Just because of Apollo, as he single-handedly was fighting tens of thousands or more, the pressure on the other geniuses from the three universes seemed to decrease, and they could finally breathe in this gruesome war.
He was their shield and their sword—cleaving a path through the endless tide of enemies with divine fury, giving the others space to survive, to regroup, and to strike back.
Yet even with that reprieve, the battlefield showed no mercy.
The war was too vast, the enemies too many.
Screams still echoed through the chaos as one genius after another fell—each one a once-promising future, extinguished in a heartbeat. Glorious destinies were buried beneath blood and rubble, snatched away by sheer numbers and relentless assaults.
They had talent. They had strength.
But they were not Apollo.
