The exchange that followed was not a fight; it was a sustained assault of metaphysical violence. Rex found himself caught in a storm of pressure more relentless than anything he had endured since the cataclysmic destruction of the Throne outside of Time.
Even as he was forced backward, his boots grinding crimson slurry into the stone, his mind remained a cold, analytical engine, dissecting every syllable of Apollo's divine fury.
Apollo had transcended the tactical. He had stopped fighting like a man seeking victory and had begun fighting like a force of nature seeking to erase an obstacle.
His combat philosophy had shifted into something terrifyingly suicidal: he abandoned defense almost entirely. He stopped parrying and bracing.
He simply accepted the consequences of Rex's counterattacks, allowing the white divine sheath to absorb impacts that would have shattered his organs twenty minutes ago.
