In Marvel with the Force?

Tyr's hand twitched at his side. His Force instincts whispered a warning, low and insistent. Something was wrong, even if Argos couldn't see it.

The sound came suddenly—a faint shuffle of movement behind him, almost imperceptible. He spun around just as the first blade glinted in the moonlight, slashing toward his throat.

The assassin's strike was swift, and Tyr barely managed to dodge in time. His enhanced reflexes saved him from a fatal blow, but the blade grazed his shoulder, slicing through the armor and drawing blood.

"Shit," he hissed, stumbling back as more figures emerged from the shadows.

They moved like wraiths, silent and deliberate, their black uniforms blending into the night. Red sashes tied around their waists marked them unmistakably as members of the Hand.

One assassin stepped forward, their blade held low but ready. "The Violet Wolf," they said, their voice calm yet menacing. "Your skills have earned you respect, but your actions have earned you death."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Tyr muttered, shifting into a defensive stance.

The assassin tilted their head. "You misunderstand. We offer you an invitation. Join the Hand, and your power will grow beyond imagination. Resist... and perish."

Tyr's lips curled into a grim smile beneath his helmet. "Tempting. But I'll pass."

The assassin nodded, almost respectfully. "So be it."

The attack came without warning.

Two assassins darted forward, their blades striking in perfect unison. Tyr moved on instinct, dodging the first strike and deflecting the second with a nearby metal rod he grabbed on reflex.

The clash of metal against metal rang out as Tyr spun, using the makeshift weapon to parry a flurry of attacks. The rod vibrated with each strike, and Tyr gritted his teeth as his arms ached from the effort.

I should've learned swordsmanship, he thought bitterly, sweat dripping down his face. Hell, I should've at least recreated the lightsaber forms.

The assassins were relentless, their movements precise and fluid. They attacked from all angles, forcing Tyr to rely on his Force instincts to track them.

One blade came dangerously close to his neck, and Tyr ducked just in time, countering with a wide swing of the rod. It struck the assassin's shoulder, sending them staggering back, but two more were already closing in.

A kick to his ribs sent him stumbling, his breath knocked out of him. He lashed out blindly with the rod, barely managing to keep the attackers at bay.

Pain flared in his side as a blade nicked him, slicing through the armor. Tyr cursed under his breath, gripping the rod tighter.

This isn't working.

The assassins' strikes became faster, more coordinated, as if they were testing him, probing for weaknesses. Tyr's movements grew more desperate, his frustration mounting with each passing second.

If I'd just trained properly, this wouldn't be happening, he thought bitterly.

He ducked under another strike, rolling to the side and grabbing a piece of debris with the Force. The chunk of concrete shot toward one of the assassins, knocking them off balance, but it wasn't enough to slow the others.

Tyr swung the rod again, deflecting a blade aimed for his heart. The impact sent vibrations through his arms, and he grimaced as another assassin closed in, their blade flashing in the moonlight.

The fight was a blur of motion—parries, dodges, and counterstrikes—but the assassins showed no signs of tiring.

One strike slipped through Tyr's defenses, slicing across his thigh and sending him to one knee. He barely managed to block the follow-up strike, using the rod to push the blade aside.

As he scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving, he couldn't shake the nagging thought.

If I had a proper weapon... if I had learned the damn forms...

The thought was cut short as another blade came down, forcing Tyr to roll out of the way. He slammed the rod into the nearest assassin's leg, tripping them up, but it was a temporary reprieve.

For a brief moment, the assassins paused, their leader stepping forward.

"You are skilled," they said, their tone almost reverent. "Few have survived this long against us. Join us, and we will show you true strength."

Tyr wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, his grip tightening on the rod. "I'm done talking."

The leader sighed, raising their blade. "Very well."

The fight resumed with renewed intensity.

Tyr pushed himself to the limit, using every ounce of strength and skill to hold his ground. His makeshift weapon was battered and bent, but he wielded it with a determination that refused to falter.

The Force surged through him, sharpening his instincts and guiding his movements. He deflected a strike aimed for his chest, countering with a powerful shove that sent the attacker stumbling.

But the assassins adapted quickly, their strikes becoming more precise, their movements more calculated.

Tyr felt his strength waning, his body screaming in protest with every movement. A blade nicked his arm, another slashed across his side.

He gritted his teeth, his vision swimming.

I'm not going down like this.

With a surge of adrenaline, Tyr lashed out with the Force, sending a wave of energy that knocked two assassins off their feet. He followed up with a sweeping strike of the rod, disarming another.

The remaining assassins hesitated, their leader raising a hand to signal a retreat.

"You have earned our respect, Violet Wolf," they said, their voice calm. "But we will return. The Hand does not forget."

As the assassins vanished into the shadows, Tyr collapsed to one knee, his breath ragged and his body trembling.

Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling on the rooftop as he stared after them.

"They're testing me," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "And next time, they won't hold back."

His Force instincts hummed faintly, a warning of the danger that still loomed.

As Tyr stood, his hand brushing against the torn armor on his side, one thought burned in his mind:

No more excuses. I'm learning the damn forms.