Duel Galactic Kaggath Round 1: Drystan Creed vs Antar

[Mauve]

x

The arena floor rumbled and shook, the entire surface sliding open like a missile silo to reveal… an enormous Wroshyr tree rising up from the lower levels. It towered so high that its upper branches crested the arena and stood nearly eye level with the skybox. It sat upon a grassy, fern littered field. Amid the ferns, shapes prowled. Dangerous predators. Vornskrs. Force hunting beasts.

The boughs of the Wroshyr tree criss-crossed, forming limbs as wide as Coruscanti skywalks that the combatants could duel upon.

Droids hovered in the air around the tree, some with cameras, but many projecting interlinking rayshields so that the duelists could not interfere with the duels of the others. Of course… ray shields could always fail.

If any of the combatants fell to the ground far below, they risked being set upon by the vornskrs.

“Standing atop the Wroshyr, I give you the Hero of Lazerian IV, the Teeeeeemplar of Ukatis, the JEDI KNIGHT, DRYYYYSTAAAAAAN CREED!”

“And his opponent, sporting the sour look and sourer fists, the Syndicate Sicario, the Enforcer Extraordinaire, the Champion of the Black Sun. ANTAR. ROQUE.”

“CHALLENGERS! BEGIN!”

Drystan Creed | Antar

 

[Drystan Creed]

ROUND 1

Despite the roar of the crowd, the blaring sounds of the arena, and the ear-shattering voice of the announcer, only one word could describe Drystan in this moment: serene. He seemed to disregard everything except the floor on which this bout would take place—and his opponent, who had his full and deliberate attention.

He stood across from his adversary, forgoing all equipment save for a flowing red headband and a simple black gi, patched with a bright, tailor-made logo from his sponsor. With a relaxed frame, he began shifting his weight along the balls of his feet, getting a feel for the floor beneath him.

Did this man truly mean to enter the tournament unarmed? Many onlookers asked the question in their heads, the surprise on their faces making it clear.

As soon as the announcer signaled the start of the match, Drystan's right fist slammed into his left palm. A sharp crack rang out, cutting through the ambient noise of the crowd. With that gesture, he offered a solemn bow.

"It is a privilege to fight with you today."

His tone was courteous—on the border of formal—and his lips curved into the faintest of smiles. Then, he took his stance.

His palms flattened, turned sideways and pointed toward his opponent, knees slightly bent, body squared. An open handed stance.

"Please give me your best."

Antar

 

[Antar]

Drystan Creed
​

---

Artificial light blasts through the arena floor, the ceiling for Antar and the other contestants, as their stage rises from underground. What a spectacle. As everything begins to settle, Antar downloads his surroundings. He makes note of his position, the vague positions of others, and of the life he can sense on the ground beneath the tree.

Antar's attention locks onto his opponent as he is announced and does not break away even as his own blares out from the countless speakers in the arena, though he does grimace at it. Well, he understands well enough that there is little to say for him. His is a name with no renown. He has neither deeds nor exploits to speak of.

They will know him soon.

Antar is the first to step forward. He is clad in a simple black and gray attire; his lightsaber dangles at his side.

His opponent takes an open-handed stance. Arrogance or confidence? He resolves himself to find the answer quickly.

"It is a privilege to fight with you today."

His tone was courteous—on the border of formal—and his lips curved into the faintest of smiles. Then, he took his stance.

His palms flattened, turned sideways and pointed toward his opponent, knees slightly bent, body squared. An open handed stance.

"Please give me your best."

"Likewise," Antar answers and takes on a stance himself. His imposing posture is upright, squared towards his opponent. He raises one hand above his head, palm outward; his other level with his midsection, palm parallel to the ground. Antar calmly shuffles towards Drystan. He enters the pugilist's range with measured patience and a laser-sharp focus on the man's first move.

 

[Drystan Creed]

ROUND 1

Despite the oncoming approach of his opponent, Drystan remained steadfast in his form—unflinching, unmoving, yet deeply relaxed, as if welcoming Antar to close the distance. In this moment, despite the others taking to the tree and moving around it, Drystan's mind blocked everything out except the immediate ground beneath him—and the man standing before him.

