Apocalypse Baby

Nothing moved.

Not a whisper.

Not a breeze.

No cheering.

Only silence.

A silence so thick it pressed against the chest like a weight, dense with confusion, laced with discomfort. The kind that doesn't follow a victory, but something else. Something uglier.

And then—

FWOOSH.

A soft pulse of golden light flared above the arena, casting long shadows over the fractured battlefield.

The proctor reappeared midair, cloak billowing behind him, his boots touching down on the edge of the scorched platform with smooth, practiced grace. He landed lightly, but the tremor that followed wasn't from his weight—it was from everything around him trying to make sense of what just happened.

He raised one hand high, and his voice—amplified by arcane runes carved into the stadium's walls—boomed across the coliseum.

"VICTORY GOES TO MALIK VORAHN! THE FLAMING DEMON! HE WILL FACE ALEX KNIGHT IN THE FINALS! AREN'T YOU EXCITED!!"

Normally, the arena would erupt.

But not this time.

The response came as a murmur.

A faint, uneasy ripple.

Like a stone dropped into a quiet lake. A thousand voices were unsure of what they'd just witnessed.

Because that wasn't a fight.

It had looked like one at first.

But what it became… was a public execution. A clinical demonstration of control. Power unrestrained by empathy.

The demon still stood where he'd finished it. Right in the middle of the scorched ring he'd carved into the platform with nothing but presence.

Heat still radiated from him. Flames still danced lazily off his back like afterthoughts. But his eyes weren't on the proctor.

Or the crowd.

They were fixed upward.

On the balcony high above the arena.

Where the VIPs watched.

Where the gods and generals made their judgments from gilded shadows.

Where his father general, watched.

Still unmoving.

Still unreadable.

Draped in crimson-trimmed armor that caught the dying firelight and reflected none of it.

The two locked eyes.

Just for a second.

But long enough for everything to be said—and left unsaid.

Then, the proctor cleared his throat, his voice slightly more careful this time.

"Would you like to return to the Combatant Zone for restoration and recovery before the final match?"

Malik didn't look at him.

Didn't blink.

His hands tightened at his sides, and sparks of red light crackled softly between his fingers.

His voice came low.

Measured.

"There's no need."

A hushed ripple passed through the crowd.

The proctor blinked, visibly thrown.

"No need to rest?"

Finally, Malik turned his gaze downward.

To the floor beneath him.

To the dark spot where Vess had once stood.

Where her crystal core had shattered.

Where nothing remained now but embers and silence.

Then his head rose, And he looked toward the VIP Combatant Zone, where Alex stood, watching.

And Malik smirked.

Not the mocking grin of arrogance.

But the smile of someone who had finally arrived.

"I'm ready now," he said.

"And I'm sure he is too."

The flames around him pulsed in agreement, licking the air with renewed hunger.

Then, without another word, Malik turned and walked to the arena's edge—toward the place where his final opponent would descend.

As he moved, the energy in the crowd changed.

It rose.

Boiling.

The lull was shattered.

Now the cheers came—full-throated, wild, desperate for what was coming next.

This was the match they had been waiting for.

Alex vs Malik.

A real fight.

Between two real monsters.

In the quiet of the Combatant Zone, Alex's viewing screen lit up.

Malik's form appeared on it, alone in the arena, bathed in dying firelight and smoke.

The playback began.

His voice echoed through the room—clear, sharp, final:

"I'm ready now. And I'm sure he is too."

*

Alex didn't move.

His reflection hovered on the edge of the screen. His golden eyes unreadable, the faint pulse of ambient Emi drifting in lazy arcs around his body.

Then—

A system prompt blinked to life before him.

[YOU WILL BE TELEPORTED TO THE ARENA GROUND IN 5 SECONDS]

[BRACE YOURSELF.]

A soft chime rang out like a countdown bell before war.

Alex raised an eyebrow.

"Oh…"

He'd never gotten a prompt before.

Usually it just… happened.

One blink, and he was on the battlefield.

But now?

A notice.

He figured it made sense.

This was the final round.

This wasn't just another match.

This was the last match of the tournament phase.

The gate to the final round of the legacy trial.

Alex drew in a breath through his nose, slow and controlled. Then exhaled.

A grin touched the corner of his lips.

Sharp. Measured. Cold.

This was it.

Not a warm-up. Not a skirmish.

The real one.

Crack.

Crack.

Alex rolled his shoulders, loosening his joints.

The screen flashed again—Malik still waiting, still unmoving, the heat around him distorting the air like a mirage of hell.

The teleportation circle began to form beneath Alex's feet, light coiling upward.

Energy gathered, and the system pulses echoed like a second heartbeat.

[Teleporting in 5…]

Alex glanced around one last time.

His clone—still hidden in stealth—remained cross-legged in a corner, bathed in a faint aura. Still absorbing Emi from the rich ambient stones scattered through the zone's structure.

During the last match, while Vess and Malik clashed in brutal silence, Alex had summoned [Aegis Arcane] to protect itself from crossfire.

He'd taken no risks.

Malik never noticed.

Too focused on Vess.

Too hungry for destruction.

Alex considered for a moment whether he should dismiss the clone, absorb the gathered Emi, and trigger multiple level-ups before the match.

But…

He shook his head.

No.

He didn't need a skill or stat bump to do what he needed to do.

So he let the clone continue absorbing.

[4…]

This might be the last time he stood here.

In this room.

Among these people.

The Combatant Zone had held blood and laughter, cruelty and friendship. A crucible where he'd met strange allies and stranger threats.

All of them… gone now.

Except Malik, who was about to be dealt with.

[3…]

Alex looked down.

The circle of golden light now wrapped around his boots, Emi's threads rising like mist.

He didn't speak.

Didn't gesture.

Just breathed.

[2…]

The lights pulsed brighter.

The hum of power reached a higher pitch.

He tilted his head once, stretching his neck with a faint crack.

[1…]

"Let's do this."