Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 302: Arrow of Finality
The battlefield pulsed like a living wound—raw, ragged, bleeding power into the air with every breath of wind.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone like broken veins, glowing faintly from the residual energy of clashing titans. Ash and rubble floated on the heated air, and the remnants of shattered summons littered the ground like abandoned statues. Some were still smoking. Others were little more than piles of twisted metal and melted bone.
Above it all, currents of void and death mana twisted together like warring spirits, circling each other in silent violence—an unseen storm choking the very sky.
And in the center of it all, Varkos was pinned.
The Archfiend, the storm-wrapped juggernaut, was locked in place, his massive body held down by sheer force and cursed fury.
The Boar Knight roared, a thunderous bellow that seemed to crack the air itself.
His monstrous arms clamped around Varkos's torso like iron girders, pulling tight.
Armor screamed against armor as the cursed aura surrounding the knight surged to life, blood-red and pulsing, wrapping them both in chains woven from pure spite.
Chains meant not to restrain—but to destroy.
Varkos snarled, void lightning crackling across his body in frenzied bursts.
He thrashed violently, limbs convulsing, energy flaring with unstable ferocity. Bolts of violet power leapt from his shoulders, slamming into the ground and nearby wreckage—but the Boar Knight held on.
Held firm.
Snarling like a demon dragged from the pit.
Every muscle in his massive frame coiled with effort.
His tusked helm was inches from Varkos's head, jaw clenched, eyes glowing with unwavering rage.
His grip tightened, grinding the Archfiend's plated body inward, inch by inch.
And then—
SLAM!!!
With a monstrous heave, the Boar Knight lifted the Archfiend off the ground and slammed him down, the earth shattering under the impact. Debris exploded outward in a thunderous ring.
Before Varkos could even finish recoiling—
SHUNK!!!
Dreadlord stepped in.
Cold. Precise.
His obsidian greatsword ripped free from Varkos's kneecap, void ichor trailing from the wound. With a single fluid motion, he reversed his grip and brought the blade down from above like divine punishment.
CRRRRUNCH!!!
The death-forged edge cracked into Varkos's collarbone with a deafening roar, sinking deep into blackened flesh and shattering reinforced plating.
Varkos screamed.
But it wasn't the sound of beast.
It was something worse.
The scream that left his mouth was alien—inhuman—wrong. Like metal twisting. Like glass shattering in reverse. A sound that didn't pass through ears, but through souls.
Like something that shouldn't exist.
It reverberated through the battlefield.
And yet—he still didn't fall.
Despite the damage. Despite the chains. Despite the death knight's blade still lodged in his chest.
He resisted.
Muscles bulged.
Veins surged with flickering lightning.
His eyes, twin stars of violet hate, burned like dying suns.
He refused to stay down.
But Dreadlord didn't move.
His sword held steady, pushing downward with mechanical resolve.
And the Boar Knight—unrelenting—tightened his hold further. The chains around him flared with fresh cursed energy, etching glowing glyphs into the stone beneath their feet. The ground splintered as it tried—and failed—to bear the weight of the titanic struggle.
Both summons held fast.
And across from them, Sylen stood.
His shadow-wreathed form braced against the ruined ground, bow fully drawn.
The cursed weapon pulsed in his grip—alive with hunger. Tendrils of black energy curled from it like claws reaching for permission to be unleashed. They spiraled upward, distorting the air, casting strange silhouettes that flickered and danced.
Sylen's fingers trembled—not from fear, but from effort.
Blood slipped down his wrist.
The string had been carved into his flesh.
His veins glowed faintly beneath his skin—lines of molten magic tracing every joint, every tendon, humming with the unnatural force he'd poured into this one shot.
But he didn't falter.
Didn't blink.
He was still. Eyes locked. Heart silent.
The arrow he held wasn't just mana anymore.
It was matter.
It had mass.
Shape.
