Chapter 751: 751. Apollo Said There’s No Malice In My Strikes. It’s Much Worse Than Malice.

The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the ozone of spent energy. Apollo felt the restoration hit him like a torrential downpour of cool, crystalline water lashing against a desert landscape that had long since forgotten the sensation of moisture.

Aisella’s hands were trembling, the pale light of her healing magic flickering like a candle in a gale. She wasn’t at her full output; her energy reserves were dangerously depleted, her very soul feeling as though it were being scraped thin to provide this reprieve.

But the precision she applied was nothing short of surgical, the refined, instinctive grace of an elven healer who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of stitching life back into broken vessels. It wasn’t a total cure, but it was a lifeline.

It was enough to push his designation’s active capacity back above the threshold, enough to quiet the screaming agony in his lungs and allow his biological systems to function without the constant, grinding effort of sheer willpower.

He felt the strength return to his limbs, a slow, rhythmic pulse of vitality that allowed him to finally stand straight without his knees buckling.

"Aisella..." Apollo rasped, his voice a low, gravelly shadow of itself.

He reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he tried to offer a genuine, weary smile. "That... that was incredible."

"If you hadn’t stepped in when you did, I think the world would have lost its most annoying defender. Thank you."

Aisella didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the sky, her pupils dilated, her entire being tethered to the violent spectacle unfolding above the clouds.

Her expression was a mask of cold, focused intensity, though a microscopic tremor in her jaw betrayed the storm of emotion swirling within.

"Don’t waste your breath on flattery, Apollo," she replied, her voice dry, almost clinical, though it lacked its usual biting edge.

It was a deflection, a shield. "Just stay upright."

"If you collapse now, you’ll only be in the way."

Apollo let out a soft, huffed laugh, a sound of pure exhaustion. He turned his gaze upward, following her line of sight.

High above, the sky was no longer a peaceful expanse; it was a canvas of carnage. He watched, mesmerized and horrified, as Rex moved like a glitch in reality, teleporting through the air with sickening speed.

VWOOP!

Each time Rex reappeared, it was accompanied by the wet CRACK of bone or the heavy THUD of a strike that sounded like a hammer hitting a carcass.

"Gods above..." Apollo whispered, his eyes widening as he watched a spray of crimson droplets freeze into red ice in the stratosphere. "He isn’t just fighting her... He’s dismantling her..."

"It’s like watching a god play with a broken toy." Apollo chuckled. "Look at the pressure... the air itself is screaming..."

He watched the flash of the dragon’s maw, the terrifying roar that shook the very foundations of the island, and the subsequent, blinding explosion of energy that seemed to tear the heavens asunder. The sheer scale of the violence was incomprehensible, a dance of death played out on a cosmic stage.

The silence that followed the final, earth-shattering impact was deafening. The distant roar of the dragon falling toward the horizon was a low, receding rumble that left a hollow ache in Apollo’s chest.

"I believe him... no matter all the accusations they gave us... it’s probably one of their plans to make you split apart."

The adrenaline began to recede, leaving only the cold, hard reality of the battlefield. Apollo wiped a smear of dried blood from his lip, his gaze shifting from the distant dust cloud to the man standing beside him.

He looked at Zane.

Zane’s voice was cold, a stark contrast to the lingering heat of the explosion that still shimmered in the distant sky. He didn’t look at Apollo; his eyes were fixed on the horizon, his jaw set in a grim, rigid line.

"You really are a fool, Apollo," Zane said, his tone devoid of emotion. "You see a hero fighting a monster and you think you’re witnessing an act of salvation."

"You’re blinded by the spectacle..." Zane scoffed. "That’s exactly how they want you to see it."

Apollo frowned, his body still humming with the remnants of Aisella’s healing. "What you’re seeing is a man protecting his allies..."

"He took a beating that would have leveled a city just to make sure we could survive."

"That’s not a ’spectacle,’ Zane. That’s sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?" Zane finally turned, his eyes hard and calculating. "What we saw up there wasn’t sacrifice... It’s more like it was an efficiency."

"Rex didn’t fight Ignivara because he wanted to save you all; he dismantled her because she was an obstacle."

"Look at the way he moved with precision, the lack of hesitation... He didn’t just beat her; he broke her."

"He treated a living, breathing being like a piece of faulty machinery that needed to be discarded."

Zane stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, menacing hiss. "I’ve seen that look before..."

"I’ve seen it in the eyes of the most dangerous people in this world..."

"That’s not the look of a student or a comrade."

"That’s the look of a man who has completely detached himself from the value of life." Zane crossed his arms. "He’s doing exactly what Tremor did... he’s playing a game, and we’re just pieces on the board."

"You think he’s honorable? Honor is for people who have something to lose."

"What does Rex have left to lose?"

Apollo shook his head, his disbelief growing. "Tremor was a monster."

"He was a parasite who fed on the misery of others. Rex is... he’s different."

"He’s strong, yeah, and maybe he’s cold, but he doesn’t have that void inside him."

"You can see it in the way he fights. There’s no malice in those strikes, Zane. Just necessity."

"Necessity?" Zane scoffed, a bitter, jagged sound. "The necessity to play the part of the hero so he can keep his cover?"

"The necessity to maintain a facade?" He gestured vaguely toward the sky, where the last wisps of smoke were drifting away. "Did you see her face?"

"That wasn’t just pain; that was despair..."

"He didn’t just win a fight; he stripped away her dignity! He proved to her and to us that all her power, all her pride, meant absolutely nothing in the face of his will!"

"That’s not honor, Apollo. That’s psychological warfare!"

"He’s an outcast," Apollo argued, his voice growing more firm as he felt the heat of his own conviction rise up. "He’s been pushed to the edge by everyone in this godforsaken place!"

"You can’t blame a man for fighting back when the world decides he’s the enemy!"

"He’s talented, he’s strong, and he’s been through more hell than any of us can imagine!"

"If that makes him ’dangerous’ in your eyes, then maybe we’re the ones who are delusional, not him."

"Talent without a moral compass is just a more efficient way to kill," Zane countered, his gaze sharpening. "You trust him because he saved your life today..."

"But ask yourself: if the situation had changed, if he decided that you were the obstacle instead of her, would you be standing here thanking him now?"

Apollo looked back at the horizon, at the place where Ignivara had vanished. The wind swept across the ruined rooftop, carrying with it the scent of ash and old blood.

He thought about the man who had just saved them, the man who had taken a barrage of strikes without flinching, and the way he had smiled at the end... a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"I don’t know," Apollo admitted quietly. "But I’d rather trust a man who can actually protect me than a system that promised to and failed."

Zane stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Then you’re even more of a fool than I thought."

"Because when the mask finally slips and it will, you’re the one who’s going to be standing right in the path of the blast."