It was as if all the lights in the arena dimmed into a flashless void, as if all the noise was drowned in a sea of silence. This was focus at its absolute.

Though his open-handed stance was peculiar, Drystan's hands were not the only thing to watch out for.

Just as Antar entered his range, the wooden floor erupted—dust and bark scattering, splintering upward as a sweeping arc carved into the surface.

To the average spectator, it was too fast to catch with the naked eye. The camera droids had to replay it in slow motion to identify the move: a sweeping low kick.

His leg launched outward, building momentum as it aimed for the calf, bypassing the shin entirely with the curvature of the strike. He tightened his muscles only at the moment he estimated impact would occur, the blow subtly amplified with the barest touch of the Force—meant to test the waters.

Even so, it was enough to flay bark from the wooden floor and carve a groove into it, faint traces of smoke rising from the depth of the strike. What it would do to the average person went without saying.

Antar

 

[Antar]

Drystan Creed
​

---

The image of Drystan's blow successfully landing appears in Antar's mind for only a moment before it is thrown.

I'm not checking this.

It doesn't pass Antar's mind as a thought, but an instinct. An involuntary psychological response triggered by his nervous system. Drystan's opening move screams danger, and it is only narrowly avoided as Antar pulls both legs away, almost leaping a step back from his opponent's range. Drystan's foot whistles through empty space as it misses its mark by the thinnest of margins.

The silence between them is broken by Antar letting out a deep, relieved exhalation. The syndicate enforcer wears a wry smile as he regains his stance and calmly shuffles back into range. He faces an opponent who can finish the fight in a single blow and strike so fast that Antar's senses are almost useless.

Now, how to put this beast down?

There is a slight motion in Antar's hip. His leading foot lashes out, its mark just below Drystan's knee, but it stops midway, and Antar uses the feint to step into a lightning-quick, stiff jab aimed at Drystan's face.

 

[Drystan Creed]

ROUND 1

Despite sensing the jab at the last second, Drystan had already been distracted enough by the feint to be unable to completely dodge it. The fist landed—but not cleanly—as he managed to move with the jab by just a hair's width, enough to slightly cushion the blow.

Excellent.

A multitude of thoughts—singular words—rushed through his mind in response. Pain. Damage. Sharp. Hurt. But the one that stood out, that blared loudest and pushed the others aside was...

Delectable.

He couldn't help but widen his smile. Drystan would never admit it, but he hadn't come here just to test himself. That fighter's blood pumping through his veins was excited—its pulse quickened at the prospect of combat. His was the heart of battle.

He was quicker on the recovery, his body remaining mostly in the same position, with only minimal movement needed to return to neutral. But now Antar was closer—within his range—and he could return the favor.

A one and two. Jab, then cross. Face, then chin. Striking straight from the bowels of a storm—quick as lightning, heavy as thunder. You'd think he was throwing either one, judging by the sound they made as they cut through the air. Boom, boom.

Despite the rapid succession, neither strike lost much in power or speed. Drystan's mastery of the kinetic chain allowed him to remain efficient with each blow, both physically and through the Force, letting it flow through his muscles in the same sequence they were activated.

Antar

 

[Antar]

Drystan Creed​

---

Antar raises his other arm to block the jab. Knuckles hard as a stone strike the back of Antar's wrist, pushing his arm into his face. The weight of the blow nudges him slightly off balance, and Drystan's combo comes with such speed that he can't bring the hand he used to jab back quickly enough to guard.

Yet he foresaw the combo, and Antar steps into the straight before it could fully extend. Antar recalls his teachings - that the essence of his techniques, passed on to him from his no-named hermit of a master, is fluidity. Drystan's fist meets Antar's jaw as he steps in, and he twists his neck with the punch, dampening some of its impact. Antar's knees buckle. Even if half of the strike's power is negated, it is still enough to snuff the light out of most men's eyes. Drystan, however, is too quick for Antar's improvisation to be so effective. Likewise, Antar is not comparable to most men.

Do not fail me, body. Move as I will you to!

Antar's buckling knees straighten out and as he both steps into and rolls with the blow, he uses his momentum to twist his body entirely, allows the Force to guide him as if he were a marionette on strings, and responds with a spinning elbow aimed at Drystan's temple.

