Purging the Grit

A conqueror’s armor cannot tolerate the insubordination of desert sand grinding between its articulated joints. Settling onto my stone bench as the night chill crept into the bunker, I bent forward to inspect the friction in my right knee assembly. Coarse grains were wedged deep into the rotating seam, threatening tactical mobility. Taking a rigid, dried acacia thorn I salvaged from the wash, I methodically excavated each channel until the stubborn grit cascaded onto the slate floor. A swift extension produced a crisp, silent snap without a single hitch. Imperial hardware operates only at absolute perfection.