Apocalypse Baby

The Proctor descended in arcs of divine light, his crescent-tipped staff cleaving through air, through flame, through the corrupted essence of the beast below.

Each swing traced glowing runes into the sky.

Each parry cracked the sound barrier.

The Doom Beast howled—its form cloaked in writhing smoke and pulsing flames. Malik's flames.

Twisted. Mutated.

The tendrils lashed like molten whips, searing craters into the arena floor with every miss.

The Proctor's feet never touched the ground.

He moved through the air like a dancer—defensive, controlled, graceful.

He wasn't aiming to destroy.

Not yet.

He was still trying to suppress. To capture.

He spun midair, divine chains spiraling from his staff. They latched onto the beast's arm and cinched tight with a hiss of burning light.

But the creature didn't slow.

With brute force, it shattered the chains—unleashing a blast of black fire in retaliation.

The Proctor was knocked back midair, skidding along a path of light, eyes narrowing.

It's adapting faster.

Then a ripple passed through his helm.

A pulse of divine pressure.

His eyes flickered as a voice echoed directly into his mind.

> "Proctor Elion. What are you doing?"

The voice belonged to his superior.

> "One of the combatants has been possessed by a Doom Beast. I'm attempting to capture it for questioning."

> "Capture?"

> There was disbelief in the reply.

> "Have you lost your mind?"

Elion stiffened at the cold edge in the voice.

> "You want to capture a Doom Beast?"

It was unheard of.

Doom Beasts were kill-on-sight threats. No trial. No containment.

And yet Elion, a senior Proctor, was trying to preserve one.

He opened his mouth to respond—

But the voice cut him off.

> "You are hereby ordered to cease all containment protocols. The subject is classified as unrecoverable. Eliminate it immediately. No further delays."

Elion's fingers tightened around the staff.

His jaw clenched.

He didn't respond.

Didn't argue.

But his posture shifted.

Slowly, he raised the staff vertically—then flipped it into a reverse grip, both hands wrapping around the hilt.

The crescent blade ignited with searing golden fire.

As much as he disagreed, he couldn't disobey. Not without consequences that would ripple far beyond this arena.

So if he had to follow orders...

He'd do it properly.

---

Alex noticed the shift instantly.

From the edge of the crater, he watched the Proctor's aura explode outward. No longer restrained. No longer patient.

Now it burned like a miniature sun.

Every swing of his staff became a meteor.

Every impact carved glowing trenches into the stone.

The Doom Beast reeled, overwhelmed.

Its armored limbs cracked.

Tendrils were severed.

The infernal serpent it had summoned earlier was incinerated in a single sweep of Elion's golden arc.

"Damn…" Alex muttered, his grip tightening around the hilt of Doom Slayer.

He could feel it humming—still resonating, still begging to be drawn.

To be unleashed.

But the moment was slipping away.

The Doom Beast—once an unstoppable force—was now being dismantled.

And when it died, so would Alex's shot at the kind of reward the system might grant for slaying a Doom-class entity.

A knot of frustration tightened in his throat.

Then—

His vision shifted.

Everything slowed.

Godeyes activated.

The world fractured into a thousand ghostly echoes.

In the center, he saw ten seconds into the future.

He watched it unfold:

The Proctor raised his staff for the final blow.

The Doom Beast staggered.

Then—at the very last instant—it pivoted.

Its broken body twisted violently, dodging the strike, and lunged.

Not at the Proctor.

At him.

Alex blinked. The vision ended.

But its imprint lingered.

He grinned.

It's coming for me.

His heart thumped once.

Then again, louder.

He triggered Godeyes again—this time not for foresight, but precision.

He scanned trajectories.

Speed curves.

Momentum vectors.

Tracked each tendon twitch, every muscle coil.

Even the Proctor's swing arc, estimating the exact window the beast would use to escape.

The Doom Beast was stronger now, warped and burning with Malik's stolen flame.

Faster than before.

Back then, Alex could barely react.

Now? He'd need to be perfect.

He gritted his teeth.

He had two choices:

Run to the portal and let the Proctor finish the job...

Or brace himself and take the shot.

The calculations danced in his vision.

His stats—doubled by Doom Slayer.

His reaction window—enhanced by Godeyes.

If he struck first—deliberate, clean—he could land the killing blow before the Beast's full weight crashed into him.

Risky?

Absolutely.

But the reward?

It might just be worth it.

His lips curled into a reckless smile.

---

Across the battlefield, the Doom Beast shrieked.

Originally, it had inhabited a vessel named Vess—a walking tree-like entity. It had used her as a disguise to sneak into the final round of the Legacy Trial.

But Vess had been outmatched. Burned alive by Malik.

Before her destruction, she had passed the Doom essence into him.

And then... it had waited.

Waited for Malik to claim victory and advance.

But Malik lost.

The Doom Beast had no choice. It moved to consume the broken prince. To wear him as its next disguise and win against Alex.

But Malik had resisted—fighting from within.

The internal struggle forced the Doom Beast to reveal itself.

Now, the Proctor was preparing to end it.

In its fractured awareness, the Doom Beast accepted a truth:

It would not survive.

So it did what Doom Beasts were known for when cornered.

Die—but take something down with it.

And its target was obvious.

Alex Knight.

An obstacle. A thorn.

If not for Alex's interference, Malik would've won. Would've moved on.

But now—because of him—it was cornered.

Escape was no longer an option.

The Proctor's next blow would end everything.

Unless it struck first.

It turned.

And it saw him.

Alex.

Isolated. Exposed.

Perfect.

Killing Alex wouldn't just be easier than facing the Proctor again—it would be satisfying.

With a warped shriek, it twisted mid-lunge, dodging the Proctor's arc by a sliver—

And launched itself at Alex like a meteor of black fire and fury.

The Proctor's eyes widened in alarm.

He shouted a warning—too late.

But...

Alex was already in position.

His feet were planted.

His sword was angled diagonally, the edge gleaming with restrained violence.

His aura was pressed tight to his skin.

His breathing was steady.

A slow, knowing grin spreading across his face