Somewhere in the meat of that ninety-second hellscape, Apollo abandoned technique entirely. The disciplined structure, the flawless forms taught by the High Masters of Aethelgard, the measured breathing, and the calculated parries—it all burned away in the furnace of his desperation.
He stopped being a trained Apostle and became something primal, something ancient and starving.
He stopped fighting like a soldier and started fighting like an animal trapped in a cage with a god.
CRUNCH.
His elbow smashed into Xerollion's jaw with enough force to shatter granite, but the masked man merely tilted his head, absorbing the impact with a sickening wet sound. Apollo didn't stop.
He threw knees into ribs, headbutts that sent sprays of blood flying from his own nose, and desperate, ragged strikes that lacked any semblance of elegance.
