Apollo came in for the last time.
There was no more posturing. No more tactical probing. The air between them didn't just hum; it screamed, charged with a static intensity that made the very atoms of the domain vibrate in terror.
Apollo wasn't just attacking; he was offering up his entire existence as fuel for one singular, devastating purpose.
The remnants of the goddess's residual gift, which flickered like a holy ember, along with the last vestiges of strength in his shredded muscles after twenty-five minutes of hellish, bone-breaking combat, were compressed into a single point.
He coiled his entire body like a spring, his golden aura spiraling upward before snapping downward in a devastating overhand strike. The fist didn't just move through the air; it tore it, leaving a double helix of blazing gold and pearlescent white in its wake, a comet of divine retribution aimed directly at Rex's skull.
