Wrenlow felt his face deform, his cheek crack and split beneath the pressure. The power behind the fist was more substantial than any he had felt. It wasn't necessarily strength, but it was almost like… it would become exactly as powerful as it needed to be to bring him to his knees.
It felt like he was trapped in a race against someone at a leisurely pace. Every time he thought he could push the pace by them, they would just calmly hit another gear as though they had an endless reserve to pull from.
It was a heavy sort of oppression that he couldn't even begin to describe, and somehow, because of it, the fraction of an instant where knuckles met his face was extended into long seconds.
BANG.
He crashed heavily to the ground.
Sylas stood in the skies, blood leaking out of his belly, but his eyes blazing with crackling emerald.
