Braze inhaled sharply, the Force-light surging through his veins like liquid fire. His meditation crystals hummed against his skin, amplifying his focus as his body crackled with kinetic energy. He surged forward, a living bolt of determination, closing in on the enemy who had eluded him before.
Ahead, the heavy doors slammed shut. He didn't slow. He couldn't. A Jedi did not hesitate.
Jasper Kai'el
had entrusted him with this responsibility, and he would not fail. He would prove himself worthy—not just of the title, but of the weight it carried. The odds were against him. But that had never stopped him before. He had to trust—trust that his allies had held their ground, trust that his blade would carve through the chaos.
He reached the door in a blur, ripping it open—
And the world detonated around him.
The pulse struck, and Braze's world collapsed into darkness. His HUD flickered out, the tactical display vanishing in an instant. His comms cut off, silencing the voices of his allies, leaving him alone.
Then the blast struck. The air itself seemed to compact around him before erupting outward, hammering into his chest with the force of a speeder crash. His body snapped backward, slamming in to the doorframe. A sharp pain lanced through his ribs where the metal bit into him. His ears blared with deafening static of the high-pitched whine that rattled inside his skull.
He had trained for this. His body moved before his mind finished processing the attack. The Force wrapped around him, steadying his footing as his perception expanded beyond the limitations of sight and sound. It was not blindness or silence that filled his world, but something sharper, something clearer. He felt movement before it happened. The air shifted with the presence of an enemy drawing close, his aggression a tangible weight pressing against the Force.
The two guards at the door reacted instantly, their rifles snapping up in unison. No hesitation. No warning. Their fingers squeezed the triggers, unleashing a withering volley of blaster fire meant to overwhelm the lone Jedi knight before he could even set foot inside.
Red bolts filled the air, streaking toward him in rapid succession. The confined space amplified the the sound, each shot leaving behind the acrid stench of burnt air and scorched durasteel. Their fire was meant to corner and cut him down outright. One soldier aimed high, leading his shots to catch Braze mid-motion, while the other fired low, angling toward his legs to remove his speed entirely.
They didn't intend to give him space to breathe. The barrage pressed forward, bolts slamming into walls, scorching the edges of the threshold, forcing the Jedi into an impossible position.
Braze stepped forward, the barrage of blaster fire seeming sluggish compared to his thoughts. Force Stasis gripped the air around him, snaring several incoming bolts mid-flight, freezing them in place for a fleeting moment. At the same time, Force Speed propelled him forward like a bolt of lightning, blurring beyond normal perception.
Even with his skill, he couldn't avoid them all.
Searing pain tore through his body as multiple shots connected. His armor's shielding systems were dead, forced to absorb as much of the impact as the plating could withstand. Some blasts struck his armored sections, their energy dispersing in scorching bursts of heat. Others pierced into weaker points—the soft joints of his body, burning through fabric and searing deep into flesh. Pain flared hot and immediate, but he did not slow.
His body moved as a weapon honed to its peak. He closed the distance in an instant, his frame vanishing from where the soldiers had been firing. Before the Sith on the left could react, Braze lunged upward, his gauntleted fingers clamping onto the enemy's wrist.
Then he snapped it to the side.
Bone shattered. The soldier's wrist folded at an unnatural angle, his fingers spasming open as his weapon tumbled from his grasp. A strangled cry tore from his throat, but Braze didn't allow him the chance to recover.
With a vicious twist, he yanked the broken limb outward, forcing the Sith off balance. His body buckled, his footing compromised—exactly what Braze wanted.
The second soldier was already shifting, trying to adjust his aim, tracking Braze's motion—
But Braze was already in motion before the second soldier could react. He drove his fist into the man's helmet, the impact snapping his head sideways with a sharp, concussive crack. Before the Sith could regain his footing, Braze stepped forward, pressing his weight into the attack. His palm snapped against the soldier's shoulder, shoving him back even further, forcing his balance to teeter.
At the same moment, Braze's leg whipped low, sweeping across the soldier's stance. The Sith's footing ripped away beneath him, his body crumpling as gravity took hold. He crashed hard onto his back, armor clattering against the cold durasteel.
