The change was instant.
Wukong didn't leap. He appeared. There was no golden blur, no war-cry. One moment he was standing amidst the shattered darkness, the next his staff was an inch from Mephisto's face.
Mephisto's eyes widened a fraction. He brought up a shield of solidified shadow, but it was a desperate, rushed thing.
The Ruyi Jingu Bang didn't crack it; it passed through. The shield dissolved into mist before the staff even made contact, its fundamental nature unraveled by Wukong's sheer, defiant presence. The metal pole connected with Mephisto's jaw with a wet, crushing sound.
The King of Hell was thrown backward, tumbling head over heels across the bone floor before skidding to a stop. He pushed himself up, a trickle of black blood leaking from his split lip. The calm, intellectual fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by shock.
Wukong was already on him.
