The Doom Beast veered mid-charge.
One moment, it was locked in a brutal dance with the Proctor—dodging arcs of celestial light, retaliating with tendrils laced in Malik's burning fury—and the next, it twisted violently, its entire body pivoting toward a new target.
Alex.
The arena trembled under the sudden shift. Its clawed feet gouged into the scorched floor of the crater, tearing up chunks of molten stone that scattered like shrapnel. Black flame surged along its spine, pulsing erratically. The beast's eyes, once filled with madness, now glowed with single-minded hatred.
This wasn't strategy.
It wasn't survival.
This was desperation.
It wanted to drag someone—anyone—down with it before it died.
The Proctor's eyes widened in alarm.
"No!"
His voice cracked across the arena like thunder.
He had warned the boy.
Told him to leave.
To escape while he still could.
To live.
But Alex hadn't listened.
