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He ignited his lightsaber and pointed it at them. “I am Jedi Thul,” he told them. “I have not fought for real in many years. I should be a pushover. Come get me.”

They fired—blaster rifles, mini rockets, a flamethrower. It was a coordinated attack, each firing to cover a different portion of the hallway, the gout of flame straight down the middle.

But Raynar had used the moments of his speech to begin some Force trickery, grabbing at a panel of durasteel wall knocked free by the explosions that had put the Mandos’ entry holes into the wall. As they fired, he yanked the panel and held it floating before them.

He knew the panel wouldn’t last a second against their barrage, knew that it wasn’t close enough to them to reflect concussive force back toward them. But in much less than a second he ran forward and leapt.

Fire hit the panel and smoke roiled up from the point of impact. Mini rockets hit it, blew it to shrapnel, and added their own smoke to the visual confusion.

Raynar sailed past above the smoke cloud, using it as cover, executing one lazy flip as he went, and landed behind the two rearmost Mandos.

As their sight line cleared, they saw what Raynar saw: the young apprentice still barring their way, once again alone. They exchanged glances—were probably exchanging comm traffic as well.

With his free hand, Raynar grabbed the arm of one of the two rearmost Mandos, a female with a mini rocket launcher. Before she knew he was there, before she could tense and pull away from him, he aimed her arm at two of her comrades and triggered the weapon.

Mini rockets emerged, traveled a few meters, and slammed into a beskar breastplate and a rocket pack.

The detonation of the rocket pack dwarfed those of the mini rockets. Raynar was staggered back by its force and felt bits of shrapnel cut into his face, chest, and arms; felt himself battered by an unhealthy amount of heat. Pity. More work for the plastic surgeons. He shook his head, clearing his vision.

All five of his opponents were down, but three were moving, rising to their feet and assuming defensive positions. He stepped forward and swung, cutting through a blaster rifle before it could draw a bead on him.

A line wrapped around his ankle. The commando who had launched it yanked, pulling him off-balance. His free arm flailed around and his attacker’s crushgaunt caught it … and squeezed.

Raynar felt and heard his left arm break above the elbow. The jolt of pain was almost enough to cause him to black out. He swung his lightsaber, glanced it off his attacker’s upraised forearm, and brought it down to cut through the line that gripped him. But that Mando still had a hand on Raynar’s broken arm …

The apprentice was suddenly there, racing through the trio of Mandos with Force-augmented speed, striking down at the leg of Raynar’s attacker. The blow was a slash aimed at the back of the man’s knee. A trained Jedi Knight would have thrust rather than slashed, bypassing all armor at that vulnerable spot, but the boy still connected, his blade cutting through centimeters of cloth, skin, and muscle before being arrested by the armor at the sides of the man’s knee.

The Mando did not cry out but he did fall backward, losing his grip on Raynar’s arm.

The other two Mandos had reflexively turned in response to the boy’s arrival. They’d taken their eyes off Raynar. Fighting down the pain and the effects it could have on control of his powers, Raynar exerted himself through the Force. The helmet of one of the Mandos jerked and flew upward, yanked clean off the man’s head, then inverted and came down again, hard. The thoonk of the metal against the man’s head was gratifying in a way Raynar knew he should find inappropriate. That Mando fell.

The apprentice turned and rained lightsaber blows down on the commando he’d injured, pressing his advantage, giving no mind to the other enemies present … trusting Raynar to deal with them.

There were new booms from around