Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 308: Next To Burn

Sylen's body lay still.

Headless.

Motionless.

Drained of all light, all fury, all essence.

What remained of him was hardly recognizable. The once-imposing necromancer—draped in arcane elegance and cloaked in authority—was now a fractured shell. His armor, once smooth obsidian etched with forbidden runes, was blackened and warped by cursed flame. The plates had buckled under the pressure of soul fire, bent inward like metal recoiling from a divine hammer.

His limbs were sprawled out at awkward angles, fingers twisted like dead branches clawing at nothing. His form resembled a marionette discarded after its final scene—a stage prop abandoned under the weight of its own tragedy.

And then there was silence.

Then—

FWOOSH!

A violent gust of pressure tore through the air above the ruined arena, followed by a brilliant ripple of golden light.

It was the proctor.

He descended from the sky like a divine envoy, energy crackling around his armored boots as he hovered just above the cratered platform. His long cloak spiraled behind him like a battle standard caught in a holy storm. Arcane circles flared briefly at his feet, stabilizing his presence midair. His eyes glowed like miniature stars, and his voice—when it came—split the silence like thunder chasing lightning.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!"

His arms rose high, fingers splayed like a conductor at the height of a symphony.

"YOUR WINNER—ALEX KNIGHT!!"

The moment shattered.

And the world roared.

A wave of noise erupted from the coliseum—louder than storms, louder than fire. Screams, cheers, gasps, sobs. Thousands of voices collided in the dome, raw and unfiltered. It wasn't just applause—it was shock. Reverence. Chaos.

Some fans leapt to their feet, fists raised, mouths wide with euphoria.

Others remained seated—motionless—grappling with disbelief. Trying to make sense of what they'd just seen.

Because this?

This wasn't just a fight.

It was a spectacle.

A storm wrapped in strategy and brutality.

A new legend had been born—right before their eyes.

The arena replay domes flared above, and across the sky, magical screens displayed snapshots from the battle. Highlights stitched together in haunting clarity.

—Varkos crashing into the arena like a meteor wreathed in lightning.

—Alex summoning his clones in a seamless arc of synchronization.

—[Worldbreaker] fracturing the battlefield with a single thunderous stomp.

—[Chronos Field], turning the battlefield into frozen glass while Alex carved through it untouched.

—Cursed black flames devouring soul and bone.

And then—

That moment.

That calm, merciless snap of Alex's fingers.

The death of Sylen.

The fall of the elven necromancer is feared by many.

It was too much. Too sudden. Too clean.

In the stands, seasoned generals whispered to one another in grim tones.

Guild masters, Monster-hunting sects and royal bloodlines scrambled to look for ways to send messages to him.

Even the gods avatars, watching,although outwardly calm were scrambling

Out of all the players, participating in this trial, Alex was the standout and they all wanted him.

Some wanted him as a weapon.

Others as a disciple.

And some feared what he'd become if they didn't act fast.

Meanwhile—

Alex stood alone in the heart of the battlefield.

He didn't bask.

Didn't flex.

He just breathed.

Dust floated through the air like ashes after a funeral pyre, drifting over scorched stone and cracked platforms. Echoes of battle still clung to the arena—the smell of soul-burned metal, the faint hum of lingering magic, the outline of Sylen's fallen body still scorched into the ground like a curse etched in flame.

His system inbox pinged violently in the corner of his vision.

[1,047 new messages]

He didn't open a single one.

They all wanted the same thing—his allegiance, his skill, his power.

But he wasn't interested in belonging to anyone.

Not now.

Not ever.

Alex lowered his gaze to Sylen's body, or what was left of it.

No pride stirred in him.

Just… a flicker of disappointment.

He hadn't wanted Sylen dead—not like that.

If the elf had survived, just barely, Alex might've been able to use [Mimicry]—his rare, system-gifted ability—to absorb one of Sylen's soul arts.

A weakened version, yes.

But he had Attribute Converter.

With stat sacrifices, he could've evolved it.

Brought it to it's peal.

Turned Sylen's own legacy into one more weapon in his growing arsenal.

But that door was closed.

Sylen had summoned Noctherion—a fallen deity twisted into a killing machine.

An entity hypersensitive to intent.

If Alex had let Sylen live, even a sliver, there was no way to guarantee Noctherion wouldn't lash out again. No guarantee it wouldn't rise, driven by some residual command or flicker of loyalty..

The risk was just too high.

Which was why—when Alex had held Sylen's throat in that final moment—it wasn't just for dramatic flair.

He had tried.

Right after freezing time with [Chronos Field], he'd reached out with [Mimicry] and attempted the copy.

But the time required was too long.

Longer than how long [Chronos Field] could last.

So Alex made the call to end it.

It sucked.

But he wasn't bitter.

Because even if he had copied a necromancer's skill… he probably wouldn't use it often.

That wasn't his style.

He didn't like watching others fight in his place. He wasn't a puppetmaster.

He liked getting close.

Personal.

Feeling every dodge.

Every clash.

Every death.

That thrill was invigorating.

And the pursuit of that kept him going.

The cheers continued to ring across the stadium.

Louder. More frenzied.

A chant had begun somewhere in the crowd—"Alex Knight! Alex.Knight! Alex Knight!"—and it spread like wildfire.

But Alex didn't acknowledge it.

He exhaled, slow and steady, then turned toward the proctor still floating above the arena.

Their eyes met.

The proctor nodded once—a silent affirmation. Then raised both hands.

A new light bloomed beneath Alex's boots.

A teleportation field.

Runes circled upward in glowing spirals, and light bathed his form in a column of energy. The crowd's voices dimmed around him, like someone slowly turning down the volume on the world.

He looked up once more before he vanished.

Not at the crowd.

Not at the battlefield.

But at the VIP Combatant Zone.

He knew who was waiting.

He knew he was watching.

So he grinned.

Light swallowed him whole.

And he was gone.

Back to the resting zone, where a demon seethed.