He began spamming his magic with a frantic, uncoordinated desperation. "WATER WALL! WIND BARRIER! STONE ARMOR!"
He created a chaotic, layered cocoon of elemental defenses, a frantic shell of magic meant to protect his crumbling psyche.
But Rex wasn't concerned about the layers. He treated the defensive spells like mere nuisances.
Pop.
A kick to the stomach, shattering the Water Wall.
Pop.
A punch to the temple, slicing through the Wind Barrier.
Pop.
A knee to the chest, cracking the Stone Armor.
It was a relentless, rhythmic slaughter of movement. Rex was a blur of motion, a flickering shadow that appeared only to deliver a brutal, physical blow before vanishing back into the void.
He wasn't using grand magic anymore; he was using the most basic, primal forms of combat, punches, kicks, and elbows, but delivered with the terrifying velocity of a teleporting god.
Verakis was drowning in his own panic. He was a man trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.
