Apollo raised an eyebrow, watching the way Thomas swayed on his feet—blood dripping from a cut on his forehead, his knuckles raw, clothes torn and soaked with the filth of battle.
"You've already made your point," Apollo said, his voice calm but laced with authority. "Any more and you'll break. You've done well."
Thomas opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, but something in Apollo's gaze made him pause.
Then Apollo turned to Damon.
The moment their eyes met, Damon flinched—the weight of Apollo's presence suddenly suffocating. The once-smirking, arrogant young master stumbled a step back.
He felt the situation was bad and felt anxious. "Marcus, quick, kill these three; don't hold back."
He ordered the peak saint guard around, who was the strongest person his father had arranged for him.
