The vibroblade hit. Lorn felt the burn before he even saw the blood. A searing punch of agony ripped through his chest as the blade buried itself just below his right clavicle, sinking through his pectoral and slamming into the bone. The pain didn't knock him down, but it stole his breath, leaving the world white at the edges.
He staggered back, his saber still locked with Sarad's, but his arm faltered. His shoulder screamed. His right side lit up with raw, numbing heat. Blood soaked through his shirt and hissed against the plasma edge of his own weapon. Sarad had seen his weakness; he'd found something to break.
Lorn gritted his teeth, choking back a growl of pain. He couldn't pull the blade free, not yet. Not now. Dropping his guard meant he was finished. He understood the move, seeing it for what it truly was: not just a strike, but a message. Sarad's intent was stark: Lorn was outmatched, already a dead man walking. But Lorn refused to accept it.
Behind him, the square rumbled again as the Juggernaut pushed forward, its wheels pulverizing stone and dragging debris like bones caught in teeth. Turrets rotated with mechanical purpose, laying down suppressive fire along the eastern corridor. The air filled with the whistle and thunder of fresh ordnance exploding against anything that moved.
The few desperate Dimok survivors behind him didn't need another word. They fell back. The woman in the vest grabbed the kid with the grenade and shouted something Lorn didn't catch. They retreated deeper into the alleyways, flanking behind the tank, joining others: fighters with old rifles, grenades, scavenged mines, and burning resolve.
Further down the street, the rumble of transports shook the stone. Blue light flared in the far distance as shields were raised. Dropships landed beyond the square, Republic sigils shimmering against smoke and sky. Comm static flooded with panicked calls:
"Echo squads engaging on the west flank!" and
"Vanguard Three has line of sight on the tank's undercarriage!" They were coming. They were finally coming. But not fast enough.
Lorn locked eyes with Sarad again, sweat mixing with blood on his brow. His failure would hand them victory, empower the tank, and doom the President. And so he didn't fail.
He twisted, not away from Sarad, but into the pain, his wounded arm dragging like dead weight yet still gripping his saber. The blade came up in a harsh parry, deflecting Sarad's lock wide and forcing space between them. In the same motion, Lorn kicked forward, a boot aimed at Sarad's center mass: not elegant, not graceful, just raw, physical intent.
As he kicked, he shouted, his voice not sounding like his own anymore.
"You don't get to decide what survives!"
His saber flared, sweeping back in a tight horizontal slash meant to force Sarad into retreat, or meet him if he dared. Lorn pressed in hard, pressing close, ignoring the agony that burned across his chest with every breath. He bled, but he still moved.
He had no illusions of beating Sarad instantly. But he would not be the one who broke. And if holding this line meant burning every last heartbeat he had left, then so be it.
He wasn't here to win. He was here to stand.
---
A ripple ran through the crumbling district like thunder, a clear sign the Dimoks were finally moving. For weeks, these people had largely been kept down and silenced. Now, they screamed back.
From balconies and broken rooftops, shaped charges rained down. Makeshift mortars, old mining launchers bolted to grav-carts, fired homemade shells at the Juggernaut's flanks. The tank's armor held, as expected, but the point wasn't to destroy it instantly. Instead, they aimed to overwhelm, distract, and slow its advance.
Dimok mechanics who'd once fixed water pumps now crawled through storm drains to lay detpacks beneath its treads. A youth brigade armed with stolen thermal lances drove into the smoke like specters, flanking wide under cover of falling ash. One boy, no older than twelve, tossed a reprogrammed cleaning droid strapped with a cryoban grenade under the hull. It exploded in a hiss of blue frost, locking one of the tank's rear servos mid-rotation.
A group of rebel engineers swarmed a maintenance hatch near the Juggernaut's undercarriage. One carried an ancient fusion cutter, while another shielded him with a salvaged riot shield that was barely holding together. They shouted coordinates to Republic comms, marking weak points in the armor. These weren't spots designed to resist persistent attacks. Every strike mattered now, not for outright victory, but for leverage.
The Rips responded with brutal discipline, peeling from the rear arc to form layered defense lines, pinning back the first wave with suppressing fire. Yet for every Dimok that fell, another seemed to rise. Their lines weren't clean, and their ranks weren't trained. But they were furious, and fury had teeth.
A rooftop team pulled tarp off a long-barreled cannon they'd been hiding for weeks. It was an old anti-air turret, retooled by hand. The makeshift platform cracked as they aimed it down.
A voice rang over open comms:
"Dimok militia engaging in force, locking down the southeast quadrant! Holding the square! If the Jedi can keep him busy, we'll bury that damn tank!"
Dreidi Xeraic
Voli Cholrass
