Sylas suddenly moved for the first time, his body executing a perfect uppercut. Everything down from the twist in his pivot foot to the sturdiness of his plant leg was perfect. The twist in his hip, the torque of his torso, the focus in his eyes, he almost looked like he had come right out of a boxing form handbook.
But he was slow. Impossibly slow. Moving at a crawl that made it look like he was just straining his muscles to the utmost degree rather than locking himself in battle.
At that sort of pace, there was simply no strength that could be left behind his blow at all.
And yet, when it landed, it was like the puppet had been blown to dust.
There was a crack and then its entire upper half was blown to smithereens. A crashing wave of power shot out from Sylas' fist as though it had erupted from a cannon, vaporizing the puppet to nothingness.
