Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 281: The Dwarf Who Wouldn’t Burn

Flames twisted through the air like dragons, snarling, snapping, each one zeroing in on a single figure sprinting across the battlefield.

Grugrim.

His boots screeched against the stone, barely keeping up with his momentum as a blast of fire tore past behind him.

BOOM!

The explosion lit up the ground just inches from his heels, and the force of it slammed into his back, nearly throwing him off balance.

But Grugrim reacted fast—he tucked into a roll, hitting the ground shoulder-first, and bounced back to his feet in one fluid motion.

There was no time to think.

Another surge of heat came rushing in from his left.

He turned hard—sidestepped, barely avoiding the wave as it scorched the air where he'd just been.

Smoke hissed off his armor, which was blackened, dented, and battered.

His chest heaved with effort.

Each breath he took hurt, as the air was too hot, like breathing in smoke straight from a forge.

Across the arena, Malik hadn't taken a single step.

He stood perfectly still, right in the center of the madness—arms raised, fingers outstretched like a god conducting an orchestra of fire.

His eyes glowed with deadly focus.

The flames spun around him like a living halo, shifting shapes—now nets, now spears, now drills and claws. Each one lashed out with precision, like they had a mind of their own, as they all chased one dwarf.

But the dwarf in question wasn't easy to catch.

He kept going.

Every move he made—each dive, roll, and pivot—wasn't just random.

The dwarf had begun to read the timing, track the angles, notice the pauses in Malik's fingers, the micro-movements right before each cast.

The attacks were deadly, but they had rhythm.

A pattern which Grugrim had adapted to, and it was apparent in the way he moved.

Even the crowd began to notice.

The booing hadn't stopped—but it now came in hesitant bursts, broken up by gasps of shock and awe.

Every time they were sure he'd be hit, he did something—ducked low, slid sideways, or used a chunk of debris from a past explosion as a makeshift shield.

His dodging had become something else entirely.

Like an art.

Which could only be described in one word:

Mesmerizing.

But none of that, no matter how incredible it may seem, would win the fight.

Not until Grugrim found a way to stop running...and start striking back.

Malik's eyes narrowed.

He raised his hand and unleashed another volley of fire.

This time it came faster, sharper, angrier.

WHOOSH!

WHOOSH!

WHOOSH!

Fire tore through the air like spears.

Grugrim dropped low, sliding on one knee beneath the blazing streaks.

He rolled forward, popped back up, and charged again.

But then, he stopped.

His boots skidded across the ground, kicking up dust as he came to a full halt.

His axes dropped slightly to his sides.

His chest rose with a deep, deliberate breath—in through the nose, out through clenched teeth.

And then—he growled.

A deep, rumbling sound like thunder rolling from the depths of a mountain cave. freēwēbnovel.com

The air around him changed.

The heat wavered.

The ground buzzed.

And then...

CRACKLE!

Tiny sparks of lightning danced across his armor.

First, his shoulders, then his arms, legs, even the edge of his beard. Little blue-white bolts, like veins of living power, flickered across his skin.

His beard whipped around, caught in wind that hadn't been there seconds ago.

It was like the air itself bent to him.

Then, he roared.

BOOM!

A pulse of lightning burst from his body, exploding outward in a flash of white-blue light.

The platform beneath his boots cracked under the force.

The trails of fire behind him were snuffed out instantly by the surge.

And then—He moved.

Like a cannonball, he shot forward, blasting off the ground with such force that he left behind a small crater.

Fire missiles Malik had been controlling spiraled out of alignment, missing wildly as Grugrim zig-zagged through them—a blur of smoke and sparks.

His twin axes flashed like lightning in his hands.

But...

Despite Grugrim's approaching him like a raging—

Malik was still calm.

He raised a single hand, and a flicker of flame danced at his fingertips.

And then—

SPLASH!

A geyser of molten fire shot from the ground.

Flames twisted upward like snakes, hissing and writhing.

One of them lashed out, timing its strike perfectly.

And caught Grugrim's leg mid-dash.

"Damn it!" Grugrim cursed.

The fire-whip yanked him off the ground, killing all his momentum instantly.

And with a flick of his finger, the tendrils of flame snapped tight—and slammed Grugrim into the stone platform.

CRACK!

The sound echoed like thunder.

Stone shattered, and dust erupted skyward.

And the crowd went dead silent as the smoke began to settle.

Grugrim lay at the center of a fresh crater.

Cracked stone framed his body, pieces of the platform crumbling beneath him.

The air around him still buzzed, filled with the leftover charge of his lightning burst.

Grugrim groaned.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, first to his elbows, then to his knees.

Blood dripped down his face, mixing with soot and ash.

His head hung low, shoulders rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths.

Then with a growl, low and fierce.

He moved once again.

Lightning sparked from his boots as he blasted forward again—a blur of motion, raw willpower carrying him forward.

His axe clenched tightly.

His entire body still flickering with electricity.

"RAAAAHHHH!"

His battle cry tore through the arena as he lunged straight at Malik.

He was faster now.

Angrier.

More desperate.

But it still wasn't enough.

Sheer will wouldn't overcome the difference in power between them.

The tendrils were waiting.

Flames lashed forward—this time two at once, then more.

One wrapped around his ankles.

Another snapped around his arms.

A third coiled around his waist.

And then—

One curled tightly around his neck.

Like a burning noose, it yanked him backward in mid-air before he could strike.

"Gghh—!" Grugrim choked, pain lacing through his voice.

He struggled—veins bulging, lightning flaring wildly from his limbs as he fought the bindings.

But—

It was no use.

WHAM!

The tendrils smashed him into the ground.

Then yanked him up.

Then slammed him down again and again like a hammer striking an anvil.

The arena floor trembled, and dust and debris scattered from the impacts.

Grugrim coughed, blood spilling from his mouth as he hit the ground hard.

His limbs shook.

The tendrils raised him up again, but this time they didn't slam him onto the ground.

Instead, they held him up, suspended above the ground.

Dangling.

Helpless.

Malik tilted his head, eyes fixed on the battered dwarf.

He wasn't angry.

He wasn't even smug.

Just… curious.

"You know," he said, his voice calm, "there is no way to win this, so why do you keep pushing?"

Grugrim didn't answer with words.

Only a glare—sharp, defiant, blood running down his chin.

His breath came in short, harsh growls, chest heaving like a furnace.

Malik sighed.

Then, without ceremony, he flicked his wrist.

The fiery tendrils snapped forward, and Grugrim was hurled backwards like a broken weapon tossed aside.

WHUDD!

He slammed into the ground and skidded across the blackened stone, sparks flying from his armor.

Smoke curled from his shoulders and back, steam rising from scorched metal.

Grugrim groaned, rolling to his side.

One arm pressed against the ground, struggling to push himself upright.

Blood dripped from his lip and splattered on the floor beneath him.

His vision spun. The world twisted in and out of focus.

He tried to stand, gritting his teeth, planting one foot beneath him—

But his legs wobbled, shaky and drained.

Malik didn't...