The blow sent a supernova of light across his vision, the whole world shrunk to the inches he could see in front of his face: grains of sand; a splatter of fresh blood; heavy drops of sweat falling one after another from above; the foot of his enemy.
Apollo rolled onto his back, blind in one eye from the force of Ares' fist and the constant ooze of blood from the split in his eyebrow above, earned earlier. The roar of blood in his ears merged with the roar of the crowd. He took a deep breath like it was his last - and swept his foot hard and fast toward Ares to knock him over, and scrambled to his own feet again in the split second when Ares jumped back to avoid it.
Alright, he was the underdog here. But that didn't discount a victory. He could still win. He would still win.
From his one bloodshot eye he regarded Ares, as Ares regarded him, watching for an opening. Apollo pushed himself further, watching for more than that, searching for something to use to catch him off guard, some glimpse of the future he could use in his favour. But the blow slowed his mind - he needed more than a moment to pull a prophecy together, and Ares would not give him a moment. The god of war came toward him in a storm of fists, each one powered by the belief of the crowd, the chanting of his name, and with a crack crack CRACK to his left temple, right temple, then one final blow under his chin that snapped Apollo's head back, he fell.
And this time his limbs did not obey when he instructed them to move again.
This time his thoughts barely obeyed, scattered and stunned.
This time the crowd knew it was over for sure, and surged in their seats, their chanting deafening, eyes bulging, veins popping from necks, caught in the rapture of victory.