The beating that followed was not a fight; it was a systematic dismantling. For five agonizing minutes, Rex Rexilion endured a level of one-sided, relentless violence that he hadn't experienced since the moment his own heart had stopped beating during his first death.
The world became nothing but a strobe light of crimson pain and the wet, nauseating sounds of impact.
Apollo had abandoned all pretense of martial arts. The Academy training, the measured breathing, and the tactical positioning it had all evaporated, consumed by a furnace of pure, unadulterated rage.
He wasn't fighting Rex anymore; he was simply erasing him. His fists descended in an unbroken, mechanical rhythm, each strike carrying the weight of a collapsing star.
THUD CRUNCH.
THUD CRUNCH.
THUD CRUNCH.
Every time Apollo's fist connected, Rex's body was hammered into the domain floor like a spike being driven into wood.
