Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 297: Pressure
Sylen froze.
Not because of the lightning crackling around the fiend.
Not because of the movement speed or the regeneration it displayed.
But because of the expression on its face.
The Archfiend had dodged his last attack without effort—like it was a joke—and now its eyes glowed with manic delight.
ROOOAAR!!!
A monstrous bellow ripped through the battlefield, and the Dread Lord, still staggering from the earlier hit, lifted its massive blade—and then charged.
At the same time, Sylen snapped out of his daze and yanked back the dark string of his bow, forged from death itself, preparing another shot.
But—
Lightning exploded from Varkos' body, and a violet streak tore through the space between them.
WHOOOOM!!!
Varkos vanished—
And then reappeared mid-sprint, a blur of pure destruction, blasting past the still-recovering Dread Lord like it was nothing.
Chunks of stone flew into the air as the Archfiend rocketed forward—a living missile aimed straight at Sylen.
Sylen flinched slightly, then moved.
His fingers twisted.
The longbow in his hand melted into shadows, black smoke curling and reshaping it in an instant.
In its place—a sword.
Not just any sword.
A blade fueled by death.
Just in time to meet Varkos' strike.
CRAAAAANG!!!
Their weapons collided, and a shockwave screamed outward.
Sylen's arms shook violently from the impact.
His feet dragged across the stone floor, carving trenches from the sheer force of the hit.
Varkos snarled, bearing down harder, his blade buzzing—humming with malevolent energy.
Sylen could feel the pressure building—crushing.
His knees bent.
His muscles trembled.
His bones felt like they'd snap at any second.
And worse—
He could feel it.
The cold, terrifying edge of the fiend's will clawing into his soul.
Sylen gritted his teeth, frustration burning behind his eyes.
Then he muttered through clenched jaws:
"Is this how weak I am?"
Then—
WHOOOOOM!!!
Buddha's hands descended.
Not just one, but many.
From above.
From behind.
From both sides.
They struck all at once.
Each hand pierced the battlefield like a divine spear—blazing with judgment, zeroing in on Varkos with surgical precision.
SLASH!SLASH!SLASH!
The fiend was torn apart mid-motion, shredded by spiraling strikes of lightning and void energy.
Chunks of abyssal armor exploded, and his body twisted as he spun backward, tumbling through the air like a ragdoll hurled by a god.
BOOOOOM!!!
He smashed into the ground hard.
Stone cracked beneath the impact.
Smoke and sparks rose from his battered frame.
But—
In one breath, he was whole again.
Tendrils of black matter stitched his body back together in seconds, lightning crackling as his monstrous form returned like nothing had ever touched him.
Then—
A shadow loomed.
Dread Lord had returned.
Silent. Vengeful.
He charged—dragging his enormous greatsword behind him, the blade screeching across the ground—and then swung upward in a wide arc.
Varkos didn't dodge.
He met him head-on.
Their blades collided with tremendous force.
BOOM!
The impact cracked the very air—an invisible ripple bursting outward like glass shattering through reality.
Varkos and the Dread Lord kept swinging.
Their movements blurred—too fast for most eyes to follow—but every strike landed like a quake.
BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!
Every block.
Every clash.
They fought like ancient kings caught in an eternal war.
One—
A monster of wrath, born of chaos and lightning.
The other—
A knight of death, calm as the grave, cold as the void.
Each strike cracked the ground.
Each step tore into the world—as if they were rewriting the rules of existence with raw force.
Neither backing down. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ
Neither breaking.
Just pure destruction, locked in combat that could collapse the arena itself.
Sylen stumbled back.
His vision blurred.
His breathing—ragged.
Then he dropped to one knee, his chest burning like fire.
His arm trembled, still throbbing from the brutal clash with Varkos.
"Damn it…" he hissed.
He had engaged Varkos to measure the fiend's power.
And the result was exactly what he feared.
He wasn't strong enough.
His hand clutched his ribs.
Each breath came short and sharp.
Blood crept up his throat.
He tasted iron—but forced it down, refusing to spit weakness onto the floor.
