Bolt From The Black
CORUSCANT
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Drystan was surrounded by an orb of azure light, a blazing sphere formed by the speed and precision of his saber strokes. Sweat beaded on his skin, soaking into his tank top, trickling down the black metal of his prosthetic arm. Alone in the sparring room, he moved with purpose, each strike masterful, each motion his own.
His new outlook had reshaped the way he wielded his gift. No longer was he chained by the limits of the people he replicated. He did not merely imitate what he saw—he learned it. His ability to replicate movement was no longer just a parlor trick, no longer just a means to pull techniques out of thin air. It had become a tool for mastery. And this shift in perspective had opened new horizons.
The forms he executed in this room belonged to no one. They were his. Yes, he had taken from others, absorbed their styles and techniques, but much like ore belongs to the earth, the sword forged from it belongs to the bladesmith. But as he finished his final kata, a frown formed on his lips.
Forms I to VI were to his standard, honed to an acceptable level, even by his own lofty expectations. But the last form eluded him.
Juyo. The Ferocity Form. And its sister, Vaapad.
He had found few proper sources—no firsthand demonstrations, no clean-cut materials to study. Even his encounters with Sith duelists had left him lacking—

And without a foundation, he could not make it his own.
