Apocalypse Baby

For one fleeting second, the entire arena held its breath.

The silence wasn't born of peace. It was the sound of the minds of thousands failing to comprehend what they were witnessing.

At first, Malik's body had only twitched, convulsing with sickening spasms. But then it ripped—flesh tearing open as veins of smoke burst forth like living rot. His bones cracked, his form bulged unnaturally, and something inside him—something ancient, foul, and wrong—forced its way to the surface.

And then came the roar.

It wasn't a sound made for mortal ears. It crashed like a tidal wave of corrosion, an auditory scream soaked in ruin and despair. The protective barrier shuddered visibly as the Doom Beast's power slammed into it, unleashing a sickly green shockwave that turned the air to ash and fire.

The silence shattered like glass.

Panic erupted instantly.

Screams tore from every direction as the crowd broke into chaos. Spectators shoved past one another, tripping over seats and barriers in a desperate scramble to flee. Some moved on instinct—survival overriding dignity—while others froze entirely, too paralyzed to move, their eyes locked on the horror unfolding in the ring below.

Not all fled.

A few stood their ground, knowing that the barrier would hold, trusting that the Proctor would handle it after all, if they left they wouldn't be able to watch the final round of the legacy trial.

And then there were the curious—those whose eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in fascination. They stared at the warped thing Malik had become, transfixed by the grotesque majesty of its transformation.

Most of them had never seen a Doom Beast before.

Many didn't even know what one was.

Which made the confusion all the worse. The reaction across the stadium was fractured—driven not just by fear, but by knowledge, or the lack thereof.

Some recognized the signs instantly and turned pale, knowing the kind of devastation Doom Beasts could bring. They wasted no time. Exit tokens lit up like flares across the stands as dozens, then hundreds, chose the only rational option—get out.

But others lingered.

Questions buzzed in the air, frantic and breathless.

"Wh-What is that thing?!"

"It can't be real. That… that came from Malik?! How?!"

"Did the Proctor miss it? Or was it hiding in him this whole time?!"

"If it's here… then what about the other matches? The other stratum—are they under attack too?!"

Speculation became dread.

Dread became chaos.

And amidst it all, a hooded scholar near the front row screamed above the panic, "This might not be the only one! It could be an invasion!"

Someone nearby grunted, "Yeah? Then screw this. I'm out."

With a flick of their wrist, their exit token activated, and they vanished in a flash of golden light.

Meanwhile, far above the chaos, in a sanctuary of serenity, the divine gallery remained still.

Here, separated by a wall of celestial glass, gods, immortals, and astral sovereigns watched in silence. Draped in auras that bent light and rippled through space, they observed the mortal arena below like distant stars watching a dying world.

No panic. No fear.

Only observation.

One deity, cloaked in flames of slow-turning amethyst, finally broke the silence. Their voice was not one, but many—layered, harmonic, eternal.

"This one is young. A fledgling. The lowest class of Doom Beasts."

Another, adorned in jeweled armor and crowned by a helm of obsidian, responded calmly. "The Proctor is capable. Intervention would be premature."

A third, skin shimmering like a polished pearl, narrowed her eyes at the screen. Her voice was wind against crystal. "We cannot interfere regardless. The wards are sealed. The barrier holds."

They all knew the rules.

The areba were protected from divine tampering by barriers made by the Rulers. Intervention was forbidden. What unfolded within the arena—no matter how horrifying—was beyond even their reach.

And yet, for all their calm, their eyes drifted to one figure:

Alex Knight.

He stood unflinching, not in retreat, but in readiness. His posture was coiled, prepared. His gaze was locked on the beast, not in terror, but calculation.

He didn't yet understand what his presence meant.

He didn't know the attention he had drawn.

But the gods did.

And they watched him with something dangerous desires in their silence.

—

In a separate viewing platform—not divine, but elevated all the same—a figure gripped the railing so tightly the metal groaned under the strain.

Kael, General of the Demon King's Legions, stood frozen. His black-and-gold armor glinted under the gallery lights, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief.

He had watched Malik's fight against Alex unfold with cold precision. The boy had impressed him, even as he defeated Malik. It had been a clean, powerful loss—one Malik could learn from.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

He didn't recognize what Malik had become. And that terrified him more than anything.

Kael moved without thinking. Shoving aside nobles and guards, parting the crowd like a scythe through wheat, he advanced to the barrier's edge, armor clanking, cape trailing like a thundercloud.

He stared down at the malformed beast Malik had become—his lips parting, his breath shaky.

"No…"

Smoke veins coiled through muscle and bone. Eyes like molten glass flickered beneath a skin that no longer belonged to any mortal race.

Kael's voice cracked. "How… how did this happen?"

Malik had been special.

Chosen.

Forged in blood rituals and Voidfire. Sculpted to become more than a warrior—a future heir. A cornerstone of the Demon King's long plan.

And now… he was something else.

Possessed. Twisted. Consumed.

But not fully.

Not yet.

Kael's eyes narrowed. The transformation wasn't complete. There was still a sliver of Malik left. Maybe.

He drew his blade in a single motion. A jagged, black greatsword pulsing with crimson flame. With a roar, he raised it—and brought it down hard against the divine barrier.

CLANG!

The sound rang out like a cathedral bell being struck by a warhammer.

The barrier shimmered. But didn't break.

Again.

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

He struck it over and over, desperate, furious, wild. The celestial glass absorbed each blow like it was nothing. Unmoved. Untouched.

Kael dropped the sword, letting it clang to the floor as he staggered back, chest heaving.

His voice came out like gravel soaked in blood. "If the Proctor kills him…"

He trailed off.

The implication was clear.

Malik's death wouldn't just be a failure. It would be a catastrophe. A betrayal of years of preparation. An affront to the Demon King's ambitions.

One Kael wouldn't survive.

He staggered back to the edge, trembling hands pressed against the invisible wall.

Below, the Proctor raised his staff, light swirling at its tip. The Doom Beast was growing faster, more erratic, more dangerous.

And Alex?

Still hadn't moved.

Kael saw the decision forming in the Proctor's stance.

There was no time left.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He screamed.

"NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO—"

His voice pierced through the wards, through the roar of the beast, through the hum of magic thick in the air.

The Proctor turned slightly, eyes flicking up toward the source.

Kael's voice tore from his throat one last time, soaked in desperation, fury, and fear.

"DON'T KILL HIM!"