Apollo did not arrive in light.
That was the first lie to die.
There was no golden descent, no radiant chariot tearing through the heavens. The sky did not open to welcome him. It recoiled. The darkness left by the devoured sun bent inward, compressed by something furious forcing its way through reality.
Apollo arrived angrily.
Not as a symbol.
Not as a god to be admired.
As a wound.
The air split.
A line of burning white carved itself across the void, ripping through the unstable remnants of the Bifröst. Reality screamed as Apollo stepped through, his presence scorching the edges of existence like an exposed nerve.
He was not calm.
He was not composed.
The god of the sun was bleeding power.
Not physically—but existentially. His radiance flickered unevenly, flaring and dimming like a star suffocating from the inside. The devouring of the Sun had not killed him.
It had unbalanced him.
And Apollo could not endure imbalance.
Jormund felt him before he saw him.
The Lycoris flared violently, warning him too late. The hammer in his hand vibrated—not in anticipation, but in alarm.
Apollo did not speak.
He did not announce judgment.
He did not demand surrender.
He crossed the distance between them in less than a thought.
There was no sound.
Only impact.
Pain exploded through Jormund's perception as something incandescent tore through his right side. The world tilted violently. His vision fractured into red and black shards.
His arm—his right arm—was gone.
Not severed cleanly.
Erased.
Apollo's hand had passed through it like concentrated daylight through shadow, annihilating matter, memory, and resistance in one motion. The abyssal hammer fell from fingers that no longer existed, crashing into the ground with a sound so heavy it bent the air.
Jormund staggered back.
For a fraction of a second, he did not understand.
Then the pain arrived.
Not the pain of flesh.
The pain of structure breaking.
His obsidian body cracked around the wound, fissures glowing faintly red as the Lycoris struggled to compensate. The absence where his arm had been screamed louder than any injury.
Apollo finally stopped.
He hovered slightly above the ground, radiance pouring from him in unstable waves. His face—once sculpted perfection—was twisted by fury so intense it distorted his features.
— You, he hissed.
His voice burned.
Each syllable scorched the air, turning dust into sparks.
— You insignificant remnant.
— You parasite of a dead myth.
Jormund fell to one knee.
The ground shattered beneath his weight.
Blood—black, dense, infused with glowing embers—dripped from the torn edge of his shoulder, evaporating before it touched the earth.
Apollo descended slowly.
— Do you have any idea what you've done?
He gestured violently to the sky.
— The Sun was not just light.
— It was authority. Continuity. Balance.
His aura flared uncontrollably.
— I feel less, Apollo spat.
— And for that… you will cease to exist.
Jormund raised his head.
His vision was blurred. His senses lagged. The Lycoris burned like a star collapsing inward, forcing regeneration protocols that could not yet complete.
Still, he smiled.
— You didn't wait, Jormund said hoarsely.
— That means you're afraid.
Apollo froze.
For half a heartbeat.
Then his fury exploded.
— I AM WHAT FEAR WORSHIPS.
He raised his hand.
The sky ignited.
A spear of condensed solar essence formed instantly—pure annihilation shaped into a weapon. Not something thrown. Something executed.
Jormund pushed himself upright.
With one arm.
His stance was broken. Incomplete. His balance imperfect.
But he stood.
— You gods, he said, his voice low, steady despite the pain.
— You always make the same mistake.
Apollo launched the spear.
Jormund slammed his remaining hand into the ground.
The abyssal hammer responded.
The ground split as the weapon surged upward, pulled not by grip—but by will. Jormund caught it mid-rise, bracing the handle against his body.
The impact came.
Light met abyss.
The explosion was silent.
A sphere of distortion expanded outward, flattening everything within its radius. Space folded inward. Colors inverted. The spear shattered—not into fragments, but into disbelief.
Apollo was thrown back.
Not far.
But enough.
He stared at Jormund.
Really looked at him.
At the missing arm.
At the cracks glowing red.
At the hammer resting against his body like an extension of his spine.
Something flickered behind Apollo's rage.
Not doubt.
Recognition.
— You're not supposed to still be standing, Apollo whispered.
Jormund tightened his grip.
— Neither was Jormungandr.
The Lycoris pulsed violently.
The wound began to change.
Not heal.
Adapt.
Apollo smiled.
Sharp.
Cruel.
— Good, he said.
— Suffer first.
The god of the sun lifted both hands.
And the war truly began.