Forms in Ruin

True martial precision is a dance where inertia submits entirely to doctrine. Stepping into the center of the terrace, I unseated the twin back-scabbarded blades, letting their edges ignite into humming emerald light. Shifting into a low sweep, I brought my treaded heel around in a wide, sweeping arc across the flagstones, kicking up a tight veil of stone dust. Rising immediately through the momentum, I launched into an unhurried, airborne twist, whipping the twin energy sabers through intersecting horizontal arcs that neatly parted two brittle structural weeds mid-flight. Touching down on one knee in an immovable marksman's brace, I smoothly reversed the left hilt and flicked a thigh-sheathed throwing dart directly into a hairline crevice across the masonry. Discipline executed without an ounce of wasted kinetic force.