Tyr sat cross-legged in the middle of his workshop, his breathing slow and deliberate. The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of his arc reactor prototype casting long shadows on the walls. Around him, the silence was thick, broken only by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath.
Meditation had become a daily ritual for him, a way to center himself amidst the chaos of his double life. Tonight, though, he wasn't seeking clarity—he was seeking control.
Focusing inward, Tyr reached for the energy that he now recognized as the Force. He let it flow through him, filling his senses until it felt like his entire being was humming with potential. Then he pushed outward, letting the energy extend beyond his body.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, like a curtain being drawn back, his perception shifted. He could feel the workshop around him, not with his hands or his eyes, but with something deeper. He sensed the faint hum of his machines, the texture of the air, and even the tiny vibrations in the floorboards.
Focusing further, Tyr extended his awareness. The world within a five-meter radius bloomed in his mind like a vivid map. Every object, every movement, every subtle shift in the environment became clear to him.
"This..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is incredible."
He moved his hand slightly, testing the range of this newfound ability. He could sense the screwdriver resting on the workbench, the faint tremble of its metal edges. He could even feel the soft breeze from the tiny crack in the window on the far side of the room.
Tyr opened his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Force Sense," he murmured, naming the ability. "That'll come in handy."
The following day, Tyr found himself back in his workshop, fine-tuning the early version of Terraria that he'd released. The initial feedback had been overwhelmingly positive, and the small wave of revenue trickling in was enough to keep him motivated. But as much as he enjoyed working on the project, his mind kept drifting back to his training.
He set the laptop aside and reached for the steel blade resting on the wall. It was a simple training sword he'd made himself—unsharpened but heavy, with enough weight to simulate the feel of a real weapon. He'd been practicing swordsmanship for weeks now, driven by a singular thought: No Jedi or Sith was complete without a lightsaber.
"If the Force chose me," Tyr said to himself, "then I need to be ready for what comes with it."
He took his stance, gripping the sword firmly. His movements were slow but deliberate, each strike carefully calculated. He'd spent hours incorporating Theon's martial arts knowledge into his training, combining fluid footwork with precise strikes.
Still, the steel blade felt inadequate.
"Someday," he muttered, swinging the weapon in a wide arc, "I'll wield something better. A real blade. A lightsaber. Maybe even something better."
That night, Tyr donned his black costume and prowled the streets as the Black Wolf. Reports of an arms deal at a secluded warehouse had reached his ears through his network of informants—small-time criminals who had learned to fear him.
The warehouse was quiet when he arrived, its shadowy corners and rusted walls shrouded in eerie silence. Tyr crept through the darkness, his Force Sense active. He could feel the faint movements of the guards stationed near the entrances, their breathing steady and their weapons ready.
"Too easy," Tyr whispered.
Using his telekinesis, he nudged a loose piece of metal across the floor. The faint clang drew one of the guards away from his post, and Tyr struck quickly, knocking the man unconscious with a precise blow to the back of the head.
He repeated the process with the second guard, slipping deeper into the warehouse with practiced ease.
But as he rounded a corner, his Force Sense flared—a warning that came a second too late.
The faint sound of a mechanism clicking was followed by the deafening roar of a trapdoor snapping shut. The floor beneath him gave way, and Tyr fell, landing hard on the cold concrete below.
"Dammit!" he hissed, pushing himself to his feet. He glanced around, his sharp eyes taking in the steel cage that now surrounded him.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the warehouse as Silvermane emerged from the shadows, his towering cyborg frame gleaming under the harsh lights.
"Well, well," Silvermane said, his distorted voice dripping with mockery. "The infamous Black Wolf, caught like a rat in a trap."
Tyr cursed under his breath. How did I not sense this?
"This is the second time I've fallen for a trap," he muttered, his voice bitter. "I need to do better."
"Talking to yourself, boy?" Silvermane asked, stepping closer. "Good. You'll need the company where you're going."
Tyr's eyes narrowed. "You've been making a lot of noise about me, Silvermane. Time to see if you can back it up."
The cage walls groaned as Tyr extended his telekinesis, bending one of the steel bars just enough to slip through.
The fight began with an explosion of movement.
Tyr dashed forward, his steel sword raised. He aimed a precise strike at Silvermane's midsection, but the blade bounced harmlessly off the cyborg's reinforced body.
Silvermane retaliated with a powerful swing of his mechanical arm, the strike narrowly missing Tyr as he ducked and rolled to the side.
"You'll have to do better than that," Silvermane taunted, his red eyes glowing menacingly.
Tyr gritted his teeth, using his telekinesis to hurl a loose pipe at Silvermane's head. The mob boss swatted it away effortlessly, the metal clanging against the wall.
Tyr darted behind a stack of crates, using the momentary cover to reassess the situation. His telekinesis was useless here—he couldn't lift more than 10 kilograms at a time, and Silvermane's massive frame was far beyond that limit.
Think, Tyr told himself, his mind racing. He's stronger, more durable. But he's also heavier. That means he's slower.
Silvermane stomped toward the crates, his mechanical limbs emitting a low hum.
Tyr activated his Force Sense, focusing on the small details of Silvermane's movements. He could feel the subtle shifts in weight as the cyborg moved, the tiny vibrations in the ground with each step.
Anticipate. Don't react—predict.
When Silvermane rounded the corner, Tyr was already moving. He sidestepped the cyborg's attack, using the opening to strike at the joints in Silvermane's limbs. His blade skidded against the metal, but the blows were enough to disrupt Silvermane's balance.
The mob boss stumbled, letting out a growl of frustration. "You're persistent. I'll give you that."
Tyr smirked, darting behind another set of crates. "You're not the first oversized brute I've dealt with."
Silvermane roared, tearing through the obstacles with brute force. Tyr leapt onto a nearby stack of pallets, using his elevated position to launch an aerial strike at Silvermane's head.
The blow connected, sending sparks flying, but Silvermane's mechanical grip lashed out, grabbing Tyr by the leg and slamming him into the ground.
Pain shot through Tyr's body as he hit the concrete, but he forced himself to roll away before Silvermane's foot came crashing down where he'd been lying.
I can't keep this up much longer, Tyr thought, his breaths ragged.
Silvermane charged again, his heavy steps shaking the ground. Tyr reached for a loose chain with his telekinesis, swinging it into Silvermane's path. The mob boss tripped, falling to one knee, and Tyr seized the opportunity.
He grabbed a sharp piece of broken metal from the ground and drove it into one of Silvermane's exposed joints.
The cyborg howled in rage, sparks flying as the joint seized up. "You little—"
Tyr didn't let him finish. He darted forward, striking the damaged joint again and again until Silvermane's arm was rendered useless.
Breathing hard, Tyr stepped back, his battered body screaming in protest.
"This isn't over," Silvermane growled, rising to his feet. "You're clever, boy, but clever won't save you next time."
With a final glare, Silvermane retreated into the shadows, his broken arm sparking as he disappeared.
Tyr collapsed to one knee, his mind already analyzing the fight.
I survived, he thought, his lips curving into a grim smile. But I need to get stronger.