Apocalypse Baby

Malik's head tumbled through the air, severed clean, blood fanning outward in a graceful, high arc. The droplets caught the arena lights like scattered rubies, shimmering as they curved through open space.

For a breathless moment, the world held its breath.

The silence, fractured the instant Alex's blade had struck, now stretched into something unnatural—time itself felt suspended, frozen around the grisly display. Malik's head turned end over end midair, like a grotesque coin caught in slow motion.

Then—everything changed.

It stopped.

The blood mid-flight didn't fall. It ignited.

Not like fire licking dry wood, but like will made manifest. Like the soul behind it refused to die.

Each crimson droplet recoiled, yanked backward in defiance of gravity, as if flame itself was calling its master home. The arc reversed, snapping inward like molten elastic rewinding.

With a sound that didn't belong in this world—a bone-deep crack, sharp and final—Malik's spine reconnected. The head slammed into the neck with brutal precision, locking into place with a pulse of hellish heat.

His eyes flared open before the motion even finished, pupils glowing like open furnaces. A ragged hiss of breath flooded into his lungs.

He was alive.

More than alive—he was burning.

And the ground responded.

Beneath them, the cracked stone lit up with spiraling runes—Infernal glyphs no mortal tongue could comprehend. They pulsed red-orange, then—

FWOOM!

A vortex of fire exploded upward, engulfing both fighters in a violent spiral of radiant death. The entire stage became a volcano—erupting into a tower of blaze so intense the audience behind reinforced shielding still felt their skin prickle and vision blur.

The light was searing.

The heat unbearable.

The crowd reeled, pulled between awe and disbelief.

One moment Malik was dead. The next, he was alive, and had counterattacked.

Insanity.

From the core of the flames, a figure shot out.

Malik.

He erupted like a meteor, trailing a cloak of ash and embers behind him, landing hard on the far end of the field. His boots skidded against the stone, smoke rolling off his armor. He was panting. Barely keeping his balance.

But his eyes—they stayed locked on the inferno.

He watched.

Waiting.

"That… should at least cause something," he muttered between breaths, eyes flicking across the firestorm.

The flames danced.

Then died.

And there, standing at the center of the burned-out vortex, completely untouched, was Alex.

Unharmed.

Unburned.

Unmoved.

A faint golden dome shimmered around him, glowing with celestial defiance.

[Aegis Arcane].

The shield hummed gently, repelling the final flickers of flame before it dimmed and faded, revealing Alex's figure. Calm. Composed. His armor gleamed, unmarred by Malik's resurrection and counterstrike.

He tilted his head slightly. Voice cool. Low.

"Was that supposed to hurt?"

The crowd exploded. Again.

They couldn't keep up anymore. What was this fight?

One minute, death. The next, revival. Firestorms. Shielding magic. Smug remarks.

The match was chaos—brilliant, explosive chaos.

And neither fighter had even drawn blood.

Malik didn't care about the cheers. They meant nothing now.

All his focus was honed in on one point.

Alex.

Still standing. Still unreadable. Still calm.

As if the real fight hadn't even started.

Malik's lip curled. "You smug little bastard."

He wanted to scream.

His hands trembled—not from fear, but fury. Pure, heated rage that threatened to crack through his control.

But he didn't scream.

He couldn't.

Because deep in his chest, buried beneath the boiling anger, something else stirred.

Recognition.

Grugrim had been right.

Alex wasn't just powerful.

He was superior.

And that simple truth gnawed at Malik's pride.

But strength wasn't everything.

Malik clenched his fists tighter, flame seeping from between his fingers like leaking lava. If strength wouldn't win this—then strategy would. Tact would.

And tact told him one thing.

Now was the time.

He slammed both palms against the scorched arena floor, and a roar erupted—not from his mouth, but from the very world around them.

His voice dropped into a language older than sin, a demonic tongue twisted by time. Every syllable warped the air, bending the gravity around them.

Reality bent.

The arena groaned.

The stone cracked underfoot, and the sky seemed to bleed.

Alex's eyes narrowed.

He muttered under his breath, intrigued.

*Now we're talking.*

Malik raised his head.

A trail of fire curled from his lips as he switched back to the human tongue.

"Domain of the Infernal Throne."

BOOOOOOM!

The world detonated.

But not outward—upward.

Obsidian spires erupted from the ground like jagged spears, clawing toward the heavens. Flame spiraled into the air in violent tornadoes, painting the sky in crimson. Magma flowed upward in reverse—veins of molten fury weaving a tapestry of hell itself.

Gravity flipped.

The arena transformed.

And the sky turned black-red.

Ash rained down.

Smoke churned.

The light shifted to a golden-sulfur hue, casting the world in sickly, oppressive heat.

And then—

A crown.

A burning halo of fire and conquest hovered above Malik's head.

It pulsed with rhythm—each beat aligned with his heart. A signal. A declaration.

The Infernal Throne had descended.

Malik stood at the center of it, surrounded by rivers of reversed magma, pillars of flame, and a swirling furnace of smoke and ash. His armor shimmered like freshly forged steel. His aura stretched wide, claiming the space as his own.

And Alex—

He stood still.

Right in the center of it all.

Steam hissed off his body—not from burning, but from resistance. The very air rejected him now. Even [Aegis Arcane] flickered, less stable. Less certain.

This wasn't heat anymore.

This was dominion.

This was sovereignty.

Malik began walking.

Every step hissed against the molten stone.

He walked not like a fighter—but like a king returning to his throne.

This was his realm now. A space where every flame obeyed, every law bent to his design. Inside the Domain of the Infernal Throne, Malik's power increased fivefold. Every strike would land. The world itself fought on his behalf. Terrain bent to his will. Laws of physics bowed to him.

And more importantly—

No one who had entered his domain had ever left alive.

Even those with their own domains had failed to overwrite his.

And Alex despite being powerful--stupidly powerful--was a tutorial player.

Malik was sure he didn't possess a domain of his own, which meant he couldn't counter his.

Alex still didn't move.

Didn't speak.

He simply watched, as Malik closed the distance.

Every atom of this new world pressed inward. The pressure now wasn't physical—it was spiritual. It dug beneath skin and muscle, curling around bone, gnawing at the soul.

Alex breathed slow.

One step forward.

Then another.

Steam rolled off his shoulders. He looked calm—but inside, he felt it.

This… was real danger.

This was no longer a game.

[Aegis Arcane] wouldn't hold forever. And even with his immunity to flame—this domain bit deeper. It pressed against his very core.

Malik stopped twenty feet away.

Flame coiled around his arms like serpents, hissing, waiting for command.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

Lethal.

Cold.

"Let's see you survive this."