The ridge rose beneath his boots in a spray of loose stone and red dust.
Kael crested it in motion.
The world on the other side was worse.
The smoke from the third explosion still boiled upward from beyond the slope, blackened debris raining down across assembling droid ranks. But the formation here had not broken completely. B1 battle droids continued advancing through the haze in long, skeletal lines — tall, narrow silhouettes with elongated necks and thin torsos, their blasters rising and falling in mechanical rhythm.
"Get him!" one shrilled in its high, glitching vocoder, its photoreceptors locking onto the violet blade cutting through the smoke.
"He's right there!" another barked, voice cracking in synthetic urgency.
Red plasma flashed toward him.
Kael didn't slow.
The blade moved before the thought did.
Vaapad was not flourishing.
It was immersion.
The first volley struck the violet edge and split outward in clean arcs, redirected into the droid line without wasted motion. He stepped through the nearest B1 unit, blade carving diagonally across its narrow torso. Metal parted like brittle bone. The droid collapsed mid-sentence, its head striking the stone with a hollow clatter.
Another lunged awkwardly to bring its blaster around.
Kael pivoted, letting the droid's momentum carry it into the path of his blade. A short upward cut severed its arm at the shoulder joint. He didn't pause to finish it — the clone fire behind him did that, blue bolts punching through the exposed cranial unit.
The difference between B1s and living opponents was stark.
They were cheap.
Thin.
Disposable.
He cut through two more in a single turning sequence, blade tracing arcs that appeared disconnected to an untrained eye — unpolished, almost chaotic. But each motion fed the next, redirecting incoming fire while advancing his position.
Vaapad thrummed through him.
Not rage.
Energy.
The fury of the battlefield — the heat, the explosions, the fear radiating from clones behind him, the relentless aggression of the droids — it flowed toward him like a current. He did not absorb it. He redirected it. A closed circuit.
Red bolts struck.
Violet answered.
He felt the surge in his chest — the dangerous edge of enjoyment that Form VII required.
He did not suppress it.
He controlled it.
A B1 to his right hesitated, blaster, shaking slightly in its grip. "He's too fast!" it chirped before losing its head in a clean horizontal slice.
Then something heavier stepped through the smoke.
It didn't speak.
It didn't hesitate.
It simply raised both forearms and opened fire.
The B2 super battle droid towered broader than the skeletal B1s — thick armored plating enclosing a compact, reinforced torso. Its movements were more deliberate, less twitching, its wrist-mounted cannons discharging in rapid succession.
Red bolts came faster.
He angled the blade vertically and absorbed the first pair, redirecting one into the chest of a B1 behind it. The second he sidestepped, sand kicked up around his boots as it scorched the stone where he had stood a heartbeat before.
What is that?
He hadn't seen one before.
It didn't fall apart as easily.
A redirected bolt struck its chest plating and glanced off with only a spray of sparks.
Interesting.
The B2 advanced another step, cannons firing in punishing rhythm. A B1 scuttled into its path and was physically shoved aside, clattering down the slope as the heavier droid pushed forward without acknowledgement.
It was stronger.
More armored.
But slower.
Kael shifted inside the flow of Vaapad, feeling the B2's aggression like a pressure in the Force. He allowed the rhythm of its fire to settle into him — not resisting, not retreating.
Then he moved.
He closed the distance in a blur of black and violet, deflecting two final bolts in rapid succession before stepping inside the arc of its cannons. The blade snapped downward in a tight vertical cut, slicing cleanly through the joint where its arm plating met the torso.
The arm fell away.
Before it hit the ground, he pivoted and drove the blade horizontally through the central chassis seam. The hum deepened as the violet light cut through reinforced armor and internal circuitry alike.
The B2 stood for half a second.
Then collapsed in a heavy metallic crash.
Different, he thought briefly as he stepped through the smoke.
Stronger. Fewer.
He glanced up through drifting ash.
There were not many of them.
For every thick-plated B2, a hundred thin B1s advanced in lines behind.
Cost efficiency.
Quantity over durability.
Another volley streaked toward him.
He didn't count them anymore.
He moved through them.
The clones reached the crest behind him, blue fire snapping past his shoulders as they established firing positions along the ridge line. Walkers below continued to advance, their dorsal cannons now firing deeper beyond the slope per his earlier order.
Red, blue, and green light tangled in the air like threads in a storm.
A B1 lunged with its blaster raised.
Kael stepped into it, blade arcing up through its narrow torso and continuing through the next in line. Metal rained down in pieces.
He didn't stop.
