Apocalypse Baby

Alex let out a quiet breath—and relaxed.

Of course.

The glare made sense.

The demon standing across the platform wasn't just staring for intimidation's sake. It wasn't posturing or trying to make a statement.

It had a reason.

Alex could tell from the way its eyes shimmered, how its aura shifted—tight, leashed rage balanced on a knife's edge.

That demon was of the same race as Malik. And word… word must've already spread.

The Legacy Realm may have been isolated from the outside world, but the demons clearly had their own means of communication.

Alex didn't know exactly how, but he didn't need to. That thing staring him down had already heard what happened.

And it wasn't pleased.

The demon Alex had killed wasn't some low-rank fodder.

He was a prince.

And Malik hadn't just lost.

He'd been humiliated. Outplayed. Overpowered and burned until his very essence cracked in front of the entire arena. Then, in the end, possessed—warped into a weapon against his will—and killed.

A terrible fate for someone of such a position.

Alex, though, wasn't bothered by the weight of it.

He had simply done what the moment demanded. Nothing more.

He hadn't needed to be the one to end Malik. That was true. The proctor would've dealt with it.

But the opportunity presented itself—and Alex took it.

It just happened that his blade was the one that delivered the end.

And now, the grudges were following.

He could feel it. The tension. The hatred. The unspoken vow for vengeance.

Was it fair? No, not really.

It wasn't his fault that Malik had been possessed. But demons didn't seem to care about nuance.

Power made people and creatures narrow-minded.

Alex wasn't an exception. He knew that.

Still, he wasn't about to apologize for doing what it takes to survive.

If the demon wanted beef, then let it come.

He'd gladly dine.

A faint smirk played across his lips, and he turned away.

The gaze still lingered on his back, piercing and steady, but somehow that just made him chuckle.

Maybe he was getting too used to being hated. Or maybe it was because this exact thing kept happening.

Everywhere he went.

He always attracted enemies—rivals, haters—half of whom had reasons that didn't even make sense to him. Sometimes he earned it. This time, maybe.

But often? Often it was just because they thought he was one to be preyed upon.

Or maybe it was just something about his face.

Either way, he didn't care.

Not anymore.

Especially not now, with the raw Emi coursing through him like storm-charged lightning. He could feel it beneath his skin—crashing through the new pathways etched into him from the earlier transformation. It wasn't just power—it was presence. It hummed like a caged engine behind his bones.

He clenched his fist, subtle and slow.

The surge answered.

Controlled.

But dangerous.

Alex turned his attention back to the others.

And sighed.

The situation had only gotten worse.

Kaelen and Korrum were now face to face, teeth bared, throwing insults about honor, bloodlines, and the so-called "cultural superiority" of their realms. Their voices rose like dueling war horns, rattling with ego and the scent of prideful violence.

Meanwhile, Vayren had produced a sentient flower from his chest and was now engaged in a one-sided conversation with it. Something about how the "intelligent ones" were supposed to act smarter than this. The flower blinked slowly, unimpressed.

The Anima stood quietly, watching Adam in total silence. Its cloak rippled like smoke caught in moonlight. Adam, already on edge, snapped at last.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

No response.

Alex shook his head, tired. These were supposed to be the top contenders? The elite representatives of their races?

Now they were one moment away from tearing each other apart over ego and pride.

And that moment almost came—Kaelen and Korrum were an inch from swinging, Adam's frustration boiling toward eruption.

But then—

CRACK!

A jagged bolt of lightning split the sky with a noise that struck the bones, not just the ears. White fire arced from the swirling clouds and slammed into the center of the bridge with an earth-shaking boom.

The shockwave nearly knocked them off their feet.

Everyone froze.

Because they all knew what this meant.

The final round was beginning.

As the light cleared, a figure stood where the lightning had struck.

He wasn't tall.

He wasn't armored.

But his presence filled the space more than any weapon could.

He radiated something different.

Subtle.

Divine.

Authoritative.

