Rex moved through the final stages of the engagement with the cold, methodical efficiency of a surgeon performing a necessary amputation.
There was no flourish. There was no sadistic glee. There was no theatrical grandstanding.
To Rex, this was not a battle of good versus evil, nor was it a moment of heroic triumph.
It was work.
The God of Time screamed a sound that tore through the fabric of the domain like serrated steel through silk as Rex systematically dismantled his remaining defenses.
Each divine strike Kaeleth threw was met not with a counterattack, but with a flawless, silent neutralization.
Rex walked through the storm of temporal anomalies as if they were nothing more than static on a screen, his body adjusting, his cells recalibrating, his mind absorbing the divine mathematics of failure.
