Apocalypse Baby

The moment Alex came fully into view, sound exploded around him like a tidal wave.

Roars.

Deafening, bone-rattling, stadium-shaking cheers that slammed into his chest and echoed through his bones. The kind of noise that made one heart skip and blood race.

He looked up—and froze for a second.

A sea of alien spectators packed into a colossal floating coliseum, stacked high like some impossible space-age stadium.

Floating platforms hovered above the tiers, creating multiple levels of chaos.

And the crowd?

They were warriors. Elites.

Players from all corners of the cosmos—each one dangerous in their own right.

Every seat was filled.

Horned giants with tusks and tribal paint. Scaled archers with glowing eyes.

Sentient crystals that pulsed with color as they chanted.

Beasts in jagged armor.

Cloaked mages whose eyes flickered with arcane power.

They didn't sit and watch—they screamed.

Roared for their champions.

Above it all, floating in the sky like orbiting satellites, giant screens rotated in slow, steady circles—flashing names, ranks, stats, kill counts.

And then—higher up, like gods in a pantheon—were the skyboxes.

A glittering halo around the arena, each one reserved for the big shots.

Legacy Holders.

But above even them—far above the chaos and noise—was the real power.

It wasn't a box.

It was a chamber—a massive, circular capsule of crystal-clear glass, floating mid-air like some kind of divine observatory.

It hovered alone, untouched by the noise, untouched by gravity.

Runes swirled around it in slow orbits, glowing faintly, with godly energy.

Inside?

Alex could feel them.

Their presence leaked through the cracks—just enough to know they were there.

Flickers of golden light.

He swallowed.

He couldn't see them. But he felt them.

Their attention, and it pressed down on him.

He let out a slow breath, trying to calm the spike of adrenaline.

His heart kept hammering like a war drum in his chest.

Then, one of the massive floating screens flashed—and there it was.

His profile.

ALEX (HUMAN)

Origin: Earth | Tutorial Player | No Legacy Affiliation

Previous Trial: Tutorial Phase – Cleared

Simple. Plain. Kinda underwhelming.

Then, right next to it, his opponent:

THARNOK (VORAKAN WARBORN)

Origin: Vorakan | New Realm Elite | No Legacy Affiliation

Previous Trial: Tutorial Phase – Cleared

Alex narrowed his eyes.

"New Realm Elite," huh?

So they were both unaffiliated. Both made it through the first phase.

The only real difference was that Tharnok was considered a new realm elite, while Alex was still a tutorial player.

Now, Alex had no idea how strong a New Realm Elite was supposed to be.

Most likely stronger than him.

But honestly? Didn't matter.

He'd find a way to close the gap in strength.

The audience, however, wasn't so sure about that.

"He's facing a Vorakan right off the bat. Talk about bad luck."

"He's from the tutorial bracket? How did he even pass Phase One?"

"No emblem… no legacy mark…? Yeah, he's cooked."

Laughter broke out. Low chuckles. Full-on howls.

Waves of mocking murmurs rolled through different sections of the arena like a ripple of scorn.

Alex didn't hear their words.

But he felt them.

The air buzzed with it.

Doubt. Contempt. Disbelief.

And beneath it all—something colder.

Anticipation.

Not for him to win.

No. They were waiting to watch him get wrecked.

They wanted blood.

They expected his.

A low rumble then shook the floor beneath Alex's boots.

He tensed.

Panels shifted across the arena with heavy metallic clicks. Massive gears groaned to life, their grinding echo deep and thunderous—like the throat of a sleeping beast awakening.

From the platform opposite him, something rose.

A shadow at first. Then a form.

Then a figure.

It was his opponent.

Tharnok.

The crowd erupted the instant he appeared.

Roars exploded like cannon fire.

The entire arena quaked with it—thousands of voices screaming, chanting, howling in unison.

The energy shifted. It was no longer amusement.

It was bloodlust.

Tharnok stood tall at the center of his rising platform—still as a statue carved for war.

He wore a sleek, obsidian-black uniform, more military than ceremonial, tailored to his frame like armor made for a predator.

His skin was bronze, sun-baked and battle-hardened. Thick cords of muscle coiled beneath the suit, like compressed steel wires ready to snap.

And across his face—one detail stood out.

A jagged scar slashed down the left side of his jaw, carving through an eye that glowed faintly red.

That eye never blinked.

He didn't tower like a giant.

But the weight he carried—the presence—was crushing.

Every step Tharnok took radiated quiet violence.

Not the loud, flailing kind.

The cold, efficient kind.

This wasn't some wild berserker.

This was a killer carved by war.

Alex felt it immediately.

His instincts flared—sharp and sudden.

A twist in his gut.

A primal, animal-level signal screaming: Run.

But he stood his ground.

That's when the air shimmered above the arena floor—like heat waves bending light.

A figure appeared from thin air, descending smoothly with a swirl of silver fabric.

The Proctor.

Their cloak snapped in the windless space as they landed gently between both fighters—unshaken, untouchable.

Clad in the same flowing, metallic robes as before, he didn't walk—He hovered.Effortless. Controlled. Suspended in midair like gravity bowed to him.

A radiant glyph pulsed beneath his feet with each subtle shift of motion, keeping him aloft like a divine puppet master's string.

His face remained hidden beneath a hood that shimmered like starlight trapped in silk—impossible to focus on, always shifting.

But when he spoke…

The entire arena trembled.

His voice boomed, deep and commanding—like a god wasn't asking for silence… but taking it.

"COMBATANTS."

A pause.

Arms spread wide.

"THE RULES ARE SIMPLE: KILL YOUR OPPONENT TO WIN."

Alex furrowed his brow.

"Right...simple indeed."

He remembered the rules he read that dying here didn't mean dying forever. You will still be returned back to the tutorial but will suffer soul damage.

Alex had no intentions of dying though.

With a smooth motion, he summoned his weapon.

And drew his newly acquired daggers, Scarlet Fang.

The blades hissed to life, glowing with a deep crimson aura.

The edges were jagged like a predator's tooth, pulsing faintly with inner heat. Energy coiled around it, and the very air around Alex warped from the pressure.

Alex raised the blades, his feet shifting into a balanced stance.

His heart pounded like a war drum.

He was ready.

Then Proctor raised a single hand and uttered.

"BEGIN."