

She shook her head.

"What... is this?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

She looked down at her arms—splintering bark, glowing veins, roots beginning to withdraw.

Something was wrong.

Wrong with her thoughts.

Wrong with her mind.

But before she could process it further, reality returned with a roar.

The heat surged again.

Malik had finally decided to move.

He stepped forward—just once—and the air warped like glass around him.

The flames at his feet curled upward, licking toward the sky in slow, elegant ribbons. Each movement was poetry in fire—graceful, controlled, terrifying.

Orange mist rolled off him in waves.

The temperature jumped.

Not by degrees—but by thresholds.

The crowd held its breath as he walked—one step, then another. Each one heavier. Louder. More final.

Lightning-like arcs of molten energy danced along his shoulders. Sparks coiled into flaming whips at his sides.

He didn't rush.

He didn't need to.

Vess screamed again.

This time not just in effort—but in pain.

Agony.

She forced another wave of vines from her limbs, but they died faster now.

The heat was too much.

The closer he came, the worse it got.

Each attempt recoiled violently—vines turning black before even leaving her skin, wilting like flowers crushed beneath a boot.

Her shoulder split—bark cracking in jagged seams.

Her left arm peeled back as flames licked up her chest.

Parts of her skin blistered, cracked, peeled away entirely.

She was being roasted alive.

And he was still walking.

Still burning her by existing.

The crowd, once wild with excitement, had gone eerily quiet.

The cheers had turned to murmurs.

Then murmurs to silence.

No one was celebrating anymore.

No one was smiling.

Because this… wasn't a match.

This was execution.

Vess fell to both knees.

The outer layer of her body—her living armor, her bark-skin—sloughed off in thick, charred chunks.

Her legs began to disintegrate at the edges, revealing beneath the wood a core of crystalline green—a pulsing shard embedded in her chest, fractured with glowing lines of light.

Her crystal root.

The last of her magic.

The source of her being.

It pulsed erratically, like a dying star trying to resist collapse.

Only a few vine tendrils remained—thin as smoke, curling in the superheated air.

She looked up.

Her eyes were glassy.

Her mouth dry.

Her voice barely a whisper.

Barely conscious.

"Not yet…"

But it didn't matter.

Malik was standing directly in front of her now.

He looked down—not with triumph.

Not even anger.

But disappointment.

Like a hunter who expected a beast… and got a deer instead.

Her body was barely more than a husk.

A form made of cinders, crumbling with each breath.

But—

One last pulse surged from her chest.

A final stand.

Her core lit up—bright, emerald, focused.

Then a radiant blast of green light exploded outward, a concentrated solar flare of desperate life condensed into a heartbeat.

It hit him square in the chest.

But Malik barely flinched.

He just narrowed his eyes.

The light faded.

The silence stretched.

And his lips curled—not into a smirk.

But a snarl.

A disappointed one.

The audacity to try that.

To dare.

His fist ignited.

No words. No declaration.

Just fire.

It curled across his knuckles—gathering, roaring, hungry.

A miniature sun condensed into his hand.

Then he raised it and brought it down like a meteor.

BOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The platform beneath them shattered, a radial explosion of fire and concussive force tearing through the arena floor like a bomb.

Half the stage cracked open.

Flames shot skyward.

And at the center—

Vess's core.

Shattered.

Fragments of the pale green crystal spiraled upward in slow motion—glowing like dying stars before dissolving into ash and vanishing midair.

She was gone.

Completely obliterated.

There was nothing left.

No bark.

No sap.

No roots.

Just vapor.

And silence.

Utter, consuming silence.

There were no cheers.

No gasps.

Just the weight of finality settling over the arena.

To the crowd, that had been too easy.

And it meant one of two things:

Either Vess was overly weak…

Or Malik was overwhelmingly strong.

The latter was the preferred option.

Because it meant the final match—

Would be a sight to see.