Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 306: Infernal Execution

Alex's grip around the back of Sylen's neck didn't loosen—it tightened.

Like a vice forged from ice and finality.

Sylen remained frozen in time, body limp under the crushing pressure of the Chronos Field. His limbs might as well have belonged to a corpse. His muscles refused even the simplest twitch. His lungs screamed for breath, but the air refused to move.

He could see.

He could think.

But he could not move.

Alex leaned in closer, his voice low, almost tender. Not mocking. Not cruel. But coldly honest.

"You fought well," he murmured, breath ghosting against Sylen's ear. "But it wasn't enough."

The words landed like a verdict, not a taunt—an executioner's final courtesy before the blade fell.

Then, it began.

A hum first, vibrating through the stillness like a heartbeat under the skin of the world. Low at first. Almost imperceptible. Then a faint glow bled to life along his fingertip—shadowy, violet-gray, coiling with smoke. The glow pulsed like a heartbeat out of rhythm. Wisps of ash-colored magic spiraled from his knuckle, swirling in intricate patterns that defied natural laws.

Then—a spark.

Small.

Contained.

Then it detonated.

Black fire erupted from Alex's finger—not with a roar, but with a presence. A silence so loud it eclipsed all sound. The flame didn't just appear; it claimed the space. It climbed from his hand to Sylen's forehead, wrapping the paralyzed man's crown in a coil of cursed energy that licked and hissed at the edges of reality.

No flame should have behaved like that.

It didn't dance.

It didn't flicker.

It waited.

Like judgment.

A spiraling halo of oblivion forming above Sylen's brow—suspended, rotating slowly, arcs of shadow licking the air like tongues of execution.

Alex watched the fire crown settle into place, calm, calculating.

Then, without ceremony, his body shimmered—fracturing into particles of spectral light, vanishing mid-step. The transition was seamless. Silent. Controlled.

He didn't need to make a statement.

His work had already spoken.

And just like that—

[Chronos Field] collapsed.

The air around Sylen shattered with a soundless crack, like pressure glass finally caving under the weight of time. The temporal sphere fractured inward, and with it, the stillness ruptured.

The world resumed.

SHRAAAK!!!

Noctherion's sword completed its swing—slicing through space with divine fury.

But there was no target.

No body to meet its wrath.

Only absence.

Only cold air where Alex had stood.

The blade split nothing.

Noctherion froze mid-motion, pausing with unnatural precision. The shadow-forged armor cloaked around Sylen spasmed—its edges fraying, flickering in confusion, tendrils of death magic reacting erratically to the afterimage of a vanished threat.

It was already too late.

FWOOSH!

The crown of fire ignited, and a column of black flame shot skyward from Sylen's head, rising like a signal to the underworld. It didn't burn with heat—it devoured. It didn't illuminate—it corrupted. The cursed fire screamed as it enveloped his skull, howling like the breath of something ancient that had just been awoken.

And then—

Sylen screamed.

Not a man's scream.

Not human.

It tore out of him like a soul being ripped in two—high, raw, strangled.

His voice cracked under the force of it, shattering the silence across the arena like a bell tolling for death.

He stumbled, eyes wide with horror, mouth agape in agony. Hands flew to his head, fingers digging deep into his scalp like he could rip the pain out physically. But there was nothing to grab. No wound to heal. No spell to block.

The curse was already inside.

It wasn't attacking his flesh.

It was devouring his essence.

The black fire clawed through his soul like a predator, latching onto the very threads that held his being together. His mana flared in defense, but it only made it worse. The flame fed on it, drinking deeply from his core like a starving god.

Noctherion reacted instantly.

The guardian's silhouette pulsed, arms flashing out, shadows snapping toward Sylen's head like whips made of wrath. It tried to extinguish the fire. Tried to shield him. Tendrils of death magic lashed against the blaze.

But it was like pouring oil on a pyre.

The fire surged higher.

Hungrier.

It didn't care what it touched.

It only wanted to consume.

Sylen's body seized as his knees gave out. He collapsed to the cracked floor like a puppet with its strings cut. His sword fell from his grasp with a hollow clang, sliding into the bloodstained stone and coming to rest at his side—useless now.

He writhed.

He thrashed.

He slammed his fists into the earth again, and again—splitting the stone beneath him as he tried to fight through it. But the pain didn't ease. It multiplied.

"AGHHHHHHHH—!!"

The scream didn't stop.

It grew louder.

Hoarser.

Ripped from his lungs like shards of broken glass.

The fire danced across his skull, crowned him in ruin. Black tendrils whipped across his face, over his eyes, across his mouth, branding every inch with cursed runes only the damned could understand.

He clawed at himself, tearing flesh from his scalp in desperation, trying to dig out the invisible mark. But there was nothing there.

And all around him, the world watched.

The crowd beyond the barrier—once thunderous with cheers and awe—had gone deathly still. Now they only stared. Horrified. Transfixed.

Many had never seen a soul-death before.

Now they saw a man being unmade.

Sylen—the tactician, the elite, the one who had stared death in the face and spat back—was on fire.

A living execution.

A divine punishment.

And the screams kept coming.

Each breath was a gasp dragged through razor wire. Each second felt like hours. His mana leaked from his pores in thick, spiraling streams—drawn out of him like lifeblood, funneled into the hungry inferno.

Noctherion faltered.

Its form flickered—armor buckling, limbs shaking. It reached out again, trying to stabilize the soul-bond with its master. But it was no longer a guardian.

It was a reflection.

And the soul it was tied to was breaking.

Cracking down the middle.

Glitching with every heartbeat.

It staggered backward, hands still raised, blade forgotten. Its form lost density—translucent now, gasping for spiritual coherence.

And Sylen—

Sylen was slipping. freёnovelkiss.com

His body convulsed.

Fists pounding the ground. Nails splitting. Blood smeared across the stone.

"STOP—!!" he roared, voice no longer his own.

It was ragged.

Warped.

Hollow.

But the flame did not stop.

It crowned him like a throne made of knives, sat on his head like justice long delayed. His form collapsed further, spine curling, every motion clumsy and jerking.

He was no longer fighting for control.

He was fighting for existence.

And losing.

The arena's air crackled. The energy around him bled into the sky. Even the ground beneath him began to sink as the fire twisted the leyline beneath the stone—pulling magic toward itself like a vacuum of meaning.

Alex had marked him.

Not just for death.

But for obliteration.

And nothing in Sylen's power—nothing in his arsenal—could stop it.