In Marvel with the Force?

Tyr leaned against a jagged pillar of stone, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the blood and ash that caked his tattered armor. Or at least what was left of it.

The sleek black-and-purple suit that once symbolized his ingenuity had been reduced to shreds. Most of the fabric was gone, replaced with crudely fastened bone plates and strips of hardened leather he had fashioned from the creatures he'd killed.

His steel sword was chipped and worn, its edge dulled from countless battles. He ran a finger along the blade's jagged surface, grimacing. "Not ideal," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his face.

The world around him was a chaotic mix of jagged landscapes and swirling skies. It was never the same—sometimes a barren desert, other times a storm-laden plain or a dense, ominous forest. Today, it was an endless expanse of crumbling ruins, the ground beneath him riddled with cracks that pulsed faintly with an otherworldly light.

Tyr called it the "Endless Prison." It seemed fitting, given its nature: an endless loop of trials designed to push him to his limits.

Every day—or what he assumed were days—he fought wave after wave of enemies, each pause lasting no more than two hours. The waves grew stronger, faster, and smarter with every cycle, forcing him to adapt constantly.

The only silver lining was the training.

"Always look for the advantage, Tyr," Finn's voice echoed in his mind, a memory of the old man's wisdom. "Even in the worst situations, there's something to learn."

Tyr exhaled sharply, steadying his breathing. His Force Breathing had become second nature, the rhythmic inhales and exhales keeping his body fueled and his mind focused. He didn't even need to think about it anymore; it was like an instinct, flowing through him with every movement.

His Force precognition, however, hadn't improved. Three seconds was still the maximum he could manage before his mind became overwhelmed. But those three seconds were often the difference between life and death.

His telekinesis had grown exponentially. At first, he struggled to move a few kilograms with any precision. Now, he could lift what he estimated to be around 50 kilograms with ease. He'd learned to wield it in battle, using stones, debris, and even the bones of fallen enemies as weapons.

Force Crush was his most terrifying new ability. The first time it had activated, it was purely instinct—a moment of pure rage and desperation. Now, he could focus the Force to crush objects or enemies, though it required intense concentration and drained him quickly.

But the constant fighting took its toll.

Tyr dropped his sword, letting it clatter against the ground as he sank to his knees. His head bowed, his hands trembling as they gripped the dirt.

"I'm going insane," he muttered, his voice cracking.

The isolation was unbearable. He hadn't heard a real voice—felt a real presence—in what felt like an eternity. The endless battles, the ever-changing landscapes, the oppressive silence between waves... it was all eating away at him.

What's happening back home?

His mind raced with thoughts of Argos, Oliver, and Finn. He pictured Finn sitting alone in the workshop, wondering if his "grandson" would ever return. He imagined Oliver, confused and scared, trying to figure out his powers without anyone to guide him.

And Argos...

Tyr's fists clenched. Did Argos know where I am? Did it try to contact me? Or... did it give up?

The thought made his chest tighten, a wave of despair washing over him. He slammed his fist into the ground, the impact sending a small tremor through the dirt.

"I can't be trapped here," he growled, his voice breaking. "I can't..."

The sky above churned ominously, signaling the next wave. Tyr looked up, his Force sense already buzzing as the shadows began to form on the horizon. He wiped the tears from his face, his expression hardening.

"No time for a pity party," he muttered, forcing himself to his feet.

He grabbed his sword, testing its weight. It was still serviceable, though barely. He adjusted the bone plates strapped to his arms and chest, making sure they were secure.

As the first enemies emerged, Tyr took a deep breath, falling into the familiar rhythm of Force Breathing. His muscles tensed, his senses sharpened, and the world seemed to slow.

The creatures were faster now, their movements more coordinated. They came at him in groups, attacking from all angles in perfect synchronization.

Tyr's Force precognition flared, giving him glimpses of their strikes before they landed. He sidestepped a spear thrust, his blade arcing upward to sever the weapon in two. A second creature lunged at him, but he used telekinesis to hurl a jagged stone into its chest, shattering its ribcage.

Another attacker closed in from behind. Without turning, Tyr reached out with the Force, gripping the creature mid-air. He clenched his fist, and the creature's body crumpled inward with a sickening crunch.

The battle raged on, and Tyr's movements grew more fluid, his attacks more precise. He switched between his sword and telekinesis effortlessly, using whatever he could to keep the enemies at bay.

But no matter how many he killed, more kept coming.

The ground beneath him became slick with ash and blood, the air heavy with the stench of decay. His breaths came faster, the strain of Force Breathing weighing on him.

Finally, the last creature fell, its body dissolving into the void. Tyr stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving, his hands trembling.

He dropped his sword and sank to his knees, his vision blurring as exhaustion overtook him.

The two-hour pause began. Tyr crawled to a nearby ruin, a makeshift shelter he had claimed weeks ago. The bones of fallen creatures littered the ground, some fashioned into crude tools and weapons.

He sat against the wall, staring at the horizon. The storm above churned endlessly, never giving way to light or calm.

"This place," he muttered, his voice hollow. "It's never going to end."

He started crying.