Abyssal Crimson Fury

In a dream I floated above the dark expanse of space. I saw a spectacle unfolding upon the metallic skin of a starship. There, on the surface, stood an Inquisitor, a solitary sentinel against the backdrop of the cosmos. His lightsaber was alive, its red glow a stark contrast to the cold blue of the galaxy. He moved with an ominous grace, his weapon striking the ship's hull, each contact a burst of sparks raining into the void. His anger was palpable, a tangible shroud that seemed to scream out and bend the air around him. The ship beneath him, a beast of metal and circuits, bore the scars of his fury. Each spark that flew from his saber was like a star being born, fierce and bright against the darkness. As he spun, the saber's hum was a chorus of rage and anticipation, a prelude to the battle I knew was coming. The Inquisitor, with every fiber of his being, seemed to call out to the Jedi, an unspoken challenge hanging in the vacuum between the stars.