His robes shimmered in layered silvers and deep midnight blues, inscribed with ever-shifting runes that moved like breathing constellations. They weren't fabric. They were law—woven from reality itself.

This was the proctor.

But not like the others.

This one was above them. Clearly.

It made sense. This was the one overseeing the final phase.

He stepped forward without a word, hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping across the contestants like a judge reading verdicts.

No ceremony. No fanfare.

Just presence.

And silence.

The others adjusted quickly. Postures straightened. Arguments dissolved. Even Kaelen and Korrum backed away from each other.

Alex felt it too—the weight in his chest, heavy and unavoidable. Just being near the man made him feel like he was standing in a cathedral with no roof and all the stars watching.

The proctor spoke.

His voice was calm, but it moved like thunder beneath still water.

"Welcome, players. You stand on the threshold of divinity."

His eyes—pale gold—glinted like twin suns as they scanned the eight gathered figures.

"Eight remain. Eight who endured the Battle Tournament. Eight who defied elimination, forged new powers, and shattered expectations."

As he said that, his gaze lingered on each of them in turn. When it landed on Alex, it stayed just a moment longer than the others.

Alex noticed.

Then the proctor moved on.

"Each of you is exceptional," he continued. "But only one will claim the legacy. Only one will ascend. Only one will grasp the mantle and become a new born deity with tremendous potential."

The air shifted—heavier now, more charged as the deities watching muttered.

The proctor continued:

"The next phase is simple. A race. Not of speed… but of endurance."

Alex narrowed his eyes.

Endurance?

"You will be tested—in mind, body, and spirit. You will face monsters, but also yourselves. You will conquer landscapes, illusions, truths. This is not a race against one another. It is a race against yourself. The longer you last, the higher your chance of claiming a mantle or something else."

Something else?

Alex narrowed his eyes.

He wondered what that meant.

The proctor lifted a hand, and eight beams of light burst from his palm. Pure, white, and humming with compacted force, each arc twisted through the air before landing gently in the hands of the chosen.

Alex caught his automatically.

A token.

Thin, metallic. Warm. Etched with a softly glowing sigil that pulsed with a heartbeat not his own.

Old energy. Powerful. Final.

"This token will preserve your life," the proctor said.

The others examined theirs in silence.

"If death is certain—crush it. It will extract you instantly. But once used, your journey ends. There is no return. There is no second chance. Choose wisely."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then, the proctor raised his other hand.

No chant. No theatrics.

Just one word, spoken like an order to the cosmos:

"Open."

And the world obeyed.

Across the gate ahead—massive and ancient—runes exploded to life. Like a sleeping machine waking up, sigils lit up one by one, glowing with ancient energy.

The bridge trembled beneath Alex's boots.

Up ahead, the gate—towering, bound in celestial chains—began to shift.

It hovered above a bottomless abyss. Two obsidian doors the size of fortresses groaned under the pressure of unraveling enchantments. Golden light spilled from the seams like spilled divinity.

Above the gate, an inscription floated in the air—harsh, angular, unreadable.

But Alex didn't need to read it.

He could feel it.

Finality.

This was no ordinary trial.

It was a boundary.

Between mortals and gods.

He stared, heart caught somewhere between reverence and dread. "That's the entrance?" he muttered.

The others stood frozen too.

The wind howled harder.

Sigils screamed.

And the gates began to open.

Slowly.

Majestically.

Like titans exhaling.

Alex's heartbeat surged.

All of this… was happening too fast.

He should have questions. Dozens. But his mind couldn't seem to hold onto any of them.

The objective was simple now:

Survive. Nothing else mattered.

But the Anima wasn't satisfied.

It stepped forward, lifting a hand calmly.

"Proctor. One question."

The proctor turned. A flick of the head. A glance that silenced the air.

Then, he raised a single finger—and waved it in quiet dismissal.

"There will be no more explanations," he said. His gaze drifted beyond them, distant once again. "In less than one minute, the gate will fully open."

Chains snapped with a sound like mountains cracking, power surged, and the proctor turned his back, already fading into the mist.

"If you do not wish to miss your chance, keep...