Apocalypse Baby

Now that he thought about it, something didn't sit right.

The clones.

They'd fallen too fast.

Too easily.

Not that they weren't capable.

Each one had moved with lethal grace—mirroring the real Alex down to the timing of his steps and the weight of his gaze.

But during his fight with Sylen, those same clones had lasted until Alex dismissed them.

Fought harder.

Pushed back even under heavy pressure.

So why now?

Why had they crumbled with so little effort?

Malik's lips curled into a slow scowl.

Because they were meant to.

The thought landed with a thud in his mind—cold and heavy.

They hadn't come to win.

They'd come to distract.

His instincts screamed at him to be careful. To look beyond the surface. To find the real danger.

But there was still one clone left.

He sensed it.

Malik could feel it drawing close, and even though he knew it was bait—knew the real Alex could be waiting anywhere—he couldn't ignore it. Couldn't afford to.

Leaving it unchecked was how you ended up dead.

Each of Alex's summons carried as much lethality as the original.

So he didn't hesitate.

He turned—and the clone was right in front of him.

Its blade was mid-swing, drawn back just enough for a finishing blow aimed right at Malik's throat. It had evaded the flaming dragon entirely, slipping under the beast's arc like it had studied the gaps in Malik's tempo.

Malik's pupils shrank.

But he moved fast.

Before the clone could land the strike, Malik snapped backward with a vicious snarl. His boots hit the stone, and his arms shot forward as he roared:

"[Infernal Net]!"

It was the same move that had reduced Grugrim to unrecognizable scraps.

From Malik's palms, a swirling storm of fire-laced tendrils erupted outward—dozens of blazing whips, each tipped with serrated hooks made of living flame. They spun and cracked like predators with no leash, lashing through the air with the precision of scalpels and the rage of storms.

The clone had no room to dodge.

No time to block.

The first tendril caught it across the chest—tearing flesh, armor, and illusion in one explosive stroke.

The second slammed into its shoulder, severing the arm mid-swing.

The third split it diagonally—hip to neck, clean and final.

By the time the fourth and fifth struck, the clone's body was already unraveling.

Limbs sheared away.

Torso carved apart in crosshatched lines.

Its body hung in the air for a fraction of a heartbeat—fractured into clean sections by the net's fury, as though Malik had dissected it mid-motion.

But its face remained.

Barely.

Hovering in the space between destruction and death.

Just long enough to smirk.

Then it whispered:

"Gotcha."

And detonated.

BOOOOOOM!

The explosion wasn't fire.

It was force.

Pure concussive pressure, as if the air itself had been punched outward by a divine fist.

A blast of sonic energy slammed through the battlefield, compressing the world into a single, deafening moment.

The sound was so loud, it became silence.

The heat so fast, it felt cold.

Malik was thrown backward like a ragdoll launched from a cannon.

His body skidded across the stone in a blur—his boots gouging twin scars into the floor, flames flickering wildly around him, aura sputtering under the weight of the shockwave.

He finally came to a halt near the edge of the arena, kneeling, one hand slammed into the ground to keep from toppling.

He looked up.

Smoke curled from his chest, and a crack slithered down the length of his gauntlet.

He looked… stunned.

Not hurt badly.

But surprised.

He didn't expect that.

He hadn't known the clones could self-detonate like that.

The rest had fallen and didn't explode.

So why was this one different?

Malik's mind began working fast.

Was it done on purpose—to knock him off balance?

If that was the case… where was—

As soon as the thought surfaced, Malik felt it.

A presence.

Right behind him.

Silent as a ghost.

No footsteps.

No sound.

Malik turned instinctively—arms flaring, fire ready to explode outward.

But he was too slow.

Alex was one step ahead.

His voice cut the air with sharp finality:

"[Dominus]."

Malik stopped.

Completely.

His body locked mid-turn, hands raised in vain.

His flames stuttered.

His aura rippled once… then halted, as if every element of his existence had been paused.

This wasn't like the [Chronos Field] Alex had used against Sylen that halted time.

It was more precise.

More personal.

A move that pressed an overwhelming amount of paralytic pressure on its target.

Malik's pupils dilated.

His body still breathed.

His heart still pounded.

But he couldn't move.

Couldn't even try to move.

His muscles ignored him.

His instincts screamed in rebellion, but his limbs betrayed nothing.

A roar began to rise in his mind.

Rage.

Panic.

Desperation.

How many more skills does this bastard have?

His aura surged wildly, flaring in chaotic bursts—trying to brute-force the suppression.

But nothing broke.

Not yet.

Alex stepped forward.

His eyes pulsed with golden radiance—cold, quiet, merciless.

He drew his blade, and it hummed with restrained energy—silent power woven into steel, like a tuning fork made of celestial ore.

The audience watching froze.

Some couldn't breathe at the sight they were seeing.

They couldn't believe Malik was about to fall.

Others mouthed silent words.

"No way."

"No way."

There was no way Malik—the Flame Demon—was about to fall this easily.

Alex didn't care though.

He raised his sword.

No flourish.

No speech.

Just one line.

"Good fight."

A whisper—more out of courtesy than sentiment.

He swung immediately in a clean motion.

The blade moved in a perfect arc—

And it connected.

SHHHHNK!

The sound wasn't loud.

But it was sharp.

Like silk being cut.

A thin red line traced itself across Malik's neck.

And his body remained still.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

A breath later—

His head detached from his neck in one smooth motion, spinning midair, eyes wide—not in fear, but in stunned disbelief.

And a spray of crimson followed.