Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 296: Dread Awakens

Sylen's eyes widened as he realized the behemoth standing at the center of the arena had disappeared.

His strategy had been simple:

Let the shadow knights handle the clones while he faced the Archfiend himself, backed by Noctherion.

That was the plan.

But...

The Archfiend had other ideas.

With a sizzling blitz, the fiend moved—and the moment it did, the world shook.

BOOM!

A thunderous crack split the air as shockwaves blasted outward, the pressure alone sending lesser shadow summons flying like debris in a hurricane.

Varkos had vanished.

In Sylen's vision, the fiend disappeared—one frame to the next.

Then reappeared.

Right in front of him.

Cackling with lightning.

Void energy arced across Varkos' monstrous body as it raised its enormous blade and swung with devastating force.

The strike came from above, aiming to cleave him in half.

But Sylen, though shaken, didn't move.

He didn't need to.

Noctherion had already reacted.

The ancient summon jerked into motion, responding to the incoming deathblow before Sylen could.

A dozen Buddha Hands exploded outward in a flash—one intercepting the slash, the others retaliating in a synchronized barrage.

BOOM!!!

The arena trembled as fists and blades collided.

A shockwave burst from the point of contact, the air compressing into concussive rings of pressure.

The deity's arms moved like a machine—blades spinning, fists punching in perfect rhythm.

They struck the fiend with such velocity that even the Archfiend staggered.

Then—

Varkos was split.

One clean vertical slice tore him from shoulder to hip, followed by a devastating cross-strike from three separate directions.

The fiend detonated mid-air in a violent explosion of arcane gore and lightning.

Sylen exhaled sharply, relieved the fiend was done for.

He was still trembling from the shock of the Archfiend suddenly appearing before him.

But...

It seemed it wasn't as strong as he believed.

Or so he thought.

Before the smoke cleared, a low hum rumbled from within the destruction.

The scattered chunks of the fiend's body began to twitch.

Then slither.

Flesh and armor fragments pulled toward each other like magnets drawn by some unseen force.

Tendrils of black, abyssal matter snaked from the pieces—thick cords of reformation magic dragging everything back together.

A shoulder slammed into a torso with a sickening crack.

A head spun and clicked into place, its helm reforming with fiery runes flashing to life.

The broken chains reattached—hissing and snapping with spectral force.

And standing in the heart of it all was Varkos, fully reformed.

Whole—and furious.

From his mouth, a pulsing light began to form.

A glowing orb of raw energy.

Bright.

Violent.

Alive.

It hovered just ahead of his fanged jaw, spinning rapidly, charging with growing menace.

Lightning curled around it, arcing in thick bolts.

Arcane symbols ignited in the air around the sphere, spinning like ancient gears locking into place.

The air vibrated.

The pressure mounted.

And the energy orb kept expanding—unstable, furious, and deadly. The power was growing by the second.

Sylen's breath caught.

"What the hell is this cursed thing?"

There was no time to second-guess.

He reached into his coat and yanked out a black orb—

The one he swore he wouldn't use until Malik.

But beyond the fiend in front of him, he still had to face Alex and his clone, whom the shadow knights were barely holding back.

He didn't have the privilege of restraint.

This was survival.

"Screw this."

Sylen crushed the orb.

CRACK!

A deafening roar tore through the air as the orb shattered like brittle glass.

The ground dimmed.

Darkness surged upward like a geyser from the point of impact.

From it, a new figure emerged—tall, regal, cloaked in jagged shadow armor. A tattered black banner fluttered behind him, moving even in still air.

Eyes glowed deep crimson beneath a helm shaped like a death mask.

In his left hand: a blade of midnight.

In his right: a colossal shield with the face of a screaming skull.

This summon was known as Dread Lord.

Sylen dropped to one knee, coughing, hand pressed to his chest.

Summoning Dread Lord had come at a price—a chunk of his own health, stolen by the blood pact required to drag the creature through the veil of its realm.

But as he looked up at the towering knight, Sylen knew:

It was worth it.

With this—and Noctherion—he might just win.

Varkos had finished charging its attack.

The orb in front of the fiend's mouth glowed like a second sun—condensed and vibrating.

Then—

Varkos fired.

WHOOOOM!!!

A devastating beam of lightning, void, and compressed arcane force exploded forward like a railgun from hell.

The blast screamed through the air—a solid lance of destruction aimed straight at Sylen.

But Dread Lord moved.

One massive step.

Then another.

He slid into the path—shield raised just in time.

BOOOOOOOM!!!

The impact landed like a comet. The shockwave ripped the air apart, and the ground fractured violently like glass.

Even the arena's protective barriers flickered, their glow dimming under the strain.

Dust exploded, turning the battlefield into a swirling storm.

Seconds passed.

Then the haze thinned.

And through it—

The Dread Lord still stood.

Barely.

His right arm was gone.

Vaporized.

A massive chunk of his side had been obliterated.

The shield—once flawless—now sagged, melted and cracked like slag metal pulled from a forge.

But he had held.

He had taken the hit.

And his master—Sylen—was still alive.

Still breathing.

Though his chest rose and fell in sharp gasps, Sylen's eyes narrowed behind the helm of his shadow armor.

"Damn it," he cursed through clenched teeth.

But he didn't pause.

Didn't hesitate.

His fingers moved fast—weaving energy with precise discipline.

A longbow formed in his grasp—dark, sleek, carved from pure death aura.

With a snap of his other hand, he conjured a single arrow.

It clicked into place.

Thin.

Sharp.

Pulsing with condensed shadow energy.

He pulled back the string and took aim.

Then released.

FWOOOM!

The arrow screamed through the air, black lightning trailing its path—headed straight for Varkos' skull.

But the Archfiend didn't react.

He watched it come.

And just before impact—

He tilted his head.

Casually.

The arrow sliced past his cheek, missing by inches.

Then, slowly, he turned his face back forward.

And smiled.

A savage grin stretching across his monstrous lips.

He was enjoying this.