Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 280: Sparks on Steel

The arena floor thrummed—a deep, steady pulse like the beating heart of a giant beast beneath the stone.

Energy crackled in the air, swirling through the coliseum in invisible waves.

Every seat was filled.

Every spectator leaned forward, breath held, eyes glued to the battlefield.

The crowd's roar rose like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of the arena.

And yet, in the center of that chaos, silence reigned.

Two warriors stood face to face.

On one end stood Grugrim, the Iron-Blooded Dwarf.

His stance was wide, unmoving, like a living fortress. Stocky. Low to the ground. His armor clanked softly with every subtle breath, forged not for beauty—but to break armies.

Across from him stood Malik.

Tall. Crimson-skinned. Calm.

A demon lord cloaked in quiet fire.

Smoke drifted lazily from his bare shoulders like incense. His black eyes glowed, not with rage—but with the cold, focused confidence of someone who had already decided how the fight would end.

Horns curved from his head like royal crowns, his silhouette cast long and menacing beneath the arena lights.

Then, Malik took a single step forward.

Just one.

But it was enough.

The air shifted—hotter, heavier.

And then came his voice.

"You should leap off the edge, for your sake."

Grugrim raised one thick brow.

"Is that a threat?"

Malik tilted his head slightly, not a hint of anger on his face.

"A kindness," he said calmly. "You cannot win this fight."

Grugrim's beard twitched with a faint grunt.

"That so?"

Malik didn't blink.

"You won't even graze my skin," he said. "This fight will only humiliate you."

Grugrim slowly rolled his neck.

Crack. Clack. Grind.

His metal joints echoed with every twist, like gears being wound.

"Arrogant words," he rumbled.

"No…" Malik answered. "Facts."

His eyes never left Grugrim.

"Dwarves were never made for battle. You were made to forge weapons, not wield them. Born in caves to serve greater races. That's your history. That's your limit."

A sharp silence followed.

The kind that hurts your ears.

Grugrim's expression didn't twist in rage—it hardened. His eyes narrowed like iron gates slamming shut.

His lips pulled into a tight frown.

"Y'know," he said, low and quiet. "I've heard a lot of demons talk."

He stepped forward now.

"You lot love your pride."

His hand moved over his shoulder.

"But this?"

Shing—

Two axes slid free from their clasps.

Twin blades flashed in the light—broad, curved, ancient.

"This is the first time I've seen one so eager to choke on it."

The axes sparked.

Then crackled. Electricity surging along their edges, coiling like snakes made of lightning.

The hum of their power filled the air, buzzing like an approaching storm.

Grugrim gripped both weapons tightly, feet planted like anchors in stone.

And then—

The proctor raised a hand, voice echoing like an amplifier.

"Both fighters ready…"

A pause.

"Begin."

Malik struck first.

His arm blurred—fast, fluid, and glowing with fire.

A searing arc of flame burst from his fingers, shaped like a giant, flaming scythe. It tore through the air, crackling like it could slice through reality itself.

But it hit nothing.

Grugrim was already gone.

The dwarf had moved fast. Way faster than anyone expected from someone his size. He darted sideways, a blur of motion in steel and muscle, like a bolt of lightning in armor.

Before the flaming scythe even vanished, Grugrim's left axe spun through the air.

CLANG!

It hit nothing, just air, as Malik followed up with a second strike—a wave of heat aimed low—but Grugrim ducked cleanly under it.

Then the dwarf charged.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

His iron boots slammed into the arena floor, shaking the stone with every step. He barreled forward like a cannonball launched from a siege engine.

Malik's brows drew together, just a flicker of surprise crossing his calm face.

He lifted one hand.

FWOOOSH!

From his open palm erupted a blazing net of fire. It wasn't random—it moved with intent. The flames weaved and twisted together like living snakes, ready to wrap around Grugrim and hold him in place.

But the dwarf didn't stop.

Not even for a second.

Grugrim twisted mid-charge, his body compact and explosive. He dropped low and slid beneath the first wave of flame, sparks flying as he scraped the ground.

Before the second net could catch him—

He rolled.

Then sprang to his feet—and leapt.

The crowd gasped as the dwarf launched himself into the air, an impossible arc for someone so heavy.

He rose like a missile, axes raised high.

Steel gleamed.

Muscle strained.

Then, both blades came down.

A clean, brutal, overhead chop—like he was splitting a mountain in two.

CRACK!

A blinding flash of white-blue lightning burst from the axes as they struck, exploding on contact.

BOOM! freewebnøvel.com

The arena shook from the impact. The sound hit like a thunderclap, echoing across the stadium. The light was so bright it left trails behind everyone's eyes.

The crowd erupted—screams, cheers, disbelief.

Everyone watching knew one thing for sure:

Grugrim was fighting to win.

But—

The hit didn't land on the target.

Grugrim's twin axes had crashed against a glowing barrier that lit up like molten gold mixed with blood. It shimmered red and gold, holding strong under the dwarf's full force.

Electricity sparked across the shield, but it didn't crack.

Malik didn't flinch.

He just grinned, cool and composed, the flickering lightning barely making him blink.

Then, he raised both arms. Slowly.

The flames responded.

FOOM!

Fire burst from beneath his feet—not wild or messy, but controlled. Sculpted.

