Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 303: This Can’t Be

Smoke clung to the arena like a living thing—thick, heavy, and unwilling to let go.

It curled low to the ground, coiling in lazy, reluctant spirals that refused to disperse. The mist hung in the silence like the breath of a sleeping beast, as if the battlefield itself was holding on to the memory of violence, unwilling to release it.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Only the faint hum of dying magic remained—a dull echo in the ears of everyone present. The dark energy was beginning to thin, retreating like a defeated tide, unveiling the wreckage left behind.

Then—movement.

A shape stirred.

It rose slowly, unsteadily, like a corpse remembering how to stand.

A silhouette emerged from the smoke. Tall. Twisted. Broken.

But unmistakably standing.

As the haze peeled away like torn curtains, the figure at the center became agonizingly clear.

Varkos.

Still alive.

Still present.

Still a nightmare made flesh.

His form was scorched.

His armor hung in jagged, melted shards from his shoulders and ribs. One arm dangled uselessly, twisted at an unnatural angle.

A gaping hole sat square in his chest—a wound that hissed with smoke and leaked raw, unstable mana. Black death magic pulsed inside it like a second heart, searing through voidborn flesh, corroding the Archfiend's regenerative core.

The damage was real.

Devastating.

And yet…

He stood.

His breath came in jagged rasps, filtered through shattered teeth.

The glow in his eyes remained—a deep, furious crimson pulsing with unnatural life. His body trembled, limbs twitching from exertion, but his gaze was sharp.

Focused.

Full of hate.

Across the battlefield, Sylen stared.

Soaked in sweat. Painted in streaks of blood. Barely upright.

His legs felt like brittle sticks ready to snap. Blood dripped from his lips, every breath a painful rasp.

His hands shook around the hilt of his sword. His mana pool felt like a dried-up well, echoing, hollow.

And still, Varkos remained.

Still alive.

"Impossible," Sylen breathed.

The word left his lips dry and cracking.

He had poured everything into that last attack—every ounce of cursed energy, every drop of precision. It had been a forbidden execution, magic drawn from the edge of death itself.

And it hadn't finished the job.

That wasn't just resilience.

That was something far crueler.

Defiance.

Sylen's heart beat against his ribs like a war drum—but not from courage.

From dread.

All around them, the crowd behind the flickering barrier had gone silent. No cheers. No gasps. Just wide eyes and parted lips.

That arrow was supposed to end it.

It should've ended everything.

But Varkos had taken it. Endured it.

And now, somehow, he was still advancing.

One step.

Then another.

Every step was agony—Sylen could see it.

Sparks flared across the Archfiend's frame with every movement. Steam poured from exposed muscle. Crimson light pulsed beneath cracked skin, casting eerie glows across the broken battlefield.

His shadow didn't move right.

It shifted beneath him like it had a will of its own—warping, flickering, reforming with every unstable step.

And still… he came.

Sylen gritted his teeth.

He forced himself upright, raising his blade again. The weapon felt too heavy, like lifting a mountain with trembling fingers.

His vision swam. His balance faltered.

But he refused to collapse.

He couldn't afford to.

Then—

A blur to the side.

Motion.

Fast.

Sylen turned just in time to see a towering form rise from the rubble—Dreadlord.

The death knight was a wreck.

Armor bent inward across his chest. Chunks missing from one shoulder. One leg—crushed nearly flat—dragged behind him as he staggered forward.

But he moved.

And in his hand, his greatsword still gleamed.

Dull, chipped, but unbroken.

Without a word, Dreadlord pushed off his back foot in a final lunge—a crooked, stumbling leap across cracked stone.

Sylen's eyes widened.

Even like this… he was trying.

Trying to end it.

Dreadlord swung.

But Varkos—wounded, barely functioning—was still faster.

His good arm lashed out, a blur of muscle and lightning.

CRACK!!!

His clawed hand seized the death knight's head, fingers gripping like a vice.

Varkos' core flared.

Lightning exploded from the Archfiend's body.

SHHHHHRAK!!!

In one brutal motion, Varkos tore upward—ripping Dreadlord's head from his shoulders in a single, horrifying flash.

The death knight didn't scream.

His sword dropped with a dull clang.

The rest of his body followed—crumbling into mist, the remains of his summon form dissolving into pale fragments of dead mana.

Gone.

Just like that.

Sylen stumbled back a step.

Stunned.

Silent.

His strongest summon—wiped out in less than a second.

All that remained was the headless corpse, fading into nothing, his presence erased from the battlefield entirely.

The hole in Varkos' chest still hissed.

Void energy still leaked from every inch of his body.

But his eyes locked on Sylen.

Burning.

Unforgiving.

Predatory.

Sylen's breath caught in his throat.

He was alone now.

No Boar Knight.

No Dreadlord.

Just him.

He clutched his blade, but it shook in his hand.

His legs barely held.

This… this was just a summon.

A creation of Alex's system.

A fragment of power, not even the real threat.

He wasn't fighting Alex.

And still, he was losing.

So completely it didn't even feel like a battle anymore.

Just inevitability.

His grip tightened.

Frustration roared inside him—hotter than flame.

If he had invested all of this effort, all of this desperation, against Alex himself, it would've made sense. It would've meant something.

But no.

This was just a summon.

Just one piece of what Alex had yet to unleash.

And he couldn't even bring that down.

His lips twisted in bitterness.

How large was the gap between them, really?

If Alex's summon could do this—could end him like this—what did that say about Alex?

Was he stronger?

More terrifying?

And if so…

Why hadn't he moved?

Why was Alex still standing in the background?

Sylen had watched. Studied. The clones fought, sure.

But Alex himself had yet to truly act.

Not since he summoned Noctherion.

Maybe he was waiting—hoping that fatigue would wear Sylen down enough to break through, to overwhelm the fallen deity by proxy.

But that hope was misplaced.

Noctherion's speed hadn't faltered. Its counters remained as precise, as relentless as ever—untouched by the strain Sylen felt. The summon moved with divine detachment, its reactions immune to its master's condition.

And that was Sylen's only saving grace.

The one thread keeping him alive.

The only reason Alex hadn't stepped in.

Varkos stepped closer, and the air distorted around him.

Each footfall left cracks in the stone. His blood dripped in molten arcs, hissing against the ground.

Sylen's jaw tightened.

"Damn it," he hissed.

He forced his boots to brace, planting them wide.

He raised his sword again, shakily.

It didn't matter if he was alone.

It didn't matter if he was drained.

Varkos was injured.

This was the moment to finish it off.

He growled low in his throat, took a single step forward—

Then he froze.

His instincts screamed.

The hairs on his neck rose.

A chill lanced down his spine.

Something was coming.

A blur—more presence than body—raced across the edge of his vision.

A figure.

Flickering.

Fluid.

Effortless.

Alex.

A clone?

Or the real one?

Sylen couldn't tell anymore.

His heart pounded.

All this time, he'd questioned why Alex hadn't made a move.

Now?

He feared what would happen if he did.

Because if Alex was finally stepping in...

Then everything Sylen had done so far had only been surviving the warm-up.