The moment he finished speaking, Apocalypse, the oldest Mutant in Earth's history, dropped to one knee on the scorched earth.
For the first time in thousands of years, his proud back bent completely. He looked like a grievously wounded beast, humbled and desolate.
Yet none of the Mutants who had entered Hell with him could bring themselves to look down on him. He had cast aside every shred of pride and dignity to kneel.
Across the rolling demon flames and the ground strewn with demon corpses, every Mutant warrior fighting for their life fixed their gaze on the lonely blue figure at the heart of the battlefield.
The countless metal blades under Magneto's control hung motionless in the air. His metal storm stopped dead for half a second, and the force of his magnetic field fell silent.
The cosmic Phoenix Fire blazing around Dark Phoenix drew inward. The black flames that had filled the sky dimmed, even their flickering tongues falling still.
Qin Shi Huang's sword arm froze. After his sweeping imperial strike severed a demon's head, the Imperial Sword came to a complete halt.
Napoleon's conjured warhorse stopped in its tracks. The momentum of his charge vanished, and the battlefield fell still.
The vast battlefield of Hell, filled with armies locked in endless slaughter, went eerily quiet.
Many felt a storm rising in their hearts.
They all knew what kind of man Apocalypse was.
He was a Mutant progenitor who had lived for thousands of years, laid the foundations for the rise of Mutants, and witnessed human dynasties and civilizations rise and fall.
To him, Earth's struggles between dynasties and wars between nations were little more than children's games.
In all of Krakoa's history, Apocalypse had never bowed his head or suffered the humiliation of kneeling to anyone.
But