Apocalypse Baby

The Doom Beast veered mid-charge.

One moment, it was locked in a brutal dance with the Proctor—dodging arcs of celestial light, retaliating with tendrils laced in Malik's burning fury—and the next, it twisted violently, its entire body pivoting toward a new target.

Alex.

The arena trembled under the sudden shift.

Its clawed feet gouged into the scorched floor of the crater, tearing up chunks of molten stone that scattered like shrapnel.

Black flame surged along its spine, pulsing erratically.

The beast's eyes, once filled with madness, now glowed with single-minded hatred.

This wasn't strategy.

It wasn't survival.

This was desperation.

It wanted to drag someone—anyone—down with it before it died.

The Proctor's eyes widened in alarm.

"No!"

His voice cracked across the arena like thunder.

He had warned the boy.

Told him to leave.

To escape while he still could.

To live.

But Alex hadn't listened.

Now the Proctor watched helplessly as the Doom Beast thundered toward him.

His staff still brimmed with divine power, but he was too far.

Too late.

Even as his legs moved instinctively, launching him forward, he knew the truth:

He wouldn't make it in time.

Alex didn't retreat.

He stepped forward.

The cracked stone beneath his feet groaned as he planted himself. Shoulders squared. Blade drawn. Eyes calm. Not fixed on the monster's flames. Not on the terror bearing down on him.

He focused on a single point.

An opening.

[Godeyes] activated.

Time fractured.

Slowed.

The world melted into data and divine instinct.

Trajectories bloomed in his vision. Vector lines arced through the air. Speed curves traced the beast's momentum. Pressure readings mapped each micro-movement—the slight twist in its torso, the delay in its left claw, the rotation of its leading shoulder.

And among the thousands of calculations, Alex saw it:

One path. One move. One chance.

Guaranteed to finish off the doom beast.

Every other outcome ended in him losing the oppurnity to finish off the beast.

But that single line—thin as a blade's edge—was victory.

He exhaled slowly, letting fear drain with his breath.

This was it.

The moment.

His hands gripped the hilt of Doom Slayer.

The sword responded like it had been waiting. It trembled once in his grasp—then came alive. Golden light surged across its surface, ancient script flickering into view. Not words of a known language, but truths he instinctively understood.

This was more than a weapon.

It was judgment incarnate.

Power hummed up through his arms, his spine, his core. Not like fire. Not like adrenaline.

Like alignment.

As if—for just this instant—Alex and the blade were one being.

Every skill he had earned.

Every stat he had grinded for.

Every scar that marked his journey.

They all converged into a single, focused point of action.

The Doom Beast lunged.

Claws extended.

Flames trailing like the tail of a comet.

Alex moved.

The slash was silent.

There was no roar. No fanfare.

Just a single, perfect arc of gold that cut through space, so bright the world turned white for a heartbeat.

The blade passed clean through the charging creature, from left shoulder to right hip.

No resistance.

No drag.

No delay.

The beast's body didn't even react immediately. Momentum carried it forward another half-second.

Then it stopped.

Dead still.

Silence blanketed the arena.

The Proctor froze mid-stride, eyes wide, staff forgotten in his hand. Its divine glow dimmed slightly, eclipsed by the radiance of the blade now cooling in Alex's grip.

That aura…

He stared at the sword.

Not just enchanted.

Not even mythical.

Divine-tier.

Forged for one purpose: to end things the system feared.

And this boy, this mortal, barely past his second trial, had wielded it with a synchronicity that bordered on the impossible.

"...Impossible," Elion whispered under his breath.

Across the battlefield, behind the divine barrier, Kael stumbled back a step. His palm pressed against the glass-like wall, knuckles white.

"Malik…" he muttered. Rage flickered in his voice, but it was tangled with something else. Disbelief. Loss. Grief.

His prince.

The strongest of the Demon King's bloodline.

Gone—cleaved apart—and he hadn't been able to stop it.

High above, in the celestial viewing gallery, the gods had grown still.

The amethyst-robed goddess with the twin voices leaned forward.

"That sword…" one voice murmured.

"Doom Slayer," replied another deity with pale skin and burning eyes. "It awakened."

"But wielded by a mortal of this level… in perfect harmony?"

"It shouldn't be possible."

From the shadows, a third deity, eyes black as obsidian, allowed a thin smile to stretch across his granite face.

"And yet… it happened."

No one else spoke.

No one dared.

Because what they had just witnessed proved something that frightened even the divine.

Alex was different.

And now they all wanted him.

The Doom Beast remained frozen.

Inches from Alex.

Its claws still raised.

Its mouth mid-snarl.

Then, a thin line of light spread across its chest, from shoulder to hip.

The trail of the slash.

The line deepened.

Widened.

And then the body broke.

No roar.

No final scream.

Just silence.

Its upper half slid one way. Its lower half the other. Both halves disintegrated into fine black ash before they hit the ground.

A cloud of smoke burst outward—thick, toxic, filled with lingering corruption.

And then even that began to unravel.

The smoke thinned.

Sparkled.

And dissolved—like the last breath of a dying star.

In that fading light, Alex saw it.

Malik's face.

Just for a moment.

The monstrous features stripped away.

Just a young man beneath it all.

Eyes hollow.

Expression blank.

But no longer hostile.

Just… tired.

Just… free.

And then he, too, turned to dust.

Alex exhaled.

His body trembled—not from fear, but from the aftershock of raw power coursing through his limbs.

The sword's glow dimmed, becoming a gentle hum.

He let the blade lower, its tip embedding itself into the cracked stone floor as he caught his breath.

Smoke drifted from his shoulders. His clothes were singed at the edges. Every muscle ached from the strain.

But he was still standing.

Across the arena, the Proctor approached—silent, staff lowered, expression unreadable.

No words were exchanged.

But in his eyes, Alex saw it.

Recognition. Respect.

Alex didn't bask in it.

He just turned his head, breathing slowly, heart pounding.

And then—

DING.

A series of system notifications burst into his vision like a meteor shower.