Above them is a cacophonous cracking; a rainfall of splinters, branches, and the Wroshyr tree's canopy descends upon them.

 

[Drystan Creed]

ROUND 1

The elbow found its mark—the damage evident as Drystan stumbled, his vision tilting for just a moment, the impact exaggerated by a step to the side, a turn, and then a backward jump, creating a sizable distance between them. A stream of red flowed from the side of his temple, dripping down his cheek and staining the floor. He pressed a finger against it and gave a small nod.

Nice shot.

He would've offered a proper compliment—had their bout not been interrupted.

Drystan tilted his head upward, narrowing his eyes at the sight of falling wood. He shook his head, allowing himself the moment to glance away from Antar given the distance now between them.

You're raining on our parade. I won't let you interfere.

Immediately, his right hand rose—index and middle fingers extended toward the sky. Streams of golden electricity began to coalesce, converging on tiny, glowing points at the very tips of his fingers. Then—

KRAKOW!

A singular bolt of lightning, as thick as a steel beam, surged from his fingertips. His knees bent to absorb the recoil as the blast tore through a falling slab of wood the size of a landspeeder, vaporizing it into ash. The bolt chained through the air above them, leaping from one massive piece of debris to the next within a half moment—turning each to dust.

It was as if a new tree, one made of lightning, had sprouted in the arena—replacing the drifting deadwood with a swirl of falling ash.

Satisfied that the interference had been reduced to minimal levels, Drystan returned to his stance, offering Antar a nod.

"Would hate for this match to be decided by a piece of wood—especially since we're just getting warmed up."

He readied himself, entering a high guard with his hands, with a squared and upward stance, this time being the one to enter the fray as he shuffled towards his opponent.

Antar

 

[Antar]

Drystan Creed​

---

Antar closes his eyes and allows himself to sense a path through the falling debris. Empowered by neither the Dark nor Light side of the Force, but a tranquil balance of both, he prepares himself to leap into the air. Then a disturbance jolts him from his trance.

He feels as the Force surges through Drystan and erupts in a blinding flash. Antar squints as he watches his opponent's display of power. Big move. Big windup. Antar is loathe to let himself get struck by such an ability. He's impressed, but also finds it unwitting of Drystan to so easily and openly reveal his capabilities. It begs the question again: Arrogance or confidence? Or is it neither and is he just abiding by his own code of honor?

Smoldering bark and ashes gracefully fall around them. A rain of embers to set the mood. Antar's lithic mask of a face cracks in a mirthless smile.

"Indeed," he answers as he begins to wave his arms in wide, fluid circular motions. His entire body sways with the movements. The ash that falls around them, above them, and from below is carried by his mind and begins to swirl around their isolated branch until they are surrounded by a thin ring of cinders. As Drystan makes his approach, the ring closes. The ashes grow dense with each prowling step Antar's opponent takes until it forms into a cloud that consumes both in a thick layer of smoke and soot.

Sight would do no good for either amidst such a torrent, but it did set the stage for Antar to make the best use of his precognitive abilities. He senses Drystan's approach through subtle oscillations in the air. Vibrations in the wood beneath their feet. The trembling of the firmament caused by one as equally, if not more in tune with the Force than himself.

It would pose a great danger to Antar if he allows Drystan to set the pace to his liking.

He allows his feelings to guide him towards Drystan and unleashes a rapid onslaught of varied blows. Knees, punches, elbows, kicks. The face, the neck, the body. Blows meant to harm. To kill.

 

[Drystan Creed]

ROUND 1

Drystan had half a mind to use that technique on Antar—but refrained. His reasoning was simple: it was still raw, undeveloped, and lacked the practical utility of others in his arsenal. Still, that brief showing had helped push its development forward—much like this bout was aiding his broader path to mastery.

Like a mountain weathering the storm, Drystan maintained a solid defensive front, maneuvering to intercept, parry, and evade blow after blow. Strikes landed true at first, leaving the Shadow bloodied and bruised. But over time, as he acclimated to the rhythm, his defenses sharpened—parries became cleaner, his evasions more precise.