Vaapad thrummed hotter now — the thin line between controlled aggression and surrender to it. He rode it carefully, feeling the satisfaction of efficiency, of dominance in motion.
Not cruelty.
Not rage.
Just momentum.
The remaining B1s near the ridge began to falter, stepping backward as clone fire intensified from the crest. A few attempted to regroup, vocoders glitching with overlapping commands.
"Fall back!"
"No, advance!"
"He's right there!"
They did not coordinate well under pressure.
He cut through the last cluster at the top of the slope in three controlled strokes.
The ridge was theirs.
Behind him, clones poured over the crest, taking cover behind fractured stone and turning their rifles toward the deeper battlefield.
Ahead, the foundry still burned against the sky.
And Kael Vizsla stood at the ridge line, violet blade humming steady in the storm.
The last of the B1 units at the crest fell into pieces.
For a brief, fragile moment, there was space.
The ridge line belonged to them.
Clone troopers spilled over the top in disciplined waves, immediately dropping into defensive posture along the fractured stone. DC-15A rifles snapped into new firing arcs, blue bolts reaching past Kael's shoulders toward the deeper battlefield. Medics moved among the wounded without ceremony, dragging bodies into shallow depressions carved by earlier explosions.
Below the ridge, AT-TEs continued their relentless advance. Six articulated legs ground forward through sand and debris, dorsal mass-driver cannons now firing beyond the slope into reinforcement columns assembling near the foundry perimeter. Turbolaser fire from descending Acclamators carved disciplined blue lines across the horizon, striking deeper targets Kael had ordered suppressed.
The command zone had expanded.
It was no longer a desperate foothold in open sand.
It was a platform.
Kael deactivated his blade and let the violet light withdraw into its hilt. The hum faded, replaced by the layered percussion of distant artillery and blaster fire.
CC-4377 stepped up beside him, visor streaked with dust and blackened residue.
"Ridge secured," the commander reported. "Walkers are repositioning for forward fire support. Reinforcements landing behind us."
Kael scanned the rear slope. LAATs were already descending in tight formation, skimming just above the ridge before dropping fresh squads into the expanding perimeter. Behind them, more Acclamators were touching down across the desert, massive silhouettes settling into sand as they disgorged armor and artillery.
"This is the first step," Kael said quietly.
The ridge gave them elevation, line of sight, and—most importantly—breathing room. Behind this stone spine, clones could organize, reposition, and push without being pinned in open ground.
"General," 4377 added, glancing toward his wrist display. "Report just came in. The Jedi are returning from the arena. Extraction successful."
Kael exhaled.
Good.
He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding that thought.
"That's good," he said. "We could use the help."
Beyond the ridge, the foundry still pulsed with activity — conveyor lines moving, smoke rising. The droid army had not retreated. It had only reformed.
Kael looked along the ridge line.
Clones crouched behind rock and wreckage, armor already coated in red dust. Some swapped out power cells with efficient motions. Others checked each other's seals and shoulder plates. A few leaned briefly against the stone, catching a breath before returning to firing positions.
They looked tired.
And they'd only been on the ground for minutes.
He stepped slightly higher along the crest so his voice would carry.
"Alright, men," he called out, calm but firm. "We advance on my signal."
Helmets turned toward him.
"Our objective is the droid foundry ahead," he continued. "We move in stages. Take ground. Hold it. Make it easier for the reinforcements behind us to move up."
Another distant explosion punctuated his words, a plume of smoke rising beyond the foundry spires.
"We just have the worst role," he added dryly. "We get to absorb most of it."
A few troopers shifted, the faintest ripple of reaction passing through the line.
One clone near the center straightened slightly.
"Don't worry, General," he said over open comm, voice edged with energy despite the dust coating his armor. "We've got this."
Kael turned his visor toward him.
"What's your designation?"
"CT-6219, sir. But—" there was the slightest hesitation, almost sheepish, "everyone calls me Twitch."
"Twitch?" Kael repeated.
"Yeah, General. I, uh… move a lot."
A few of the surrounding troopers gave quiet chuckles, the sound brief and almost surprised in the middle of war.
Kael inclined his head slightly.
"Well, alright, Twitch. I appreciate the enthusiasm."
He glanced back toward the foundry.
"We've got a long way to go," he added. "And I don't want the rest of the Jedi thinking we've been standing around waiting for them."
The line actually laughed this time — short, sharp bursts of sound quickly swallowed by the battlefield noise.
It was small.
But it mattered.
A green sonic blast slammed into the forward slope of the ridge, showering them in debris and shaking the stone beneath their boots. Fragments of rock cascaded down the side, clattering against armor and plating.
