The Last Paragon in the Apocalypse

The buzzing grew louder, forming a terrifying chorus that shook the ground beneath them. It felt like a divine army was descending from the clouds.

From the darkened clouds above, countless shadows descended, each one shaped like a monstrous bee larger than a full-grown horse.

Out of the swarm, a figure emerged, cloaked in black robes stitched with golden thread. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and small, intricate hives that pulsed with life rested on his gloved hands.

Klaus, who was only into the second story, felt his life force taken. Per his calculation, a week had been siphoned, leaving him with a little over seven months to live if he didn’t break through soon.

The Beekeeper raised one hand, and the entire swarm responded with a thunderous wave, surging toward the spider demon.

It had already lost three legs, with the remaining eleven sustaining cracks here and there. The archer had done a good job on him.

Klaus would have loved to add more to that story, but his life force was limited, and time was also not in his favour.

The spider hissed, its fourteen red eyes gleaming with hatred and fear as it unleashed a barrage of silk spears to destroy the incoming swarm.

However, each bee that was hit exploded violently, creating small bursts of acidic smoke that eroded the silk threads and sprayed corrosive venom across the spider’s limbs.

Upon contact with the spider, Klaus started to see that it was eating into its form, making the spider demon grow both frustrated and hateful.

This could be termed cheating, but getting a story right wasn’t always possible. Your life would be in danger if your story were not structured well.

Thankfully, Klaus’s brain was large enough to handle the story without leaving any loopholes.

Klaus wiped the blood from his lips, his face pale but determined. His voice, though hoarse, carried strength as he continued the story.

He was exhausting himself for the stories. He had to pay this price for what he wanted to see. The end game is to get what his mind was telling him he should look out for.

“I saw the Beekeeper command the hive like a living weapon. Each bee carried a shard of venom from the abyss, capable of corroding even the most sacred metals.”

The Beekeeper clapped his hands together, and instantly, the bees began to condense into larger, more horrifying forms—giant hybrid creatures resembling wasps with drill-like stingers.

They targeted the cracks in the spider’s broken legs, hammering the weak points relentlessly.

The spider shrieked and swung its remaining legs wildly, smashing dozens of the monstrous bees with each strike, but for every one that fell, two more took its place.

For a moment, everyone worldwide became scared, not of the spider but of the bees attacking it. They looked terrifying, and looking at them made them realize it wouldn’t be easy to handle such a monster.

If only they knew Asha was working toward something similar.

The Demon Spider’s movements grew sluggish, the venom and explosions taking their toll.

Klaus exhaled slowly, sweat pouring down his forehead.

His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the immense drain of telling these cursed stories using the Ancient Tongue.

He was supposed to play against an opponent, but he had to pay this price because he was breaking that rule. Of course, he wasn’t complaining.

The spider was losing more than he did, so he could only smile through his pain. This way, he was also assuring those fearing for his life to relax, for he wasn’t in any danger.

He gazed at the battle unfolding and spoke once more.

“The Beekeeper does not simply fight… he overwhelms.”

The Beekeeper whistled as if responding to the narration, and thousands more bees surged forth, drowning the spider in a tidal wave of buzzing death.

Underneath the mass of black and gold, the spider’s body shuddered violently. Its howls echoed across the land as chunks of its flesh and metal carapace were ripped away.

At the center of the destruction, Klaus sat, his blood staining the prayer mat beneath him.

Yet his eyes remained calm, fixed on the scene with unwavering resolve.

This was only the second story.

And he had one more to tell before his time ran out.

The first took ten minutes, and the second was also exhausting—ten minutes—leaving him only five more minutes for the third story.

After a while, the second story ended, yet the spider was still breathing.

Blood dripping from his lips, Klaus tilted his head upward slightly and whispered, voice thin but steady:

“They call her… the Siren of the Broken Skies…”

The air changed the moment Klaus spoke those words.

The buzzing of bees faded, and a haunting, sorrowful melody filled the battlefield. It was a voice—soft and beautiful but soaked in despair so deep it made even the storyteller shudder.

The clouds above twisted into strange patterns, like the sky was being pulled into mourning.

Out of the swirling gloom descended a woman, her long silver hair flowing like a river of moonlight, her body wrapped in a tattered gown stitched from something that still terrifies Klaus.

Her eyes were shut, yet her singing carved through the air sharper than any sword.

This story was personal to Klaus.

He had yet to remember the rest of his many lives, but his fourth life was filled with many adventures. One of such adventures was the journey to the Broken Siren Realm.

It was one horrific journey; he still shudders whenever it surfaces in his mind.

Back then, he and Yuying, along with two other Paragon Guards, embarked on a journey to rescue one of the Paragon Guards who had found herself a prisoner of the Broken Siren.

This figure was a banshee who later mutated into a mermaid and became a hybrid. But she called herself a siren—the Broken Siren.

When they arrived in her domain, Fruity learned that, in this life, not every sound should be heard, and not every beauty can be admired.

This stuck with him, and to this very day, he still remembers.

So, for his third and last story, he chose to bring that horror back to life, and that was when he called forth the Broken Siren, whose tattered gown was stitched from storm clouds and broken dreams.

She was a sorrowful singer who sang about dreadful love stories—the most horrific notes one couldn’t possibly be willing to hear.

The horror of the ballad…Love Requiem

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