It was odd. The initiative seemed entirely one-sided, with Drystan offering little in the way of retaliation. Yet beneath his guard was the faintest smirk. In truth, it was more akin to a predator stalking its prey. Despite the damage sustained, Drystan remained as deadly as ever.

With each passing moment, he began to decipher pieces of Antar's attack pattern—reading the cadence and rhythm of the strikes like a maestro studying sheet music.

And now, it was time to play.

Throughout the bout, Drystan had yet to unveil any prominent techniques—not out of arrogance, but because his form was still incomplete. Far from it, in fact. But this fight wasn't just an activity—it was progress. And now, he would unleash that progress: a new weapon in his arsenal just beginning to take shape.

It struck with the abruptness of lightning and rainfall—fluid yet jarring.

Drystan crouched low and stepped inward, slipping beneath a straight punch, his body relaxing to the point of liquidity. The wood beneath his stomp cracked and splintered as he shifted his full weight into his front foot.

Then, with a deep breath, his coiled frame unleashed.

He rotated through his joints to build speed—from foot, to knee, to hip—as all the power flowed through his core and surged into his fist. His muscles tensed in sequence, Force energy coursing through them, accelerating their movement and amplifying their output—leaving each group behind once their task was complete.

And then, a near instant later—like an artillery shell discharging—his fist exploded upward in an uppercut.

His right arm, coiling and snapping with electricity, sliced through the air with a sonic boom, aimed directly for Antar's chin.

There was no telling what destruction this move would bring. Drystan had only just embraced it fully. He had thrown countless uppercuts in his life as a Jedi—but this one was different.

This was a fragment of the puzzle—part of his emerging form. A technique that would soon become a cornerstone. Subconsciously, he already knew the shape of it, and the discipline it belonged to.

And so, he gave it a name worthy of its caliber:

DRAGON KATA: SKY BREAKER

Antar

 

[Antar]

Antar's mental weariness rears its head from his constant use of precognition. His fist grazes Drystan's cheek. A timely slip. Antar strains his mind to its limit to see what comes next. It's a disturbing image that causes him the briefest moment of panic.

Drystan's counter plays out in Antar's mind. He discerns Drystan's target and in that same moment understands he only has two choices: block or dod-

Drystan attacks with speed that shatters the projection in Antar's mind. Only his instincts and quick wits save him. His opponent is a blur of black and his red headband is a streak of vibrant color amidst darkness as he explodes into his move.

He calls upon his connection with the Force, tapping into the immense wellspring of power that he had yet to fully utilize so far during their bout. Antar intends to redirect the blow to the side with his left shoulder and use Drystan's own power against him with a counter of his own. Instead, Drystan's speed and power is so great that his blow lands. Antar is sent reeling as Drystan's fist strikes half against his shoulder and half on his chin with a force-empowered boom that echoes over the sound of flesh hitting flesh. His vision blackens and he is lifted off his feet and is thrown back in a large arc several feet away.

His back hitting the branch is what jars him back to consciousness, but the world spins as he abruptly comes to. Antar is like a new-born animal as he clumsily attempts to stand, gasping for air, coughing as he breathes in fresh blood leaking from his mouth. Landing so roughly knocked the wind from his lungs. Of course, their stage was one lacking any bloody damned thing to grab hold of to pull himself up with. But he does find his footing, wobbling in a futile attempt to maintain his balance. He staggers to and fro. His shoulder is numb, but he can feel a sharp pain just below his neck. His clavicle must be broken. His fingers twitch and he can still feel most of his arm, even though a burning pain spreads through it down to his bones.

Had he not reinforced himself, his head would have likely been taken clean off. To Drystan, it would have been like crushing an overripe melon.

Antar eerily smiles with crimson-stained teeth at Drystan. He becomes euphoric. Pain is only pain. Blood still pumps from his heart. He can fight on.

Though his legs are in mud and his breathing is labored, and fresh blood trickles from his nose and out of his mouth onto his chin, Antar smiles. He stands at the shore of a vast ocean and allows himself to walk towards it and sink into a flow.

"I am not flesh and bone," Antar begins to recite to Drystan.

