A Matter of Trajectory

The third standing slate fragment from this morning's marks remained upright across the flagstones, an unsanctioned survivor. Rather than resorting to another kinetic discharge, I reached over my shoulder to free the long blade stowed at my back. Shifting into a measured side-stance, I gripped the hilt in an inverted lock, letting the weight settle across my gauntlet. With a sudden, tight whip of the torso, I cast the blade forward along a flat horizontal plane. It struck the stone marker dead center, cleanly cleaving the brittle slate in two before burying its hardened point deep into the mortar joint behind it. Trajectory, when properly calculated, tolerates no deviation.