Apocalypse Baby

Kael's voice echoed like thunder through the arena:

"No matter what you do—DON'T KILL HIM!"

The Proctor's expression didn't shift—at least, not right away.

But behind the faint glow of his crescent-tipped helm, his gaze darkened.

He hovered midair above the scorched battlefield, still as stone. His cloak of astral silk drifted slowly, tugged by the rising heat and the unnatural winds spiraling from the corrupted crater below.

The Doom Beast snarled beneath him. Tendrils lashed out in every direction, writhing like living cables, veins of blackened smoke coiling with violent intent.

The Proctor had heard the voice clearly.

And he knew exactly who it belonged to.

Kael.

A general of the Demon King.

His eyes narrowed behind the magic-veiled helm.

It made sense now. Malik was a demon prince. Kael wouldn't want him dead.

But what Kael wanted didn't matter.

Because whatever that thing was down there... it wasn't Malik anymore.

His soul had been hollowed out.

What remained was a husk—reanimated, twisted, corrupted.

Possessed by something older.

Something far worse than any Demon King.

A Doom Beast.

And Doom Beasts didn't get second chances.

They didn't get mercy.

They got erased.

The Proctor's grip tightened around his staff.

Still...

He hesitated.

Not out of pity. Not for Malik.

But because destroying a Doom Beast now—here, in the middle of the arena—meant losing critical answers.

How had it breached the stratum's protection?

Why now, of all times?

Had it been hiding within Malik this entire time?

Were there more like it?

What even were Doom Beasts at their core?

He had no answers.

And answers, right now, mattered more than pride, politics, or even Kael's threats.

The Proctor exhaled slowly. Vapor escaped his lips like mist, trailing threads of divine light.

He would capture it.

---

The Doom Beast moved first.

Tendrils exploded from its back like spears of living ink, each one slicing through the air with the hiss of ruptured pressure. Dozens of them came, pulsing with corruption, distorting the space they passed through.

The Proctor responded in a blink.

His staff gleamed—its crescent-shaped blade pulsing brighter than a dying sun. He raised it skyward, and light cascaded down from the heavens.

A radiant coil of divine energy dropped like celestial chains, spiraling in golden rings. They struck the tendrils mid-air—

CRACK!

CRASH!

Light and shadow detonated on contact.

The arena shuddered as tendrils shrieked, twisted, and resisted.

But the Proctor was faster. He plunged his staff into the earth.

Scripted runes embedded throughout the arena lit up—glowing with ancient celestial law.

A dome of searing light formed around the Doom Beast, rings of divine judgment constricting tighter.

The creature howled, body mutating, limbs surging with void-black flame.

Then—

BOOM!

A pulse erupted from its core—black fire laced with ash and decay exploded outward, a shockwave of corrosive energy tearing through the battlefield.

The Proctor's barrier held—mostly.

But the force still knocked him back in midair, his robes trailing streaks of golden fire as he flipped once and landed upright on a floating platform of light.

He looked down.

The Doom Beast stood again at the crater's center, panting, twitching, and glowing with violent power. Its tendrils had reformed—shorter, but sharper. Tighter. Controlled.

That's when the Proctor noticed it.

It wasn't just rampaging blindly anymore.

It was adapting.

Refining its movements. Studying him.

And worse—it was beginning to use Malik's abilities.

The tendrils snapped outward. A massive serpent erupted from beneath the arena floor, built entirely of black fire and molten smoke. It coiled protectively around the Doom Beast, hissing, its infernal roar shattering nearby stone.

Then, from the creature's shoulders, a dozen flaming lances burst forth—each one streaking through the air like a heat-seeking missile.

The Proctor deflected them with expert precision, his staff moving like a blur of light.

But even so, the heat scorched the runes etched into his armor.

The Doom Beast hadn't just stolen Malik's power.

It had merged with it.

Adapted to it.

Evolved beyond what either had been alone.

The Proctor grimaced.

Capturing it had just become a lot harder.

---

And then—again—that voice thundered across the arena.

Kael.

Still behind the divine barrier, fists pounding furiously.

"DON'T KILL HIM! DO YOU HEAR ME?!" he roared.

"HE IS THE HEIR TO THE DEMON RACE! IF HE DIES, THE DEMON KING WILL RAZE THIS REALM! KEEP HIM ALIVE!"

Kael slammed the barrier again.

"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!"

The Proctor didn't respond.

Didn't even glance his way.

He wasn't about to waste breath arguing with a wall.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned ten celestial blades—each forged from compressed starlight, glimmering with divine resonance.

And then he charged.

---

The sky convulsed.

Light and shadow clashed like titans.

Every strike of the Proctor's blade against the Doom Beast's claws shattered the arena's foundation.

Black ichor sprayed into the air, burning holes wherever it landed.

The Doom Beast fought like a natural disaster—brute force, zero restraint, no finesse.

Just raw chaos.

The Proctor ducked beneath a claw, spun under the serpent's lashing tail, and brought his staff down onto the Doom Beast's shoulder.

CRACK!

A burst of divine law surged into the creature—severing three tendrils in one blow.

But the stumps twitched. And began regrowing. Instantly.

"Dammit..." the Proctor hissed, retreating through the air, his staff pulsing with strain.

"It's evolving too fast."

He was pulling his punches—he had to.

A full-force divine strike would obliterate it.

But the Doom Beast wasn't giving him any choice.

And he still needed it alive.

Not just for answers.

But because of him.

Alex Knight.

Still on the arena floor. Still watching.

Normally, the Proctor would've teleported him out of harm's way already. But that required a few seconds of uninterrupted casting—and the Doom Beast wasn't offering that luxury.

He clenched his jaw.

Alex was still there, the damn reckless fool.

Just like the others in this trial—impulsive, cocky.

But... not unaware.

The boy wasn't panicking.

He was watching.

Studying.

Analyzing.

His stance was low.

Breathing measured.

Eyes locked on the fight—tracking every movement.

Because he wasn't planning to run.

He was waiting.

Looking for an opening.

Hunting.

He wanted the kill.

He understood the kind of reward a Doom Beast would yield—especially at his level.

It wouldn't be minor. Not by a long shot.

And somewhere between the thrill of challenge and the pull of greed, Alex's decision had solidified.

He wasn't just staying to survive.

He was staying to win.

In this world of systems and survival, he knew the rule carved into every survivor's bones:

Fortune favors the bold.