At exactly the four-minute mark of this escalating nightmare, the impossible happened. Apollo found his opening.
It wasn't a lucky strike; it was a masterpiece of desperate calculation. For three excruciating exchanges, Apollo had been feeding Xerollion false data, deliberately overcommitting to his left side, telegraphing a clumsy stumble, and building a feint that felt like weakness.
He baited the trap. He saw the masked figure's guard drop by a mere four inches, a micro adjustment in anticipation of a failed lunge.
'NOW!' Apollo's mind screamed.
He planted his lead foot, feeling the stone crack beneath his divine weight, and unleashed an uppercut that carried every ounce of momentum from his legs, his core, and his raw fury.
CRACK THUD!
The sound was sickening—the wet, splintering noise of bone meeting unstoppable force. The blow caught Xerollion square along the jaw.