Kael's expression hardened beneath the visor.
"Alright," he said.
He ignited his lightsaber.
The violet blade flared to life, steady and controlled, casting faint reflections across dusty clone armor.
"Let's move."
He stepped forward off the crest, boots sliding slightly in loose sand before finding purchase.
Behind him, clone rifles lifted in unison.
And the Republic began advancing again.
Kael stepped down from the ridge into open fire.
The violet blade angled forward as red plasma streaked toward him in disciplined sheets. He deflected the first volley without breaking stride — one bolt snapping back into a B1's narrow chest, another ricocheting into the sand in a burst of molten glass. Behind him, clone rifles answered in sharp blue cracks, disciplined bursts cutting through the thinning front ranks.
The Republic moved.
Not as a charge.
As a push.
Walkers crested the ridge one by one, six articulated legs grinding into fractured stone before descending the far slope. Their mass-driver cannons fired deeper into the field now, concussive blasts tearing open sections of the droid formation near the foundry perimeter. Ball-turret lasers stitched suppressive arcs across advancing B1 units that attempted to regroup.
The desert became motion.
Red, blue, green — bolts and blasts and sonic pulses weaving together in a violent tapestry. Geonosian warriors dove low through smoke, their wings beating in jagged patterns as they loosed green sonic bursts that rippled the air and rattled armor plates. One swooped too low; a clone squad tracked it in unison and shredded it mid-flight, its body spiraling into the sand in a scatter of brittle chitin.
Kael advanced through it all.
His black beskar no longer absorbed the light cleanly. Dust and ash clung to its surface, turning matte black into streaked desert red. Violet tracer lines along his gauntlets were half-obscured beneath grit. The Ka'rta etching along his temple ridge vanished beneath sand and soot.
He did not slow.
A B1 lunged from behind a shattered rock formation, blaster raised.
Kael stepped inside its aim and cut cleanly through its torso without looking down. Another attempted to flank him from the left; he rotated the blade in a tight arc and severed its head mid-sentence.
Behind him, clones dropped and rose in staggered rhythm, rifles flashing as they advanced between walker legs and cratered sand. One trooper fell as a red bolt punched through his shoulder plate. Another grabbed his collar and dragged him backward without hesitation, firing one-handed until the medic reached them.
An AT-TE to their right took a direct hit from a Hailfire missile.
The explosion tore one of its legs free at the joint. The walker staggered, then collapsed onto its side in a grinding crash that shook the slope. For a heartbeat, its turrets continued firing even as it lay crippled, dorsal cannon discharging one final round before internal systems failed and smoke poured from ruptured seams.
The droid army pressed regardless.
Rows of B1s stepped forward through debris and flame, blasters firing in unison. B2 super battle droids moved among them, heavier frames absorbing glancing hits as they returned punishing bursts of wrist-mounted fire.
Kael intercepted a volley aimed at a cluster of clones attempting to reposition.
Three bolts struck his blade in rapid succession — one redirected into a B2's exposed knee joint, another into a B1's cranial plate, the third sent upward into the smoky sky. He angled his body to shield the troopers behind him as they regained footing.
He would not allow them to advance without him.
If they moved, he moved first.
If they were exposed, he was exposed with them.
The foundry loomed closer now — a tall cylindrical structure bristling with antenna arrays and exhaust stacks, conveyor bridges feeding fresh ranks of droids toward the battlefield even as their predecessors fell. The sheer scale of it felt wrong — a machine that birthed war faster than it could be destroyed.
Blue arcs from ventral turbolasers slashed down from the sky, striking reinforcement columns assembling near the factory base. LAAT gunships screamed overhead, dropping fresh squads who hit the ground running into the widening engagement zone.
Still, it was not easy.
For every droid that fell, another stepped forward.
For every meter gained, clones paid in blood and sand.
Kael cut through another pair of B1s, stepping over shattered limbs as he moved. A green sonic blast detonated nearby, throwing sand into his visor and knocking him half a step sideways. He absorbed the force through his stance and pressed forward again without pause.
His armor was no longer clean.
Red dust streaked across the chest and shoulders. Heat scoring marked one gauntlet where a bolt had grazed too close. Smoke clung to the edges of his pauldrons.
But he did not falter.
Behind him, 4377's voice continued issuing steady commands through the storm — repositioning squads, calling in suppressive fire, directing walker adjustments as they pushed deeper toward the foundry perimeter.
The desert had become a moving wall of fire.
And through it, Kael Vizsla walked — blade humming, black armor stained red, never asking his men to go where he would not stand first.