Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 284: Mad Grin

Grugrim twisted his body at the last second, turning the strike into a graze instead of a kill.

But the graze was still brutal.

A sharp, burning line of pain cut down his face—from his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and down to his jaw.

Blood streaked across his beard, and he staggered, vision blurring for half a second.

Malik stood there, not pressing the attack. He smiled and gave his sword a slow twirl, fire licking off the edge in lazy arcs.

Then, with a voice like venom, he said:

"Now we're even."

*

Alex, in the VIP combatant zone, watched with arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

The crowd below gasped and cheered, drunk on spectacle, but he didn't share their excitement.

Instead, he scoffed.

"Seriously?" he muttered, glaring at the battlefield below. "How petty can you get?"

He was elated that Malik had finally decided to take the fight seriously—but...

His display was stupidly vindictive.

Alex shook his head.

Obviously, Malik had what it took to end this fight. But instead of just doing that, he decided to carve a brutal gash across Grugrim's face—right down the middle—because Grugrim had landed a thin, clean cut on his cheek.

Like a child throwing a tantrum.

*

Down in the pit, Malik stared at Grugrim, who breathed heavily, exhausted by the constant running. He frowned, wondering how someone so pathetic had managed to graze his perfect face.

And felt his rage resurface.

The wound on Malik's face had already closed, sealed by infernal regeneration, and not even a scar remained.

And yet, he was still angry.

Still insulted.

Still not done.

"Tcch."

Malik surged forward with renewed vengeance, and his sword howled through the air, flames spiraling along its length. His steps were sharp, slicing across the arena with a speed that blurred the space between.

Grugrim barely had time to brace as the next strike landed—an overhead slash that detonated on impact.

Fire erupted like a volcanic burst, swallowing the dwarf whole in smoke, flame, and debris. The force tore a chunk out of the arena floor, hurling stone fragments in all directions.

BOOM!

The crowd cheered at the sight.

Most thought Grugrim was done.

But as the dust began to settle, the silhouette of a figure slowly emerged—still standing.

And who was it?

Motherfucking Grugrim.

Charred pieces of blackened metal flaked off him and dropped to the ground like burnt leaves. His armor—dwarven-forged, rune-etched, once gleaming silver—was shattered, split clean down the middle.

But underneath?

No blood. No wound.

Not a single mark from taking Malik's attack head-on.

Just sweat, grime, and scorched cloth.

He'd taken the hit—full-on, and survived.

Because he'd used a special effect on his armor. A trait that provided him with absolute defense at the cost of the armor itself.

Malik, seeing Grugrim still alive, scowled.

"That should've cut you in half."

But Grugrim smirked.

"I paid a lot for that armor. Guess it was worth the coin."

He spat to the side, and without missing a beat, reached into his inventory with a thought. A new suit of armor wrapped around him instantly—plates of reinforced mythril sliding over his limbs, chest, and shoulders, encasing him like a second skin. Then, he equipped the second of his twin axes.

FWSSHHK—CLANK.

The moment it sealed, Malik was already moving again.

Another strike. Faster this time. The kind of speed that shredded air itself.

Grugrim lifted his shield—

KRAAANG!

The impact drove him back two steps. Then another. His boots carved fresh trenches in the stone.

Malik didn't stop.

A second swing came—a rising arc, flame-infused.

Grugrim blocked again, this time with the axe, lightning crackling from the clash.

Then a third. A fourth.

A fifth.

Each strike came with surgical precision and demonic fury. Malik wasn't just attacking—he was punishing.

And Grugrim was being pushed.

Back.

Back.

And back.

His stance faltered. His foot slipped on cracked stone. He corrected, but too late.

Malik spun, bringing his blade down in a reverse cut—

SHHHRAK!

The axe in Grugrim's right hand went flying, the handle severed at the middle.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

The flame-coated blade followed through, and Grugrim's left arm exploded in a shower of blood and shredded armor.

CRUNCH!

"Aaargh!"

A scream tore from his throat.

He dropped to one knee, gasping, pain burning white behind his eyes.

The crowd shrieked as crimson stained the floor, pooling beneath him.

And Alex growled.

"Damn it..."

His fists clenched.

Malik stood above the wounded dwarf, towering like a vengeful deity, obsidian sword gleaming with red-hot malice.

He said nothing, but his expression said everything.

Disgust.

Rage.

Satisfaction—and yet, not enough.

Not nearly.

Malik raised his blade again, eyes glowing brighter, lips finally parting.

No smug quip. No taunt.

Only a wordless snarl.

He was done playing.

The sky above the arena shifted.

Clouds curled inward like smoke sucked into a vortex.

The air vibrated. The heat grew unbearable.

And then...

Malik's sword began to hum violently as he raised it above his head, both hands gripping the hilt.

Runes along the flat of the blade ignited one by one, then all at once—and the arena dimmed.

Then—

FLAAAAAAAASH!!

Flames erupted from the sword in a column of sheer destruction, forming a spiraling inferno that gathered high into the sky like a pillar of divine wrath.

It was beautiful.

Terrifying.

And aimed directly at Grugrim.

Alex's eyes widened.

"Oh hell—"

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Malik brought the blade down.

WHAAAAAAM!

The pillar of flame descended like the judgment of the gods—wide enough to engulf a house, hot enough to melt steel, fast enough that even blinking meant losing sight of it.

It would end the match.

End the dwarf.

End everything.

But just before the flames hit—just before—

Grugrim looked up.

His face, torn and bloodied.

His body, bent and broken.

His arm, gone.

But his expression?

Malik noted.

Something was wrong.

Grugrim should've been in despair.

But instead, on his lip curled a grin.

A wide, blood-slicked, unnerving grin.