He lets the tide take him and fully submerge him in the depth of battle-flow unlike any he has felt before.

"I am a crashing wave. My will is the current!"

He lets his left arm hang limply at his side as an invitation for Drystan to notice a weakness that does not exist. He raises his right in front of him and forms a tight fist.

 

[Drystan Creed]

ROUND 1

He got back up?

Drystan's smile widened into a grin, unable to help himself as he bore witness to such a righteous display of willpower and resolve. Damn. He wanted to take a knee after that strike—take a breather. His bones were rattling after landing that hit, and he could feel slight fracturing in his knuckles.

But seeing how Antar had taken the blow and still risen, it made the Shadow stand firm despite the damage he'd sustained creating an opening. And that's not even accounting for the self-imposed strain of the attack itself. It was raw—and more importantly, unpracticed—so it lacked efficiency in stamina usage and more importantly backlash mitigation.

What a guy.

But if Antar was the tide, then Drystan would become the storm that split it asunder.

"Yeah... you don't need to tell me what I already know, big guy."

Despite the ragged pauses between his words, his posture straightened—his focus now on his left prosthetic arm. A sleek, black metal limb, forged with material strong enough to deflect both blasters and lightsabers by toughness alone. Its fingers curled into something that could only be described as a claw.

With his current condition, he had to end this bout now. He poised his body accordingly—knees lowering, torso leaning forward into a low, deep stance. Very, very deep...

"I acknowledge your strength. I can see why the Syndicate chose you as their champion. But.."

Lightning began to arc along his prosthetic forearm, stray bolts carving jagged lines into the wood beneath them.

"I'm at my limit too. I don't think I can keep fighting with you much longer."

His eyes narrowed, voice steady.

"Ready yourself. Blink and you'll miss it."

KRAKOW!

Drystan's words held no exaggeration.

To the crowd, it looked as though he vanished in a flash of golden light. But for those watching the slow-motion replay from the camera droids, the truth was far more technical—and far more brutal.

How does one become fast? Through training, any average runner can gain speed. By widening their stride, increasing their cadence, refining their motion, improvements in speed can be achieved. But there is another, more straightforward answer:

Shorten the distance to your target.

And Drystan embodied that principle. His dash took the most direct, most linear path to Antar—nothing wasted. Like the sweeping low kick he'd opened with, only now it was his entire body moving at that velocity. The machinery in his prosthetic groaned and whirred like a turbine as he clenched his fist in the final moment before impact.

His aim was center mass.

The metal fist surged forward, driving deep toward the sternum with the intent to obliterate it, ribs and all.

It was a strike wrought from the very depths of Drystan's resolve—a token of his utmost respect.

The entirety of his might, unleashed in a single blow.

Antar

 

[Antar]

Drystan Creed​

---

How much time has elapsed since Drystan threw the kick that opened their match? Seconds? Minutes? Antar gleans more from his brief time facing the Shadow than he hasdin the last decade of his life spent scraping the barrel with dirty work and odd jobs. Drystan has pushed Antar beyond his limits. And what Antar discovers after breaking through that threshold is simply beautiful. If only he could be offered more time here, how much more could he grow?

It is at this critical moment that Antar, despite his fatigue and injuries, enters a perfect state of total focus. His mouth hangs slightly open and he pulls deep draws of air in through his nose.

Haaa!

Out his mouth.

In and...

Haaa!

Out.

"I'm at my limit too. I don't think I can keep fighting with you much longer."

His eyes narrowed, voice steady.

"Ready yourself. Blink and you'll miss it."

Antar is aware that he is being spoken to but Drystan's warning falls on deaf ears. He'd respond in kind and show Drystan the respect he deserved, too, were he not so absorbed in the moment.

Breathe in...

KRAKOW!

In that instant Antar's knees relax and slightly bend. His tightly balled fist opens. His tense shoulders drop. No longer concerned with meticulously analyzing his own moves or relying on precognition to read Drystan's, Antar's motions become natural. In this brief moment of enlightenment at the climax of their bout, Antar is unable to falter. Even if he misplaces his footing or his weight, he can flow into the next movement as if it is his original intention. The mistakes he will make will not lead to defeat, but instead new opportunities.

