Apollyon stood up.
The water around him boiled. The obsidian throne disintegrated into dust. He floated forward, leaving the safety of his lines. He didn't wear a helmet. He didn't carry a shield. He wore armor that looked like liquid red metal, constantly shifting and flowing over his body.
"I am done with proxies," Apollyon announced. "I am done with toys."
He floated into the center of the arena. He looked at the humans. He looked at Valeria, panting in her armor. He looked at Seraphina, nursing a headache. He looked at the Guardians, Thorne and Kaelen, who watched him with open fear.
And then, his gaze locked on Alvian.
"You," Apollyon said.
It wasn't a question. It was a summons.
"You stand there with your borrowed power, your stolen items, your calculated little tricks," Apollyon sneered. "You think you understand the game? You think because you found a few exploits, you are a player?"