Then he felt it.
Something slipping away.
Fast.
Too fast.
He checked his stats—and his heart sank.
His mana was draining.
Plummeting like a stone in deep water.
But why?
He wasn't casting anything.
His summons were already active.
And it didn't cost him anything to keep them present.
Even healing the Dread Lord shouldn't have burned this much mana.
Unless...
His eyes snapped toward the battlefield.
What he saw made his stomach drop.
His army—his carefully summoned legion of shadows—was being dismantled by Alex's clones.
They tore through his forces like wolves through parchment, moving with synchronized precision and merciless speed.
One clone leapt onto a shadow hound and detonated it with a spinning snap-kick laced in pulsing energy.
Another drove a blade through a shadow mage's chest in a single blur-fast strike, then spun into a wide arc, taking out two more before his feet touched the ground.
A third clone—calm and deadly—deflected a swing from one of Sylen's tankiest summons, taking off its arm in the process.
Sylen's breath hitched.
Now he saw the real problem.
Every time one was damaged—torn, stabbed, or dissolved—it didn't stay down.
Instead, their bodies twisted.
Reformed.
Death threads weaved them back together mid-collapse.
Pop!
Just like that, they were back in formation.
And that regeneration cost him.
Too many summons were dying too fast.
It was a slaughter.
A one-sided war of attrition—and Sylen was the one bleeding resources.
But he couldn't afford to stop his clone from regenerating.
If he did, Alex's clones would easily overrun the summons—and he'd be surrounded.
Sylen's jaw clenched.
His fists trembled.
He was being outpaced.
Outnumbered.
Overwhelmed.
Pressure closed in.
Dread Lord, despite his strength, was struggling—barely holding off the Archfiend.
And Sylen's shadow army was crumbling, slaughtered by Alex's relentless clones.
He was boxed in.
And if things kept going like this...
He'd be surrounded.
And if that happened, even Noctherion wouldn't be enough to stop the assault that would follow.
Then it happened—
BOOOOOOM!!!
The ground behind him suddenly exploded.
Sylen was blown off his feet—thrown forward like a rag caught in a storm.
The original Alex had slammed into the earth with both boots, using the earth-shaking ability:
Worldbreaker.
The moment he landed—
Everything shattered.
A shockwave erupted outward in a perfect ring, stone fracturing in every direction.
Air warped.
The very ground buckled—rippling like water in a pond struck by a meteor.
The arena shook violently—as if the world itself flinched.
Tremors spread through the field.
Every summon caught in the radius—dozens of shadow knights, beasts, and mages—were tossed like broken toys.
Even the Dread Lord and Varkos were slammed by the shockwave—their massive forms thrown back, armor grinding against stone as they skidded across the cracked floor.
Sylen hit the floor hard, rolled once, and slid to a stop, coughing in the dust.
The impact wasn't just physical.
It was a message.
Power.
Overwhelming.
Unchecked.
Unmatched.
The arena fell silent for a breath.
The field—wrecked.
The stone—cracked.
Smoke twisted in slow spirals over a broken battlefield.
And above it all—
Alex stood tall.
Blade humming.
Eyes still glowing gold.
Sylen lay on the ground, gasping for air.
Each breath shallow. Sharp.
Dust clung to his face.
His limbs trembled from the shock.
His mind raced.
What kind of attack was that?
How much power was Alex still hiding?
It had been move after move—each one stronger, faster, more unpredictable.
Sylen couldn't keep up.
He had no idea what was coming next.
Still groaning, he forced himself upright—pushing against the cracked stone with one hand, sword dragging behind him.
He finally got to his feet.
His body ached.
He needed to regroup—check the battlefield, find out how many of his summons were still standing.
But then—
A shadow fell across him.
His instincts screamed.
He turned—fast.
And there it was.
The Archfiend.
Towering over him like death made flesh.
Its massive blade was already in motion—raised high, edges crackling with void lightning.
The air around it hissed, as if afraid to touch.
It hummed with pure, focused malice.
The swing was already coming down—
Aimed straight for his skull.
