The roar that tore from Apollo's throat wasn't just a sound; it was a release of every ounce of grief, betrayal, and exhaustion he had accumulated since the first drop of blood hit the floor.
He didn't just throw a punch. He threw his entire existence.
Every remaining reserve of his divine activation, every spark of the Life affinity that refused to die, was violently compressed. He channeled it through his shoulder, down his arm, and into the knuckles of his right fist.
The energy became so dense it defied physics; the air in front of his fist didn't just move, it ignited. A corona of searing golden flame erupted before his knuckles had even traveled two feet, a localized supernova that screamed with the sound of tearing reality.
FWOOOOOM!
The sheer displaced air pressure hit the Aethelgard formation like a physical shockwave. Soldiers sixty meters back stumbled, their armor rattling as the invisible wall of force rolled over them.
