Apocalypse Baby-Chapter 276: Arise

"How is he doing that?"

Didn't it take him a while to charge just one arrow before?

Alex wondered, but then, he saw it.

The bow Sylen held—it was glowing.

Sylen wasn't charging each arrow individually. No… he had charged the entire bow.

So now, every time he nocked an arrow, it was automatically infused with Emi, ready to explode on release.

"Cool…" Alex whispered, impressed.

Meanwhile, Brakka was struggling.

He growled and roared, muscles bulging, but he couldn't get close.

Each arrow stopped him cold, pushing him toward the edge of the arena.

Sylen's goal was clear now—

Knock the Kruckle off the platform.

It was a solid plan.

Unlike the winged Vorakans, Kruckles couldn't fly. Falling off meant elimination—or death. Looking down, there was no visible bottom.

Brakka finally caught on to Sylen's plan and tried to dodge, running sideways, circling the arena, desperate to break the rhythm.

But then, something crazy happened.

The arrows curved mid-air, following him, bending like guided missiles and blasting him right back where he started.

"He can do that?" Alex muttered, shocked.

The fact that Sylen could bend and curl his arrows through the air wasn't some active skill that burned his mana. It was raw skill.

The elf's proficiency in archery was insanely high, allowing him to control the arrows even after release, like they were an extension of himself.

Another skill to add to his list, Alex noted. He was studying the abilities of both the elf and the Kruckle, preparing for when he might face them.

Overall, though, the fight between the two was rather lukewarm.

Neither was showing off a truly blood-pumping skill.

But then—Brakka snapped.

The Kruckle roared, his muscles swelling as his entire body exploded with raw aura. Red lightning danced around him, crackling with fury.

Seeing the outburst, Sylen acted fast.

He used a skill—his bow glowed again—and he fired multiple charged arrows at once.

They whistled through the air, glowing bright as they honed in on the beast.

But then, Brakka did something unexpected.

He dropped his weapon…

…stepped forward in a short lunge…

…and clapped his hands together, unleashing a thunderous BOOM.

The sheer force from the clap sent a visible shockwave rippling outward like a wave in a pond.

It slammed into the incoming arrows, scattering them in all directions like leaves in a storm. The arrows exploded mid-air.

BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!

The wave from the clap kept going, smashing into Sylen like a crashing tide.

The elf quickly raised a hexagon-shaped magic shield, absorbing the brunt of the impact.

But even as the shield held—a shadow loomed over him.

Sylen's eyes widened in disbelief.

Fast?

He hadn't seen the motion.

Brakka was behind him—with his weapon—bringing it down toward Sylen's head.

The elf threw up his shield again, trying to block the hit, but it wasn't enough.

CRACK!

Sylen's eyes rolled back as Brakka's massive mace smashed into his chest with devastating force. The hit didn't just knock him down—his body bounced up from the impact like a ragdoll before crashing down again.

Completely limp.

Before he could even breathe, Brakka followed up with a thunderous kick, slamming his heavy foot into Sylen's gut.

WHAM!

The force launched the elf like a rocket, sending him flying across the arena.

He tumbled and skidded across the dirt, spinning and crashing until he finally came to a stop just a few meters from the edge.

The crowd exploded in cheers.

This was what they came to see—raw violence. Not some slow, tactical victory where a guy falls off the edge. They wanted carnage—and Brakka delivered.

The Kruckle roared in triumph, pounding his chest, weapon dripping with blood.

The crowd responded, chanting his name.

Meanwhile, Sylen groaned in agony as he slowly pushed himself up, trembling. Blood poured from his side, soaking into the arena floor.

He looked down—and his breath caught.

His entire left side was caved in. His ribs—shattered. It was a miracle his organs were still intact.

And still… he stood.

Across the arena, Brakka spotted the movement and turned slowly, his eyes gleaming with menace.

He raised his weapon—still slick with Sylen's blood—and licked it.

He was done playing around.

Now… he was going to end it.

Sylen's breath hitched—weak and ragged.

He was in a dire spot.

He didn't want to use his special innate skill yet—not so soon. Not when he still had a chance to save it for tougher foes like Alex or Malik, who he saw as his biggest threats.

But here he was, pushed to the edge.

He had hoped to win easily by throwing Brakka off the stage, using agility and precision.

But he'd made a big mistake by underestimating his opponent. freewёbnoνel.com

Just because Brakka was a brute didn't mean he lacked power or battle intelligence.

Every fighter here was a force to be reckoned with. And Sylen realized he'd been a fool to think otherwise.

"Fine."

If he was going out, he might as well make it eye-catching.

Brakka saw Sylen's aura shift and grinned, ready to strike at the lanky elf.

This was what he wanted—a real battle.

One of blood and injuries, not a one-sided win.

He charged at Sylen, letting out a primal grunt.

WHOOSH

In the blink of an eye, he reached the unresponsive elf. His spiked mace came crashing down once again, the weapon crackling with crimson energy.

Then it connected—

BOOM!

The mace slammed into Sylen with a force that seemed to shatter the very air. An explosion of energy erupted from the impact.

The crowd gasped.

This was it.

Sylen was finished.

The fight was over.

Dust and smoke clouded the arena as everyone held their breath, waiting.

All eyes were fixed on the spot where Sylen had fallen.

But as the haze cleared… they saw it.

From the shadow beneath Sylen, a bony hand slowly reached up—gripping Brakka's massive weapon with an unrelenting hold.

The crowd fell silent. Eyes widened with shock, confusion, and awe.

How could this be happening?Where had that hand come from?

Brakka's expression mirrored the crowd's.

His eyes widened in disbelief. His battle stance faltered as he stared at the strange, skeletal hand. It had appeared out of nowhere—as if summoned by some unseen force.

Sylen, still standing—unfazed—let out a tired sigh.

Blood streamed from the cut on his forehead, trailing down his face in a slow crimson line. He wiped it away, his expression dark but calm as he spoke in an apologetic tone.

"You forced my hand, brute."

His voice was low, almost regretful.

But there was no turning back now.

His eyes burned with determination—and something darker beneath.

Then, with a bloody grin, he spoke a single word that sent a chill through the air:

"Arise, my..."