Apocalypse Baby
Chapter 316 - 316: Alex vs Malik [3]

Malik's frown deepened, his lips split, a line of blood dribbling down from the corner of his mouth—only to sizzle, then vanish into ash the moment it touched the searing air.

But his eyes burned brighter than ever.

Fury pulsed behind those crimson irises, the kind forged not from rage alone, but from humiliation. What he saw standing across from him was not another opponent.

Not another contestant.

This was something different.

Vess had disintegrated the moment she stepped into his radius, her vines turned to ash before even tasting his flame.

Grugrim had tried to meet fire with force, had roared and charged like the brute he was—only to lose both arms and his pride in a single, unforgiving instant.

But this?

This thing in front of him?

This human named Alex Knight?

He didn't crumble under the heat.

He didn't burn.

He stood—calm, composed, surgical in presence—as if Malik's inferno wasn't even worthy of acknowledgment.

And that grin.

That damn grin on his face. Cool, lopsided, almost bored.

It was a blade to Malik's pride.

He was the heir to the demon race for heavens sake. The disrespect was something that could only be paid with blood.

Enough.

Malik's body tensed, coiled with power.

Fire raced across his arms like molten chains, spiraling with erratic pulses. The infernal tattoos etched into his skin began to glow—lines of ancient heat carved from a bloodline that touched the first flame itself. These weren't just decorative. They were conduits. Channels for something deeper. Something older.

A heat that belonged to the very bones of the world.

Then—he vanished.

BOOOOOM!

A sonic burst of combustion exploded outward as Malik triggered [Infernal Blitz] his form splitting into a trail of fire and smoke as he blitzed across the battlefield.

He became speed incarnate—less a body, more a streak of raw combustion, moving faster than most eyes could track.

Each dash cracked the air.

Each appearance came with a thunderclap.

He struck from above, from behind, from the side.

Fists wreathed in fire smashed down like divine hammers, each punch a meteor, each kick a cannon blast. The arena shook under the onslaught, tremors racing through the stone.

Yet—

None of it landed.

None of it touched him.

Because Alex saw everything.

[Godeyes] lit his vision in gold—every flare of Malik's aura outlined like an illuminated map, every blow forecast before it was even conceived.

To Alex, Malik wasn't a chaos to panic about, he was just another predictable prey.

A readable foe blinded by his own ego.

A blur of motion that still obeyed laws of movement, weight, timing, and with [Godeyes] he could read all of that.

Alex wasted no motion.

He pivoted.

Tilted.

Slipped.

Stepping inches to the left, ducking beneath an elbow wrapped in plasma, letting heat kiss his skin and pass by harmlessly—flame that should have boiled a man alive simply fizzled against the sovereign immunity that wrapped around him like a second skin.

And then—he struck back.

No wasted flourishes.

Just precision.

Counters.

His blade whistled through the air, aimed not to kill—but to warn.

A slash low at Malik's ankle during a dash. Another high, just shy of the throat. Just enough to make the demon feel it.

Each counter a whisper.

I see you.

The temperature continued to rise. Unrelenting. Merciless.

The arena floor began to buckle—cracking like ancient earth under volcanic strain. Fissures opened along the stone, glowing with the red-orange veins of liquefying mana.

The battlefield warped.

The audience began to shift in their seats, uneasy.

Some squinted through the glare. Others turned away entirely, shielding their faces from the sheer radiance bleeding out of the duel. Protective barriers around the stadium shimmered violently, repelling the heat like shields pushed to the brink.

Sweat rolled down foreheads.

Breath grew thin.

The very air began to taste scorched.

Within the ring, color bled from normalcy.

Everything became red. Orange. White.

And at the center—two titans.

Malik blurred again, spiraling around Alex in tight loops—combining teleport with speed, chaining strikes together with graceful brutality. He was flame with thought. Wrath made motion.

But Alex was the calm inside the firestorm.

Every sidestep was surgical.

Every dodge, millimeters from death.

And each time his sword moved, the arc was like a scalpel—cold, merciless, and deliberate.

Then—CRASH!

A final lunge.

Alex's blade met Malik's gauntlet in a perfect collision of steel and inferno.

A shockwave erupted.

Sparks rained like stars caught in a hurricane.

Time seemed to freeze for just a second.

They were suspended in mid-air, inches apart, locked in a pose that would be burned into the eyes of every spectator for years to come.

Alex's eyes: calm. Calculated.

Malik's: burning. Furious.

Then—impact broke.

They shoved off, flipping backward, landing on opposite ends of the ring.

Boots skidded across molten stone.

The ground hissed under their feet, steam blasting upward in thick bursts.

Below them, magic repair runes surged across the floor—glowing blue veins pulsing as they tried desperately to patch the expanding damage.

But it wasn't enough.

Not this time.

The destruction outpaced the recovery.

At the far edges, slabs of arena floor melted, curling up at the edges before collapsing into pools of molten rubble. Ambient magic screamed—whirling and spinning above in disorganized, panicked chaos.

Soon, there might be no floor left to stand on.

Still—neither of them looked tired.

Not even close.

They looked focused.

Sharpened.

Like the real fight hadn't even begun yet.

Malik crouched, one hand pressed flat to the stone, teeth bared. Fire coiled around his forearm like a serpent made of heat and hate.

Then—he sprang up with a growl.

"Let's see you block this."

He roared the words.

[Cinder Divide]

A molten crescent erupted from his hand—massive, serrated, and blindingly white.

It tore across the field like a flaming guillotine, cleaving stone, splitting air, flinging molten debris in its wake. The heatwave that followed buckled the walls of the arena.

Spectators screamed.

Even behind reinforced shielding, the blast made them stumble.

The fire rolled toward Alex like the fist of a god.

And Alex didn't move.

Not an inch.

Not a twitch.

His expression didn't even shift.

The flames rushed in, wide and merciless, a wall of death—searing through the air.

And Alex stood in its center, silent.

Waiting.

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