Before he could even gasp for air, Braze's heel came down. The blade at the back of his boot slammed into the Sith's exposed throat, tearing through flesh, windpipe, and artery in a single merciless strike. A wet, gurgling crunch filled the air as the man twitched violently, fingers clawing weakly at the fatal wound.
Braze wrenched his boot free, as the soldier shuddered once, then lay still.
The rightmost Sith soldier hesitated for a split second, his aim faltering as his mind struggled to process what he had just seen. Braze had been in front of him, caught in a hail of blaster fire—and then he wasn't.
His partner was on the ground, choking on his own blood, the Jedi's boot blade still dripping red. It had happened too fast. Faster than anything the soldier had ever encountered in live combat.
His pulse spiked, his fingers tightening around the trigger of his blaster. He should fire. He should already be shooting, should already be putting the Jedi down.
But his brain had lagged behind his instincts. The mistake was fatal.
Because Braze was already turning.
Before the soldier could fire, Braze reached into the Force, seizing control of the weapon at its core. With a flick of his will, the safety clicked into place. The Sith squeezed the trigger—nothing.
Confusion flashed across his face, his stance shifting as he tried to correct the failure. He never got the chance.
Braze threw out his palm, the Force exploding from him in a violent pulse. The impact slammed into the Sith's chest like a durasteel battering ram, lifting him clean off his feet. His body rocketed backward, hitting the far wall with bone-rattling force. A sharp gasp tore from his lungs as the breath was crushed from him. His head snapped back against the durasteel, leaving a dent where it struck.
He slumped, dazed, helpless.
The two remaining soldiers inside the room reacted in distinctly different ways, but both moved with the cold precision of trained killers.
The first, standing near the control console, wasted no time. His rifle snapped up, trained on Braze's center mass, and he squeezed the trigger in rapid succession. He wasn't aiming for a single, clean shot—he was dumping fire, laying down suppressive bursts to force Braze into a defensive position. If the Jedi was too busy dodging, he wouldn't be able to press his attack.
The second soldier, positioned near a supply crate, moved laterally, circling wide in an attempt to flank. His helmeted gaze flicked between Braze and his downed squadmate, the sheer speed of the fight throwing off his initial response. He adjusted quickly, lowering his stance into a fighter's crouch, swapping his blaster for a vibroblade. He was bigger than Braze, armored, and he knew it.
Braze had already ripped through two men in seconds. Letting him close the distance would be suicide.
Which was why this soldier wasn't going to wait for that to happen. He surged forward, blade held low, ready to cut the Jedi down before he could regain momentum.
Braze reached into the Force, his will latching onto the nearest object. A wheeled chair lurched forward, tearing across the floor in an instant. It shot directly into the path of the advancing soldier, slamming into his shins with enough force to disrupt his charge.
The impact made the Sith stumble, his forward momentum broken mid-stride. His knee buckled as he instinctively tried to sidestep, but the unexpected obstruction threw him off balance. His blade wavered in his grip, his footing compromised.
Braze didn't wait for him to recover.
Braze surged forward, closing the gap in an instant. His leg whipped up and around in a fluid, brutal arc, executing a precise inside-outside hook kick. The momentum of the strike caught the Sith's wrist, wrenching it sideways as his fingers instinctively released the vibroblade. The weapon spun through the air, tumbling end over end toward the other soldier.
Before the disarmed Sith could react, Braze was already underneath him. He drove upward, twisting his hips, and delivered a devastating uppercut. His shield gauntlet met flesh with crushing force, the sharp edges of the Jedi Order's 'wings' carving into the exposed throat and underjaw. The reinforced plating punctured deep, rupturing soft tissue and severing vital structures.
The longest spike drove up through the soft flesh beneath the man's chin, piercing the roof of his mouth. It tore through muscle, cartilage, and bone, punching into the sinus cavity with a wet, crunching puncture before embedding itself deep. The soldier's entire body seized, his jaw locking around the intrusion as blood gurgled past his lips.
A strangled, wet gasp was all he could manage. His eyes bulged, hands jerking up in a final, desperate spasm, fingers twitching uselessly at the gauntlet still lodged in his skull.
