Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 288: Shredded

"Are you really a baby?!"

Grugrim's voice cracked across the battlefield, ragged but full of bite.

Malik's snarl came instantly, flames flaring higher across his body, dancing with fury."Shut up!" he snapped.

But Grugrim didn't flinch.

Instead, he tilted his head, studying the young demon with a smug, knowing look. The gaze of a man who had just jabbed straight into a festering wound—and hit it clean.

His words had landed.

Hard.

Not just as an insult.

They rang true.

Grugrim scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.The comment had been tossed out to provoke… but it struck deeper than expected.

Because truth had a way of cutting sharper than any blade.

Malik was acting like a baby.

Not just because of his rage.

But because of his hesitation.

The way he moved—like someone who expected to win just because of who he was.

Like a spoiled child too used to winning without effort. Toying with his enemy. Dodging real danger.

Refusing to fully commit unless the odds were stacked in his favor.

Grugrim narrowed his eyes, putting it all together.

This wasn't some ancient, battle-hardened demon lord.

No.

This was something else entirely.

It made sense now.

An adult demon? A real one? Would've ended this already.

Would've turned him to ash the moment the match began. No games. No delay.

Malik hadn't done that.

Because Malik… was a baby.

Grugrim's deduction clicked.

And he was right.

Malik was barely a year old. Not that you'd know by looking.

In the world of demons, that didn't mean weakness or helplessness. Far from it.

Demons aged fast. Unnaturally fast.

Their bodies matured in weeks. Their minds, sharpened by the brutal energy that flowed through them, evolved with terrifying speed.

And Malik?

Malik was different.

He wasn't just growing fast—he was exploding with potential. His height. His strength. His intelligence. All of it outpacing everyone born around the same time.

He wasn't just any demon child.

He was the child.

The one born of the Demon King's flame.

One of many offspring, sure—but he stood out like wildfire among sparks.

The fastest. The strongest. The brightest.

That's why, when the Legacy Trial invitation arrived, the Demon King didn't send his oldest or most experienced child.

He sent Malik.

The youngest.

The prodigy.

The one with the most to prove—and the least experience to back it up.

Because brilliance wasn't the same as readiness.

A prince of flame…

…still learning how to burn.

The Demon King had called it a chance.

A battlefield Malik could use to hone himself. To become more.

And Malik had taken it with pride, chest high, voice loud. He had stood tall in front of his father's obsidian throne and declared:

"I'll show the world what demons are made of."

But now?

Now, he stood frozen.

Hesitating.

Haunted by a dwarf who should've been dead five moves ago.

Grugrim—bloodied, bruised, beaten—was still breathing. Still speaking.

Still getting in his head.

And Malik let him.

The shame twisted in his chest, a writhing knot of rage and uncertainty.

Grugrim's voice cut through the air again, this time lower. Sharper. Like a blade drawn slow across skin.

"Well, since you're still a kid…" he said, eyes burning into Malik. "Allow me to tell you something."

Malik's fists tightened. His eyes flared.

Grugrim didn't stop.

His words dropped like iron.

"You think you're the strongest in this stratum? That no one can touch you?"

He leaned forward, even while swaying, barely able to stand.

"But you're not."

A twitch ran down Malik's arms—small, but telling.

A tremor of anger.

Or something else.

Grugrim didn't care. He pressed the knife deeper.

"If you believe otherwise, you're either blind… or delusional."

"I am not!" Malik roared. "I am the Prince of Flames! I have no competition!"

The words echoed like thunder—but even as he said them, there was a crack in his voice. A tiny splinter beneath the fury.

Grugrim scoffed.

"Then you're doomed."

His tone hardened. Final.

"If you don't wake up… if you don't drop that pathetic arrogance… you'll lose."

He paused—just long enough for the words to sting.

Then:

"No. Even if you do wake up… you're still going to lose. You cannot win."

Malik growled, loud and guttural.

"Shut up!"

He pointed at Grugrim with a trembling claw. "What would a dwarf know?!"

But beneath the scream, his voice shook—not from fear.

From fury.

Fury that was building too fast to hold back.

Grugrim just shook his head.

Then tapped his tongue.

Tch. Tch. Tch.

"Typical demon," he muttered with disgust. "Always thinking you're gods."

He raised his head, gaze steady and merciless.

"But your arrogance?" he said, voice like gravel. "It doesn't make you strong. It makes you stupid."

Malik gasped, just barely. His breath caught. Eyes twitched.

That was it.

SNAP.

It broke.

The fear. The doubt. The hesitation.

Gone.

Vaporized.

Every piece of uncertainty burned to nothing in an instant.

His aura erupted.

The heat of it slammed through the air like a shockwave, hurling dust and ash outward.

CRACK!

The air split like it had been struck by a celestial hammer.

Fire exploded from Malik's body—wild, furious, alive.

The ground beneath him hissed and cracked as molten heat licked at the stone.

His pupils narrowed into infernal slits. His voice came out low, guttural, and final.

"You insolent maggot…"

Grugrim laughed—rasping and raw.

He looked up through blood-matted hair and grinned.

A wild, defiant grin.

"Ha! Finally…" he coughed, "you grow some balls!" fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

Malik didn't reply.

He didn't need to.

He raised both hands.

And from them came death.

A net of flame.

Almost invisible.

So thin it shimmered like spider silk in the light—but so hot the air around it shimmered, warped by the intensity.

Each line glowed red-gold, humming with power. Pure destruction, woven into threads.

And then—

FLASH.

The net moved.

Too fast to dodge.

Too hot to survive.

Grugrim saw it.

And smiled.

For the first time since the match began, his body relaxed.

"Finally…" he thought. "Rest."

He didn't lift a hand. Didn't move. Didn't brace.

He welcomed it.

SSSSHHHHHH—

The net sliced through him.

Silent.

Effortless.

Deadly.

He stood there, eyes open, smile frozen.

Then—

SCHLICK.

Tiny, delicate sounds. Like paper tearing in slow motion.

Lines appeared across his body.

Vertical.

Horizontal.

Diagonal.

Crosshatched like a butcher's pattern—carved without hesitation.

Time itself seemed to hesitate.

Grugrim didn't fall.

Not yet.

He stood there, eyes flickering.

His chest rose for one final breath.

Then, he collapsed.

Not as one.

But in pieces.

FLOP.

Chunks hit the ground in neat thuds.

Sliced clean.

Flesh, bone, armor—separated like meat cubes dropping from a cutting board.