Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 298: Adaptive Horror
The void-forged blade of Varkos came screaming down like the final word of a vengeful god.
It howled through the air, its edge a streak of night-stained lightning, crackling with raw malice—aimed not just to kill, but to annihilate.
The strike promised the end.
But it never landed.
CLAAANG!!!
A deafening clash ripped through the battlefield as blackened steel met abyssal fury. Noctherion had moved—again. As always. As if time itself bent to his will. One of his shadow-clad arms shot up at the perfect angle, catching the monstrous weapon mid-arc. The collision was cataclysmic.
The world shook.
Sparks erupted like dying stars, spraying across the torn earth in brilliant arcs of ghost-fire. The sheer force of the impact sent a low, guttural groan through the stone beneath them. Cracks webbed outward in a violent bloom beneath their feet, like the bones of the world were splintering.
Varkos' blade didn't just stop.
It was stopped.
Unmoving.
Frozen in place by the raw, unflinching will of Noctherion—the ancient summon forged of pure death and command.
And then—
BOOM!
Noctherion countered.
Multiple arms unfurled from his back like a bloom of midnight scythes—jagged, bladed, and impossibly fast.
The flat of one slammed into the Archfiend's chest like a siege ram, driving into his body with enough power to shatter a mountain wall.
Varkos staggered.
His monstrous feet tore gashes across the stone as he slid back, forced against the earth like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. Black mist—dense and writhing—billowed from the cracks in his plating, bleeding into the air like cursed smoke.
He hadn't even recovered when a diagonal cleave, savage and precise, carved up from Noctherion's flank. The strike bit deep, tearing through armor, slicing through abyssal sinew. Varkos roared—not in pain, but fury—as a burst of void-colored blood sprayed out in a violent arc.
But Noctherion wasn't finished.
His attacks came in relentless waves. Every motion calculated. Every strike surgically brutal. Hands lashed out like divine punishment, raining down with clockwork precision—one after the other, blow after blow, a rhythm of pure destruction. There was no hesitation. No pause.
Varkos twisted, snarling, attempting to brace—but the assault didn't let him breathe.
One of the arms swatted his sword downwards and another arm slammed into his side. Another scythe tore down toward his shoulder. And another. And another.
The Archfiend was being *torn apart*.
But then—suddenly—he moved.
SHHHHBOOM!
Varkos surged backward with a burst of power, his clawed feet digging deep into the stone as he leapt away, breaking free from the whirlwind of death. His form blurred—lightning crackling in his wake—as he landed several meters away.
He dropped to one knee, one hand clutching his chest.
He was breathing hard now.
Heaving in great, ragged gulps of air as his body worked overtime to stitch itself back together. Flesh melted and reformed beneath blackened armor, abyssal mist swirling tightly around his wounds, fusing cracks and reattaching torn ligaments.
Sylen stood several paces behind, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest.
He'd seen it.
At first, he was relieved that Noctherion had done what it always did—save him.
But as the counter unfolded…
That relief twisted into dread.
And then into something worse.
Horror.
Because Sylen was watching *it* happen.
Varkos wasn't just taking the hits.
He was reacting to them.
Adapting.
Where once the Archfiend had endured Noctherion's blows like a punching bag made of bone and stubbornness, now it moved—if only slightly—before each impact. It twitched. Shifted. Dodged. Not always fast enough. Not always effectively. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com
But it was learning.
And that...
That was terrifying.
Sylen's lips parted, breath short.
Because Varkos—the unstoppable Archfiend summoned by Alex—was changing. Evolving right before his eyes.
And it wasn't done.
Before that terror could settle, **Dreadlord** entered the fray.
The death knight—a towering slab of armored hatred—lunged forward with sword in hand, moving with deadly purpose.
SLASH!
His blade tore across Varkos' chest—but only grazed it. The fiend had moved. Not completely—but enough. Enough to avoid being split in two.
Then—
BOOM!!!
Dreadlord followed up with a brutal, two-handed strike that came crashing down like a comet. It connected with the Archfiend's side, and yet—Varkos *spun* with the hit, redirecting the force, twisting it into momentum.
Instead of being flung, he stabilized.
Reset.
Like a dancer in a war zone.
Sylen's throat clenched.
His body trembled.
Not from pain. Not from exhaustion.
From something deeper.
Understanding.
The Archfiend was growing.
SLASH!!
Dreadlord swung again, a vertical execution aimed to crack skull from crown to collarbone.
But Varkos moved aside.
CRACK!!!
A backhand followed—his fist wreathed in violet lightning. It smashed into Dreadlord's faceplate, sending the knight stumbling a half-step.
Not down.
But shaken.
Another attack came—fast, direct. Dreadlord parried and countered with an upward thrust meant to impale Varkos through the throat.
But the Archfiend bent, ducking with unholy agility, and surged upward into a devastating uppercut.
WHAM!!
The hit roared with force. Dreadlord blocked, bracing—but even he was forced back a step.
A single step.
But that step said everything.
CLANG!
SLASH!
TWIST!
DODGE!
The tempo changed.
The clean, brutal rhythm of Dreadlord's swordplay—once flawless, mechanical, lethal—was being matched.
Matched and answered.
Varkos dipped under a slash, slipped inside the knight's range, and snapped his elbow into the plated ribs. A sickening dent echoed out with the impact.
The battlefield grew quiet.
Even the howling wind seemed to retreat.
The audience watched in silence.
Not awe.
Not admiration.
Fear.
A primal stillness settled over the arena. Like nature itself was afraid to interrupt what it was witnessing.
Smoke hissed from Varkos' armor, not like steam, but like breath. Controlled. Steady.
His form had shifted—still massive, still terrifying—but tighter now. Sharper. Less raw chaos and more…focus.
The monster was streamlining itself.
Becoming refined.
Forged.
Like a blade hammered on the anvil of war.
Every move now was clean. Economical. Measured.
Dreadlord growled—a deep, resonating sound that made the stones hum. He swung again. Hard. Relentless. A flurry of savage arcs meant to end things once and for all.
But the Archfiend was no longer just resisting.
He was keeping pace.
And not just matching speed.
He was learning.
Each block gave him information.
Each strike refined his stance.
Every blow mapped the enemy.
Varkos wasn't just fighting.
He was downloading his opponents—breaking them down stroke by stroke, parry by parry.
Sylen watched, frozen.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple, cutting through the ash smeared across his cheek.
He watched Varkos dodge another two-handed cleave—by inches—then respond with a twist and a brutal strike that detonated void lightning across Dreadlord's chest.
The death knight reeled again.
Not far.
But enough.
Enough to matter.
And in that instant—
Sylen understood.
It wasn't just brute strength anymore.
The Archfiend was surpassing Dreadlord.
Not in raw power.
But in understanding.
In rhythm.
In skill.
The unthinkable was unfolding before his eyes.
His death knight—his juggernaut, his war engine—was being read. Studied. Picked apart like a puzzle already half-solved.
Sylen's fists clenched.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
If Varkos could adapt to Dreadlord—his most obedient and destructive summon—
Then soon…
He would adapt to Noctherion.
And that—
That would be the end.
Because if Varkos learned Noctherion—if he found a rhythm to counter him—then Sylen had nothing left.
And the worst part?
The part that made Sylen's blood feel cold and thick?
Was that Alex—
The real Alex—
Still hadn't moved.
Somewhere amidst the ruin and smoke, the true body still stood, watching, waiting, and Sylen wasn't sure he'd be ready when he decided to show.