Braze ripped his fist free, the jagged edge dragging out with a sickening squelch. Blood sprayed in a thick, arterial mist, spattering across his gauntlet as the Sith soldier collapsed bonelessly to the floor.
The vibroblade clattered across the floor, skidding toward the last soldier.
The last soldier watched in horror as his squadmate crumpled lifelessly to the floor, blood pooling beneath his ruined throat. The vibroblade that had been meant for Braze now skidded toward him, its edge gleaming with the same fatal promise that had just ended his comrade's life.
His grip tightened around his rifle, knuckles white inside his gloves. He had the high ground for only a moment longer, but he knew it wouldn't last—the Jedi moved too fast, too ruthlessly, with nothing wasted. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but he crushed it down. He was the last line of defense. If he fell, the uplink would be lost.
He took a step back, keeping his body squared, bracing against the console behind him. His mind worked fast, calculating, eyes flicking between Braze and the room's few remaining obstacles. He had to slow the Jedi down—had to make this into a kill zone before the gap closed.
His boot caught the fallen vibroblade, dragging it toward him with a swift motion as he leveled his rifle for one final stand. His finger squeezed the trigger, sending a rapid burst of shots straight for the Jedi's center mass. The moment the rifle fired, his other hand snatched up the fallen blade, gripping it in a reverse stance, ready to strike if the Jedi made it through his gunfire.
One last stand. One last chance to kill the
monster cutting through his squad.
Force Speed and Stasis had faded, their effects draining from his limbs like sand slipping through his fingers. Fatigue clawed at his muscles, the brief burst of supernatural speed leaving behind a hollow ache in his bones. His body craved a moment's respite, time to let the Force replenish itself within him.
But time was a precious luxury he couldn't afford.
The soldier's rifle flared to life, bolts screaming toward him in a deadly barrage. Braze moved, but with precision, not desperation. His form wove through the incoming fire, shifting just enough to let each shot pass within a hair's breadth of his body. The searing heat of blaster bolts brushed his tunic, scorching the edges of his armor plates, but he refused to waste movement.
Every dodge was minimal, every step purposeful, elegant and calm.
Kahlil Noble
,
Kahlil Noble had taught him to become the eye of the storm.
He advanced, step by step, never breaking his momentum, never breaking his confident stride, never allowing the Sith to regain control. The soldier had expected him to break away, to roll or dive for cover—but Braze refused. He closed the gap head-on, fearless, relentless, and undaunted.
The enemy's rifle hissed as the power pack drained, the relentless fire beginning to slow. The Sith shifted his grip, adjusting his stance—preparing for the moment Braze finally came within his reach.
The soldier's breath hitched inside his helmet, his pulse hammering as he watched the Jedi cut through the blaster fire like a specter.
Every shot that should have struck missed by the width of a blade. Every carefully placed volley—designed to stagger, slow, or pin him down—failed. The Jedi didn't run, didn't leap for cover, didn't panic. He walked through the onslaught, movements fluid, composed, in complete command of the moment.
The Sith had fought Jedi before. This was
different.
The rifle in his hands hissed, power cells drained. He barely had time to react, his fingers snapping to the release latch as he ejected the spent pack, but it was already too late.
Fighting, visceral and base instincts took over. His free hand tightened around the vibroblade he had picked up, snapping into a defensive stance. He knew he was outmatched, but he wouldn't die kneeling.
The soldier lunged the instant Braze entered striking range, his training overriding any lingering fear. His rifle, now useless, had dropped from his hands with a dull clatters kittering across the floor, freeing his grip for the vibroblade now clutched in a reverse stance. He struck fast, hard, and without hesitation.
His first attack came as a diagonal slash from low to high, aimed to carve into Braze's ribs and force him back on the defensive. The blade's vibrating edge thrummed hungrily through the air. The soldier followed through immediately, not stopping to see if the first strike landed.
He pivoted his stance, twisting his torso to bring his elbow up in a brutal drive toward Braze's jaw. If the Jedi dodged the blade, the force of the blow would rattle his skull, break his rhythm, leave him open.
But he wasn't done. The attack didn't end with two strikes.
