Shifting Priorities

Tyr stood in his workshop, meticulously wiping down the jagged edges of his armor. Blood had dried into the cracks, leaving faint rust-colored stains that refused to come off easily. Each swipe of the cloth was accompanied by a muttered curse. The memory of his battle with the Hand lingered in his mind, their blades cutting through the night with deadly precision.

"Damned cultists," Tyr grumbled under his breath, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain. "Probably trying to summon demons or some ritual nonsense with this. Last thing I need is mystical ninja magic on my plate."

The rag finally tore under the strain, and Tyr tossed it into a nearby bin. He grabbed a lighter from his workbench and ignited the pile. The flames crackled softly, the acrid scent of burning cloth filling the air.

He stepped back, watching the fire consume the evidence. His thoughts drifted as he stared into the flames, a familiar irritation bubbling to the surface.

For months, Tyr had tried to contact the Ancient One, the one person who could teach him to harness magic—another tool he desperately wanted in his arsenal. But no matter how hard he searched, she refused to meet him.

"Argos," Tyr called, his voice tight with frustration. "Any updates on locating the Sanctum Sanctorum?"

The glowing purple emblem of his AI flickered to life on the nearby screen. "All attempts to pinpoint the Sanctum Sanctorum remain inconclusive. It is cloaked by advanced magical concealment."

Tyr sighed, leaning against the workbench. "Let me guess—magic trumps technology. Again."

"Affirmative," Argos replied.

Tyr rubbed his temples, the irritation deepening. He couldn't shake the feeling that the Ancient One was deliberately avoiding him. His contributions to the city were undeniable—he'd dismantled criminal empires, fought off assassins, and built technology years ahead of its time. What more did he have to do to prove himself?

"Why?" he muttered, glaring at the ceiling as if expecting an answer. "What's her problem? I'm not asking for the secrets of the universe—just a fighting chance."

The room remained silent except for the hum of the arc reactor prototype on his desk.

Tyr pushed himself away from the workbench, shaking his head. His frustration wasn't solving anything. If the Ancient One didn't want to train him, fine. He'd figure it out himself.

His gaze shifted to the laptop sitting open on the table, the search bar blinking expectantly. A thought struck him, and a grin slowly spread across his face.

Star Wars exists in this universe. All the knowledge of lightsaber combat is public.

Tyr quickly typed into the search bar, pulling up articles, videos, and diagrams detailing the seven lightsaber forms. He scanned the information, his grin widening as he realized just how much was available.

"If the Ancient One won't help, I'll teach myself," he said, leaning forward as he devoured the knowledge.

Hours passed as Tyr immersed himself in the intricacies of the forms. Each one was distinct, a reflection of the different philosophies behind them. He jotted down notes, his mind racing with possibilities.

Shii-Cho, the most basic form, focused on wide, sweeping strikes and simple defenses. Its simplicity made it the perfect starting point.

Makashi, with its emphasis on precision and dueling techniques, appealed to Tyr's analytical mind.

Soresu, a defensive form designed to withstand prolonged attacks, resonated deeply with him. After his battle with the Hand, he knew the value of a strong defense.

By the time he finished reviewing the forms, dawn was breaking. Tyr leaned back in his chair, his eyes heavy but his mind buzzing with excitement.

"This is it," he said softly. "This is what I've been missing."

The next day, Tyr cleared a section of the workshop for training. He found a sturdy metal rod to use as a makeshift blade, its weight and balance close enough to mimic a lightsaber.

He started with Shii-Cho, practicing the basic strikes and parries until they became second nature. His movements were clumsy at first, but with each repetition, they grew smoother and more confident.

Makashi came next, its elegant thrusts and tight movements pushing him to focus on precision rather than power. Tyr quickly realized how much he still had to learn. His duel with the Hand had exposed his weaknesses—his lack of control, his reliance on brute force over finesse.

Soresu was the hardest. The defensive techniques required an economy of motion that Tyr struggled to master. He found himself sweating and cursing as he worked through the drills, his muscles burning with every block and counter.

But he didn't stop.

Each night, he returned to the workshop, his focus sharpening with every session. The bruises and cuts from his fight with the Hand faded, replaced by new aches from hours of relentless practice. His movements became faster, more fluid. The rod felt like an extension of his body, its weight no longer a hindrance but a tool he wielded with growing confidence.

As the days turned into weeks, Tyr began to notice a shift. His connection to the Force deepened with each swing of the rod, his instincts guiding his blade as if the energy around him was alive.

He could sense attacks before they came, feel the flow of energy in the room. It was subtle, but it was there—a glimpse of what the Force could truly offer.

"This is what I should've been doing all along," Tyr muttered one night, sweat dripping from his brow as he completed a complex sequence.

Argos's voice broke the silence. "Observation: Combat efficiency has increased by 32% since initiating lightsaber form training."

Tyr chuckled, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. "Good to know it's paying off."

"Recommendation," Argos continued. "Continue training in defensive techniques to counter multiple attackers effectively."

Tyr smirked. "Noted."

He tossed the towel onto a nearby chair, his gaze drifting to the workshop's reinforced walls. Despite the progress he was making, one thought lingered in the back of his mind.

The Hand had gone silent.

No attacks. No sightings. No whispers.

Tyr knew better than to take it as a victory. Their last encounter had felt deliberate, like a test. They were watching, waiting.

"They're giving me time to recover," he said softly, his hand tightening around the rod. "Which means they're planning something big."

He glanced at the glowing emblem of Argos, his jaw tightening. "Keep monitoring. The moment they make a move, I want to know."

"Understood," the AI replied.

Tyr sat down on the mat, his body sore but his mind restless. He stared at the rod in his hands, his thoughts swirling.

The next time the Hand came for him, he wouldn't just survive. He'd win.