Rex tried three separate times to create distance—three desperate attempts to reclaim even an inch of space—and each failure felt like another nail being driven into his coffin.
The first attempt was a telekinetic pulse, a concentrated wave of force designed to shatter bone and throw a mountain backward. Rex channeled everything into it, expecting a satisfying recoil.
Instead, the wave washed over Apollo like water over polished marble. The divine channel had rendered Apollo functionally immune to displacement; he was no longer a body subject to physics but an anchor point for reality itself. He didn't even stagger.
The second attempt was more desperate: a burst of that unclassifiable, chaotic elemental frequency, the same raw distortion that had once dissolved three stacked barrier workings in a single pass.