The moment his elbow reached full extension, he snapped his boot up into a vicious front kick, targeting Braze's stomach. The armor wouldn't save him from the force of it—the impact alone was meant to knock the breath from his lungs, send him skidding backward, give the soldier a precious moment to readjust and press the attack.
It was a sequence meant for one thing—to overwhelm. Keep the Jedi moving, keep him reacting, never let him take control.
The Sith pushed forward, his grip tightening on the vibroblade, the killing thrust already forming in his mind. He would finish this. One way or another.
Braze turned smoothly to his right, completing a crescent step with the grace of a practiced duelist. His movement was fluid, instinctive—a seamless redirection of momentum, rather than a retreat. The Sith's blade hissed past his ribs, cutting through nothing but air as Braze slipped beyond its reach, positioning himself just outside the soldier's guard.
Even as he stepped clear, his arm was already in motion. His body pivoted with the momentum of the crescent step, twisting at the waist as he lashed out with a spinning back fist. His shield gauntlet struck like a war hammer, the reinforced plating crashing into the Sith's helmet with a sickening, concussive crunch. The impact fractured the visor on contact, a jagged crack splitting through the surface as the soldier's head snapped violently to the side.
As Braze's fist whipped past the soldier's skull, the blades and spikes along his gauntlet raked against the exposed seam of the man's throat. The sharpened edge bit deep, tearing through the soft flesh beneath the helmet in a merciless, brutal cut.
For an instant, the Sith stood frozen, **his body still trying to process the dual trauma—**the blunt force to his head, the searing pain blooming in his neck. Then, a burst of hot crimson sprayed from the wound, splattering across Braze's arm and form as the Sith stumbled.
His hand shot up, grasping at his throat, but there was no sealing the damage. Blood pulsed through his fingers, leaking in thick rivulets down his armor. His legs wobbled, his body fighting for balance, but his fate had already been sealed.
Braze was already turning, already moving, because the battle wasn't over.
This
boy—a Jedi barely old enough to be called a man, let alone a knight—stood drenched in the blood of seasoned killers, his presence an absurd contradiction to the devastation he had wrought. He wasn't a soldier in the way these Sith were, trained by an empire, drilled into formation, raised within rigid structures of war.
He was something
worse.
He was the product of obsession, of ceaseless, punishing training, of battles fought in extremes that would break lesser warriors. His skill was not inherited, nor gifted, nor casually earned. It had been
forged through the kind of discipline that bordered on self-destruction, through a life where every second was dedicated to pushing past his limits.
And this moment—this battle—was exactly why.
To stand against the
monsters that crush hope, that shatter lives, that commit horrors like the one unleashed upon this very world today. The people here had witnessed genocide at the hands of
Darth Meritum
's master. That truth was burned into Braze's mind like a scar, a wound that had long since hardened into resolve. This was why he trained to such terrifying extremes. This was
why he put himself through suffering beyond reason.
Because if he wasn't strong enough to stand against them, who would be?
Darth Meritum
had fled before. He had chosen to run from the storm that was Braze. That was wise.
But now, there was nowhere left to run.
The EMP trap had stripped Braze of his tech, robbed him of every advantage that might have aided another warrior. His shielding systems were dead, his body burned, sliced, battered from the onslaught he had forced his way through. Yet, he remained standing, breath coming in deep, steady pulls, siphoning power from the Force to sustain him.
The Sith's plan to uplink to the Mors Mon had been dismantled, thanks to
Aadihr Lidos
. Braze had no idea what his ally was up to now, but it didn't matter.
The only thing that mattered was the enemy before him—the kind of enemy that made all of his suffering
necessary.
Because if he failed here, if he was not enough, then more would die.
And as long as he drew breath, he would not allow that to happen.
He raised his hands, settling into his guard, his stance staunch and unwavering, controlled—a predator staring down its prey. His gaze locked onto Meritum, unreadable, unshaken.
His voice came low, steady, and
cold.
"Go on. Say something worth remembering." 
Zaiya Ceti
,
Loomi
,
Braze Kai'el
, all caught up in fights they nether wanted to be part of or were ready for. It was different now. Zaiya was above, helping her master to keep the battlefield calm. Braze was elsewhere, fighting his hardest against the Sith as a Knight.
Darth Malum of House Marr
