Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 278: A Step from Oblivion

The force flung the hulking Kruckle backward, scraping his heels across stone as he roared through the pain. His shoulder sizzled where the arrow had pierced. Void-tainted smoke poured from the wound, but instead of collapsing, Brakka slammed a fist into the ground and stood tall.

His body trembled—not from weakness, but from something else.

Power.

Raw, surging, violent power.

Sylen didn't slow.

He moved like a phantom, launching arrows one after the other, each laced with death energy, each more potent than the last.

THOOM!

THOOM!

THOOM!

The arrows hissed as they flew, leaving trails of black wisps in their wake.

BOOM!

One struck Brakka's thigh, splintering bone.

BOOM!

Another hit his side, punching through a rib.

BOOM!

The third slammed into his abdomen and dug in, screaming with necrotic energy as it tore into his core.

But despite the damage, Brakka didn't fall.

Instead, he grew.

Literally.

His muscles bulged.

His arms thickened.

The crimson lightning that had once flickered across his back now roared like a living storm.

His wounds sizzled—and closed. Not instantly, but faster than before. Unnaturally fast.

Sylen's eyes narrowed.

His summons—those elegant, deadly shadows of war—were being torn apart. Their limbs shattered. Their heads crushed like brittle ornaments. He'd even summoned more shadow knights to gain the advantage, but after a few minutes, they became nothing but fodder.

His shadows now seemed like bunnies going against a tiger.

Their sacrifice wasn't pointless, though, as Sylen had finally realized how Brakka was getting stronger:

Brakka was feeding off the damage.

Every strike or hit he took was making him evolve.

Sylen gritted his teeth.

If that was the case, how was he supposed to win this fight?

His method of using summons was unsustainable.

The knight-class took mana—a lot of it.

And every time they were destroyed, it cost him more to remake them.

It was a war of attrition, and although he didn't know if Brakka could keep getting stronger endlessly, he knew one thing:

The feral beast was winning it with every breath.

One more swing from Brakka sent a harpy summon spiraling, shredded midair. Another got curb-stomped before it could reform.

The arena was littered with black mist and broken shadows, and yet Brakka kept coming—laughing, red energy dripping off him like blood.

Sylen's fingers clenched around his bow.

This wouldn't end with brute force.

At least not with the force he was willing to use.

He'd have to change the battlefield.

His eyes flicked to the arena's edge.

Just for a second.

Then he uttered:

"The fall."

He had sensed what happened when one of his summons had tumbled off—its body crushed midair by an invisible force, bones crumpling, core imploding into a dense black sphere before disappearing into the abyss.

A gravity kill zone.

It didn't matter how tough Brakka was.

He couldn't fly.

And if he fell… that would be it.

He just needed to push him off.

But how?

"RAAAGHH!"

The Kruckle howled and drew his fist back.

Red lightning exploded from his body, crackling like a living god's fury. The ground cracked beneath his feet. His frame pulsed, engorged with destructive potential.

"I'm ending this fight, lanky elf... It's been fun."

This was it.

A killing blow.

A move that would end the match—one way or another.

Sylen didn't flinch.

His eyes glowed darkly, and he uttered in a cool voice:

"Fusion."

The knight he resummoned, along with what remained of the ones on the ground, began to fuse.

Shadow claw to wingtip. Blade-arm to coiling tail. Mist to bone.

A monstrous knight emerged.

Twice the size of the others. Boar-headed, harpy-winged, jackal-fanged. Eight-limbed and wreathed in a black inferno. The fused summon radiated a darkness so intense that the crowd stopped breathing.

Then it threw a powerful strike to meet Brakka's.

In perfect unison—

Brakka and the fusion monster struck.

BOOOOOOM!

The collision ripped the air apart.

Light vanished. A sphere of compressed shadow erupted outward, followed by a blast wave so intense it vaporized the edge of the arena.

Half of the fused summon's body incinerated instantly—its arms shattered, wings torn apart. Black fire splattered across the field like raining acid.

Brakka was a mess as well.

His arm was bent at a sickening angle, bones jutting through skin. His ribs were crushed. One eye was swollen shut. But he stood.

He was right at the edge, heels barely above the void.

Breathing hard.

Bleeding.

Shaking.

But laughing.

Low at first, then louder. Manic.

His regeneration flared again, tendrils of red lightning zipping across his wounds. Flesh knit together. Bones popped. The wreckage of his arm began to pulse, reforming piece by piece.

Sylen's eyes narrowed—then quickly acted.

Not this time.

He loosed another arrow.

Then another.

And another.

THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.

The first struck Brakka's calf, embedding deep. The second nailed his shoulder. The third pinned his thigh.

Brakka snarled in rage, barely able to lift his foot—

And then the arrows exploded.

KRAK-BOOM!

Limb after limb tore apart, ripped clean off in a storm of blood and shadow.

One leg gone.

One arm hanging by a thread.

And still, Brakka grinned—steam rising from his wounds as his regeneration kicked in again.

The audience could hardly comprehend it.

Brakka's display wasn't just brute strength.

It was madness.

It was survival at any cost. The Kruckle were a race many dreaded battling because of their tenacity.

But before Brakka's body could reassemble—before the monstrous healing completed—

Sylen appeared.

One moment, he was across the field.

The next?

He stood before Brakka.

Face unreadable.

Eyes cold.

The air around him shimmered with shadow.

Silent. Deadly.

Brakka blinked—just once—and in that flicker of time, he knew what was about to happen.

He was just a step away from falling.

"So this is your endgame... Pathetic."

"But effective. Not all battles are won with brute strength."

Sylen then raised his foot and struck Brakka's chest with a merciless kick—

THUD.

Brakka's eyes widened. His body lurched.

He flung backward, arms flailing, balance lost, the arena's edge crumbling beneath him.

And then—

He fell.

Over the brink.Into the abyss.

Down.Down.Down—

The wind ripped the scream from his throat before it could escape.

Then came the pressure.

Gravity slammed into him like a god's hand, folding his body in on itself. Bones crunched. Blood vessels burst. His limbs curled involuntarily, twisted into a grotesque, compact ball.

His eyes bulged.

His lungs collapsed.

His scream died inside him.

And then—

Oblivion.

Silence.

Death.