Antar is relieved of his anxious and tension.

Haaa!

Antar grunts as Drystan charges into him. It appears that Antar catches Drystan's prosthetic fist, but a thin space separates blackened metal and human flesh. Antar drives his feet down as he is forced back from the impact. Deep grooves gash the wood in a pair of straight lines as he is pushed back towards the tip of the branch. The thin space between Drystan's fist and Antar's palm swirls with a luminescent energy as the lightning wildly crackling from Drystan's prosthetic is absorbed into it. Kinetic and Force energy surges through Antar's arm, through his chest, and into his other arm that hangs limply at his side.

Antar flexes his hand as if to grab Drystan's fist, but his fingers only curl around air. He enforces his will with his mind and redirects Drystan's fist to the side. In the same moment that he redirects the blow, Antar raises his left arm up to his midsection with a balled fist, and pushes up from his feet that had been driven into the wood beneath them causing the branch to further splinter and crack. Power builds up from his legs, and with a slight twist of his hips, that power is carried into his fist, which also circulates with what he absorbs from Drystan's lightning.

There were times that waves flowed through gaps and shifted around obstacles. There too are times when they simply crash against them.

All of the force collected and generated from Antar concentrates to a single point in his fist, and he delivers a triumphant roar as he fires off what would be a devastating blow to Drystan's side. Though it didn't possess the same potency and power as Drystan's attack to leave his midsection obliterated, it would be more than enough to push him off of their stage.

 

[Drystan Creed]

ROUND 1

Drystan's eyes widened in surprise as his fist was caught—but upon closer inspection, he realized it was the Force that had stopped it cold. He could see it clearly now: the energy from his strike being absorbed, redirected—channeled through Antar's blocking hand and amplified into the other, now poised to deliver the return blow.

The strike alone would've been powerful. But now, bolstered by Drystan's own kinetic energy and lightning, its potency had effectively doubled.

There was no avoiding it.

The impact unleashed a whirlwind of ash and splinters, swirling violently around the two fighters and momentarily obscuring them from sight. And when the ashen winds subsided, Drystan stood firm before Antar, his expression unreadable—dark, almost distant.

Antar's strike had been caught—Drystan's palm pressing into the point of impact to reduce the damage as best he could. It helped him maintain his ground, but naturally, he was not left unscathed.

His right hand had taken the brunt of the force. No amount of mitigation could change that. His fingers were bent and crooked, mangled and dislocated. The bones beneath the flesh were fractured, bruised—or worse—blackened by burns from the fingertips up to the palm and wrist. The sleeve of his gi was incinerated entirely, leaving his forearm exposed—lined with fresh, fractal scars still glowing faintly from the heat.

"No wonder that hurt. You used my own attack against me."

He jumped back, skipping a few paces to gain distance, inspecting his ruined right hand. Closing his eyes, he channeled the Force through it—not for healing, as his ability in that field was middling at best—but telekinesis.

Like an invisible cast, he snapped the broken bones back into place, grimacing through the pain. The damage was beyond field repair, and he'd need intensive medical attention afterward. But for now, he would use the Force to hold the structure together—just enough to form a fist.

Enough to keep fighting.

"That's a nice move you've got there. That redirection. I saw you use it with that spinning elbow earlier too. I just might pick it up for myself."

He settled back into his stance, smiling despite the agony—still eager to come to blows, even when most men would've been down and out ten times over.

Antar

 

[Antar]

Drystan Creed​

---

"I won't stop you. In exchange you should concede victory to me," Antar wryly smiles in jest. His whole body aches. It is nothing short of a miracle that in his exhausted state he was able to pull off that counter even with his newly discovered clarity that feels semi-divine.

Drystan surpasses Antar in striking. That much is certain. It is no use pondering what the outcome would have been if Antar had drawn his lightsaber and fought to his full capacity. The reality is that they are both battered and beaten. No use in blackening his thoughts with what ifs.

Antar takes a staggered front-facing stance leading with his right side. His left arm was still usable, but only in a pinch. It truly did pose a weakness after his foiled attempt at countering Drystan's previous move.

"I'm tired, man. If you're not going to yield, then you've got to come to me."