A jagged spear of obsidian-black force streaked with crimson veins. It pulsed with life—or something like it. The shadows around it whispered and screamed, pleading to be loosed, begging for release.
It was more than an arrow.
It was vengeance given form.
And he was almost ready.
Just a little longer.
A couple more seconds of charging…
Just a few heartbeats more.
He would end this.
But—
Fate was never so cooperative.
Varkos's eyes flew open.
A pulse of light surged in his chest. Electric arcs crackled across his armor, dancing wildly down his arms, legs, and into the chains that bound him.
And then—
BOOOOOOM!!!
A dome of violet lightning erupted from his core.
The world vanished in white.
A storm of unfiltered power exploded outward, shredding the air, collapsing the earth beneath them in a violent implosion. Sound itself was erased, swallowed by the roar of magic gone berserk.
The Boar Knight didn't scream.
There was no time.
The eruption hit point-blank.
One second, he was there, wrapped around the Archfiend like a god of wrath.
The next, he was gone.
Erased.
His crimson aura blinked out.
His armor vaporized.
His soul, unbound, was devoured by the curse embedded in his chains.
Nothing remained.
No ashes.
No echo.
Just void.
Dreadlord was hurled backward like a missile, his body engulfed in lightning. The blast struck him full in the chest, tearing armor from his limbs.
CRACK!!!
SLAM!
CRACK!!!
Stone shattered beneath him as he tumbled, the death knight vanishing into the rubble as a trench ripped open from the force of his landing.
And at the heart of the devastation—
Varkos rose.
Steam poured off him in violent, rolling clouds. His armor glowed in places, cracked and scorched. His breath came in heavy bursts—ragged, furious.
Void lightning still curled around his frame, unstable now, lashing the ground with random violence.
He stumbled.
But he didn't fall.
He was still standing.
Still defiant.
Still alive.
And Sylen's heart cracked.
"No!" he shouted, the word torn from his chest like a blade of grief.
The pain struck him instantly.
The bond to the Boar Knight—severed.
The cost paid in full.
He staggered, nearly falling, one hand pressed to his chest as though that could stop the sudden emptiness. It felt like something had been carved from him.
But he didn't have time to mourn.
Because Varkos was vulnerable, still healing from damage.
The shot wasn't fully charged, no.
But it was now or never.
Sylen steadied his stance.
Ignored the blood.
Ignored the shaking.
He exhaled.
No words.
Just will.
And then—
He let go.
TWAAAAANG!!!
The cursed bowstring screamed like a soul ripped in half.
The black arrow launched—no, roared—through the air, a streak of annihilation that tore the very shadows apart.
A living bolt of hate and death.
And it struck.
Dead center.
Right in the heart of the Archfiend.
BOOOOOOOOM!!!
The explosion didn't shake the arena.
It devoured it.
Black fire erupted in a dome of destruction. Death energy burst outward in waves, flattening the wreckage, devouring the stone, screaming into the heavens.
The stadium's protective barrier flared—runic circuits glowing red-hot.
KRA-KOOOM!!!
The blast struck the dome with such violence that it cracked in three places. Lights flickered. Spectators screamed. Some collapsed. Others dropped to their knees from the pressure.
The sky darkened.
The clouds retreated.
The light at the center of the arena was swallowed whole.
Then—
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Smoke rolled outward like a wave of ash from a dying volcano.
It drifted across the ground in slow, creeping tendrils—black and gray, heavy with finality. The wind didn't stir. Nothing moved. No voice dared rise.
It was like the world itself was waiting.
Breathless.
And through the haze—
Sylen stood alone.
His bow lowered.
Eyes narrowed.
Chest rising and falling.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He watched the swirling smoke ahead, cold and still, knowing the shot had landed.
He felt it.
But what had it done?
What stood—if anything—on the other side of that smoke?
He didn't know.
Not yet.
And that uncertainty felt like a blade resting against his throat.
Waiting to fall.
