Apocalypse Baby

[You have completed the Nightmare.]

[Reward for completing this trial will be given to you when you exit.]

[You will be teleported out soon!]

The glowing notifications appeared before Ezekiel's eyes—just in time.

A few minutes earlier, he was barely holding on, his breath ragged, his arms heavy.

The undead players swarmed him, their rotting hands grasping, their hollow eyes burning with fury.

These were the same players from the first round—the ones he had promised to lead.

The ones he had abandoned to save himself.

A part of him had felt guilty. That guilt had shaped this nightmare, resurrecting them as vengeful undead.

Now, they attacked with ruthless aggression, their movements sharper, faster than before.

Ezekiel fought back with desperation, his blade a blur as he swung wildly, hacking through the undead.

"RAAH!" he screamed, slashing down another.

But then—

One of them spoke.

"You bastard! You promised me... I'd return to our daughter."

Ezekiel froze.

The voice—too real, too familiar.

A second of hesitation.

SHHK!

A sharp pain ripped through his back.

Ezekiel winced at the pain snapped out of it and kept swinging.

His blade slashed through one, then another, but they just kept coming.

Their movements were different—faster, stronger. Sharper than when they were alive.

And he knew.

He had led them once. He had fought beside them. He knew their limits.

But this?

This was beyond them.

Yet, it wasn't their strength that put him at a disadvantage.

It was their words.

"You said you'd lead us out of here."

Ezekiel's grip tightened. He pushed forward, trying to drown them out.

"You didn't even look back when I got killed."

His breathing turned uneven. His footwork slipped.

"You watched as that statue crushed me... yet you did nothing."

The words hit deeper than any blade.

He tried to shut it out. Tried to focus.

But he couldn't.

Because every word was true.

He felt it.The weight of his choices. The guilt clawing at him.

Then came the final blow.

"You said I reminded you of your dead son... yet you let me die.

You failed me, just like you failed him."

Ezekiel's blood ran cold.

His breath hitched.

His body froze.

And in that single, paralyzing moment—they struck.

A blade slashed across his chest.

Pain exploded through his body as he staggered backward, gasping. His knees buckled, but he forced himself to stay upright.

Blood poured from the wound, soaking his clothes.

His vision blurred. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

But still—he stood.

And in a somber, broken voice, he spoke:

"You're right. I failed you all. Because I'm a fraud... and a coward. Always have been.

But you chose to follow me.

And that choice led to your death.

Blame your deaths on your foolishness."

Silence.

Then—

"Coward!"

One of the undead snarled.

"He still won't take responsibility!"

They rushed him.

Ezekiel raised his blade, but his arms felt like lead.

Too slow.

Too tired.

Too broken.

And as the undead closed in—he knew.

There was no way he could survive this.

The numbers overwhelmed him.

Ezekiel fought back, swinging wildly, but there were too many.

A cold hand gripped his throat.

Another yanked his arm, twisting it painfully.

A boot slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

He hit the ground—hard.

Weapons rose above him, glinting with the promise of death.

This was it.

Ezekiel closed his eyes, accepting the end.

But then—

FWOOOSH!

The undead burst into ashes.

All of them.

One second, they were there—the next, gone.

Ezekiel gasped for breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

His limbs trembled as he pushed himself up, his mind struggling to process what just happened.

Then, the notification flashed before his eyes.

He survived.

Ezekiel stared at the message, his breath still shaky.

He was sure he was dead.

He had accepted it.

But somehow, Lady Luck had other plans.

His eyes darted around the empty battlefield, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest.

They were really gone.

The people he once led. The people who had trusted him.

So many good people had died.

Yet somehow, a terrible person like him had lived.

And it was all because of the one person he blamed for this mess.

A weary sigh escaped his lips as he collapsed onto the cold ground.

"That crazy bastard… he actually did it. He defeated the nightmare."

Dorion, just like Ezekiel, was also saved when Alex defeated Grim Lord.

But unlike Ezekiel and Freya, he was in far worse shape.

His body was a mess—riddled with stab wounds, blood soaking his clothes.

Undead Kiri had been relentless.

Even in life, she was strong.

Back then, Dorion had the advantage. He was at his peak, and with [12 Immortal Body], he had overpowered her.

But now?

Now, she was undead.

Her strength had skyrocketed.

And Dorion? Weakened.

Still suffering from the debuff her father placed on him.

The fight had been one-sided from the start.

At first, he had rushed in, rage-fueled, swinging wildly.

But his aggression had cost him.

His attacks had been reckless.

Now, he was barely hanging on.

His strikes had turned into desperate blocks, weak parries.

He had stopped attacking altogether.

His body was failing.

Each breath was shallow.

Each step felt like his last.

Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling beneath him.

His vision blurred.

His arms trembled as he barely held his weapon.

He looked like he could drop dead at any second.

But Dorion refused to fall.

His grip tightened around his scythe, blood-slick fingers barely holding on.

His body screamed in pain.

His breaths were ragged.

But he wasn't dead yet.

And he wasn't going to let that change.

He knew one more hit could end him—permanently.

So he shifted his focus.

Less attacking. More surviving.

Dodging. Blocking. Taking as little damage as possible.

It was a desperate gamble.

But it paid off.

There were no words exchanged.

No taunts.

No guilt-ridden accusations like with the others.

Just battle.

Because, unlike Ezekiel, Dorion felt nothing.

No remorse. No regret.

The nightmare controlling the undead didn't even bother trying to break him mentally.

It didn't need to.

He was already on his last leg.

Kiri lunged.

Her speed was unnatural.

Before he could react, her blade struck.

CLANG!

Dorion's scythe flew from his hands.

His last defense—gone.

His limbs refused to move.

His vision blurred.

He barely registered Kiri stepping in, lifting her weapon high.

This was it.

The final blow.

The cold edge of her blade touched his skin.

And then, she turned to dust.