The strike that followed was not a move; it was an execution.
Apollo did not merely wind up. He began to draw the entirety of the open channel—the raw, unfiltered power of the divine—down into a single, terrifying point at the center of his fist.
The light that gathered there ceased to resemble anything Life affinity had ever produced. It was no longer warm; it was no longer healing.
It condensed into a sphere of such impossible brightness that it bleached the world. The ruined expanse of the domain was suddenly bathed in a hard, colorless glare that turned the violet floor into a sheet of blinding white.
He held it for perhaps a second and a half. That second and a half felt like an eternity of approaching doom.