The flames formed into serpent-like shapes, wings made of burning coals, eyes glowing with heat. They twisted in the air like predators ready to strike.

And then, they launched forward.

WHOOSH!

WHOOSH!

WHOOSH!

A whole volley of fire-serpents shot toward Grugrim, their bodies breaking apart mid-flight into nets, spears, and spinning missiles of flame.

Each one tracked him—fast, accurate, and relentless.

Grugrim hit the ground and rolled, his metal boots screeching against the arena stone.

BOOM!A fire-missile exploded right behind him, throwing chunks of stone into the air and shaking the floor.

He barely got up before another came from the left, hissing through the air like a comet on fire.

Grugrim gritted his teeth and ran.

Not in panic.

Every dodge, every twist of his body was deliberate. He watched Malik's fingers, the tilt of his wrist, the angle of his shoulders.

He read the micro-movements—the way a blacksmith reads sparks off an anvil.

But the fire didn't let up.

Malik's smile widened.

"Run, dwarf. It's all you can do."

Grugrim didn't answer.

Instead, he threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding a fire-lance that would've skewered him.

Mid-air, he slammed his axe into the ground, using the recoil like a springboard.

TWIST!

He flipped around, landing hard, just in time to dodge two more flaming projectiles that screamed past him like dragons in flight.

The arena was turning into a war zone.

Scorched craters littered the floor.

Everywhere Grugrim moved, another explosion followed. Fire trailed behind him like a curse that refused to miss.

The crowd rose to their feet—some cheering for Malik, others booing the dwarf for not fighting back.

"Screw you," Grugrim muttered, sweat stinging his eyes.

He would've spat at them, but he didn't have the time.

Not with flaming death chasing him every second.

The entire arena had become a furnace, fire roaring through the battlefield like a living beast. Each missile twisted through the air like it could think, bending around stone, homing in on Grugrim no matter how he zigzagged.

BOOM!CRASH!

Explosions followed him everywhere.

The sound was deafening. The heat was blinding. Spectators in the front rows shielded their faces from the sheer intensity.

And Malik?

He still hadn't moved.

He stood tall at the center of it all, calm, arms raised like a conductor commanding a symphony of fire. His fingers twitched gently, his posture elegant and cruel.

His eyes never blinked. His face never changed.

Like a god watching ants burn.

Grugrim was a blur of motion—rolling, sliding, ducking, leaping over craters and dodging blasts, all while more fire came for him.

Claws made of flame slashed the air. Fire-nets spun like wheels. Spears rained from above. The attacks didn't stop.

He couldn't get close.

Couldn't counter.

Couldn't even breathe.

All he could do was survive.

Grugrim's boots scraped hard as he ducked another blast. His beard was singed, his cloak smoldering. Parts of his armor were scorched black. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps.

And still, he didn't stop.

But the crowd?

They turned on him.

"Stop running and die with honor!"

"Why even show up if you can't fight?"

"Stupid dwarf! You should've jumped when Malik offered!"

The insults rained down like the fire itself.

Nobody believed Grugrim had a chance.

Not anymore.

Not when Malik stood untouched.Not when the fire never missed.Not when the difference in power felt this overwhelming.

"He's going to burn himself out," Alex muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the arena, fists clenched.

Every second he ran, every moment he dodged, the dwarf was wearing himself down.

The arena was huge, open, with nowhere to hide. No cover. Just miles of flat, scorched stone.

Meanwhile, Malik?

He hadn't even moved from his spot since the fight began.

"The dwarf can't win like this,"

Vess said, cutting into the silence, making Alex blink in surprise.

This might be the first time he heard her voice.

"He's just delaying the inevitable," she continued.

"That's not the case," Sylen responded.

Alex's mouth fell open as he turned to face the elf.

What was going on?

The quiet ones were suddenly speaking all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?" Vess asked Syren, glancing back at the battlefield. "He's being hunted out there. It's only a matter of time."

Sylen didn't answer immediately. His sharp eyes stayed on the arena, watching the dwarf tumble and leap over another flame strike. When he finally spoke, it was slow and deliberate.

"I've fought him once before."

Alex arched a brow and muttered under his breath.

Seriously? How did that happen?

Sylen continued.

"Back when I was still a fledgling necromancer. Weak, foolish, but hungry for strength. I wanted him as a summon. I thought I could overpower him, bind him. But he escaped," Sylen said, his voice laced with both irritation and respect. "Even then, outmatched and wounded, he got away. Dwarves aren't just muscle and steel. They're smart. I'm sure he has a plan to defeat Malik, otherwise, he would have taken up the offer to jump off the edge."

Alex turned his gaze back to the arena, where Grugrim narrowly avoided three fire bolts in a row by spinning beneath them and using the rebound of a wall to change direction mid-air.

"I'm sure," Sylen added, almost to himself. "He still has more to dish out."

Alex watched as Grugrim landed on his feet, skidding hard enough to leave sparks in his wake. The dwarf's chest heaved. His armor smoked. And yet—his grip on those twin axes was just as tight.

His eyes, beneath soot-streaked brows, were still sharp.

Still fighting.

The dwarf didn't glance at the crowd.

Didn't look for pity or approval.

He just kept moving.

Alex exhaled slowly.

He watched Grugrim skid past another fiery blast and keep going, dragging every last ounce of grit with him.

He really, truly hoped the dwarf could pull it off.