Apollo was at the front—his sword drawn, his eyes cold, his aura blazing with the Rule of War at the third layer. It was the perfect place to use and understand the deeper meaning of war.
The sword in his hand moved on instinct, slicing through waves of attackers. His feet carried him forward, not toward the exit, but into the thickest part of the chaos. Around him, laws shattered. Bodies screamed and fell. Time itself seemed to blur.
Thousands of attacks from different levels came to him, but they could not hurt him at all, as his current physique was many times stronger than many high-ranking divine weapons.
Not a scratch. Not a drop of blood.
His body, now fused with the ancient heart and tempered by red-gold divine energy, had become indestructible.
He split through the waves of attacks and swung his sword, cutting through hundreds of enemies with every strike. He was like a demon god that takes lives with every move.
Another step forward. Another swing.
