Apocalypse Baby

WHOOOOOM!

A tidal wave of light erupted at the center of the arena.

Golden runes spiraled outward in radiant arcs—sacred, seamless, and impossibly complex. Each symbol glowed with divine intensity, pulsing like the heartbeat of the stratum itself. The stone floor beneath cracked slightly as the magic crescendoed, and at its heart—

Alex Knight descended.

He emerged mid-air, cloak flickering, silhouette framed by a halo of spiraling glyphs. His body dropped like judgment cast from the heavens, boots colliding with the arena stone in a *CRACK* that echoed through the entire dome.

A shockwave burst outward from his landing—kicking up dirt, scattering debris, sending curls of smoke twisting into the rafters. Dust flared at his feet like the aftershock of a meteor.

And then the crowd exploded.

The cheers came first—raw, thunderous, overwhelming. The kind of sound that didn't erupt from excitement, but awe. A thousand throats screamed in unified chaos, and for a moment, the entire stadium shook beneath the force of it.

Then came the chants.

Rhythmic.

Divided.

Violent in their loyalty.

"A-LEX! A-LEX! A-LEX!"

"MA-LIK! MA-LIK! MA-LIK!"

Two names.

Spoken like war cries.

Chanted by opposite ends of a divided coliseum.

On one side: a human no one had expected to survive, let alone dominate. The underdog. The anomaly. The cold-eyed warrior who tore down every rule and expectation set before him.

On the other: a prince of flame. Born to power. Forged in pride. The demon who burned everything he touched and left behind only ash and silence.

The proctor descended moments later—his black cloak cracking behind him like thunder as he floated down between the two titans. He landed with precision, boots striking center stage, arms rising with practiced theatrical flair.

His voice rang out like a blade drawn from its sheath—clean, sharp, and amplified by ancient spells etched into the very bones of the arena.

"COMBATANTS!"

The noise dipped, anticipation coiling into a still, vibrating tension.

"Today marks the final battle of this stratum! The match to decide who ascends! Who conquers! Who claims the right to face what lies above!"

The audience surged again—betting interfaces lit up in the sky, private faction screens flashing alerts and recalculating odds.

The proctor turned, extending one arm toward the human side of the arena.

"On this side—The Human Who Defied the Odds! The Abyssbrand! The slayer of Sylen! The one who walked through cursed flame and returned unburned—ALEX KNIGHT!"

Alex didn't move.

Didn't acknowledge the crowd.

He simply rolled his right shoulder, loosening tension. His fingers flexed once by his side.

A soft shimmer of gold pulsed through his pupils—[Godeyes] already active, data flooding in.

Then the proctor turned.

"And on this side—The Crimson Demon! The Flameborn Tyrant! The one who burned Vess of Tranagia down to her very soulcore! The Scorching Son of the Infernal Throne—**MALIK VORAHN!"

The response was volcanic.

Fire bloomed in the upper rafters, sent by enchanted banners that burst into fiery sigils of the Vorahn bloodline. Red light painted the crowd. Holographic horns ignited and twisted across the skyline. Faction tags flared up in synchronized waves.

Malik stood at the far end—silent, statuesque.

His bare chest rose and fell with slow breaths. Embers drifted from his back, heat simmering just beneath his skin like magma waiting to rupture.

He didn't acknowledge the crowd.

Didn't smile.

Didn't blink.

His eyes had locked onto Alex the second he appeared—and had never once shifted.

Alex, in turn, returned the stare.

Two hurricanes staring across calm water.

No words.

No feints.

Just pressure.

And the space between them bent.

The air warped subtly—like reality itself was trying to flee the battlefield

A whisper of heat curled around Malik, soft as silk, colorless but hot enough to ripple the stone at his feet. The temperature rose a degree every second.

And Alex?

His aura bled cold light.

Subtle. Razor-sharp. Like the edge of a blade placed gently at your throat. You didn't notice it until you moved—and by then it was too late.

The proctor took a step back, his voice rising one final time:

"ARE YOU READY?!"

The arena held its breath.

VIPs leaned forward.

A thousand eyes widened. Hundreds of cameras locked in. Guilds held their breath, royal watchers whispered to attendants, and gods in remote temples tuned in through spectral threads.

No one made a sound.

The proctor sliced the air with his hand.

"BEGIN."

Then vanished.

The crowd screamed as magic flared between the two titans.

A single spark of energy.

Silent.

Brief.

Then—

They moved.

Alex launched forward—fast.

A blur of motion and sharpened intent. His blade was already drawn, cutting air with a whisper as he blitzed forward, wind splitting in his wake. His aura pressed into the ground like weight. Each step cracked the tile.

And ahead—

Malik didn't flinch.

Instead, orange mist burst outward from his body—rolling like smoke from a volcano, expanding in a dome of blistering heat.

The air around him turned to a shimmering furnace.

The same furnace that had burned Vess to ashes.

But, Alex stepped in, moving past the edge of the flaming dome, unaffected.

The crowd gasped.

Some stood. Others leaned in, wide-eyed.

Alex grinned—feral, sharp, electric.

His body should have ignited.

He should have been reduced to cinders.

But he wasn't.

He walked through the heat like it didn't exist.

A shadow sliding through flame.

His blade came up in a wide arc, aiming for Malik's ribs.

Malik reacted—faster than most would see—catching the blade on his forearm, sparks dancing off the contact. He slid a half-step back, eyes narrowed.

He'd felt that.

The heat around him warped.

His expression turned from intrigue to something else.

Confusion.

Why wasn't he burning?

There were no fire-resistant accessories on Alex.

No enchanted cloaks.

No defensive spells.

Nothing should've protected him.

And yet—here he stood.

Moving through Malik's heat field like it was wind.

Something was wrong.

Malik's face shifted—gaze hardening.

A real look. A fighter's look.

He took a measured breath, fists tightening, flame curling around his knuckles in response.

"I knew it," he said quietly.

His tone wasn't surprised.

It was satisfied.

"You're not like the others."

Alex raised an eyebrow, blade still resting at his side.

Malik's voice dropped low.

"Defeating you…"

His eyes flared, hellfire burning brighter beneath them.

"Will be my redemption."