Mandalorians have a saying: "The armor is the soul."
To me, the armor was useful. The soul was chakra.
But to survive here—to thrive—I had to walk both paths: The Way of the Mand'alor and the Will of the Shinobi.
And maybe stir up some chaos along the way.
Training in the Snow Forge
At age nine, most Mandalorian foundlings are learning how to field-strip a blaster with their eyes closed.
I was sealing explosive chakra into a metal apple to simulate a grenade that would only detonate when thrown by someone without chakra.
The result? One of Ba'ar Vizla's men tested it, and it exploded into glitter and snow confetti.
"I will end you, Kama!" he shouted, covered in sparkly ice dust.
"In your dreams, snow cone!"
Ba'ar had enough. "If you're going to keep defiling tradition with glitter bombs and ice blades, you need to prove yourself."
That got my attention.
"How?"
He grinned. "You're going to take the Verd'goten."
The Rite of Passage.
Basically, space-Mando puberty trial meets 'don't die in the wilderness' challenge.
"Sweet," I said. "Can I bring my chakra sword?"
"No tech. No weapons. Just your fists, your brain, and whatever the snow spirits grant you."
"Okay, but define 'tech.' Because my body is technically a chakra battery—"
"No."
Into the Frostlands
They dropped me in the Frostlands of Mandalore's northern continent—pure ice canyons and predator nests. No food. No shelter.
Perfect.
I started by making a clone—Yuki Bunshin—and sent it up a cliff.
It got eaten by a shriek-hawk.
"Well… good to know the local food chain still works."
I spent the first day freezing a stream to create drinking water, used chakra to reinforce a cave, and sealed a bunch of snow into scrolls for emergency ice ammo.
Then I got bored and made a snowman army.
Each one had a different face. I even gave one a little antenna and called it "Mini Maul."
The Test
On the third night, I was ambushed.
Not by a beast.
By a Mandalorian—a Shadow Vizla, the clan's elite stalkers.
"You rely too much on magic, boy," he sneered, aiming a vibroknife at my neck.
I responded by snapping my fingers. My foot exploded into steam as a chakra-fueled ice spike launched me over his head.
He turned—too slow. I was already behind him.
"Fūin: Frost Tag—Bind!"
A sealing tag stuck to his back, freezing his armor joints.
He tried to move. Couldn't.
"You've been tagged by Kama Vizla," I said, saluting. "Thanks for participating in my demonstration of chakra-powered sealing technology."
He growled, but didn't deny my win.
Ba'ar Vizla arrived in a transport the next morning, eyes twinkling with both fury and pride.
"You built a fortress out of ice, survived a week alone, and defeated a Shadow Vizla with 'magic'…"
He handed me a shard of forged beskar.
"You passed."
The Mask and the Code
The forge burned hot as Ba'ar helped craft my first Mandalorian helm. I etched the crest of Clan Vizla on the brow—and a hidden chakra seal inside, a little private reservoir of frost chakra.
"This is the Way," Ba'ar said as he set the helmet on my head.
I nodded, the weight surprisingly comforting. "And this is the Will."
He raised an eyebrow.
"The Way teaches strength through armor. The Will teaches strength from within."
"Is that some Jedi nonsense?"
"No. That's pure shameless Naruto philosophy."
He had no idea who Naruto was, but he accepted it.
Galaxy on Fire
In the background, the galaxy was simmering. I listened in on holo-feeds, intercepted Republic chatter with basic slicer seals.
The Sith were moving.
I didn't know if it was Plagueis or Sidious yet—but things were heating up on Naboo.
Sooner or later, Jedi would descend. The Republic would stumble. The Clone Wars would follow.
But I wouldn't wait for destiny.
I would ambush it.
The Way of the Kenjutsu
Back at home, I resumed training in Frost Fang Style—my personal kenjutsu form. I integrated chakra blade techniques from the Land of Iron with the raw, aggressive stance of a Mandalorian close-quarters specialist.
Each swing of my sword sent pulses of frost chakra across the air. I practiced on moving targets: drones, training remotes, and Ba'ar's favorite chair. (I replaced it after. Mostly.)
One day, Ba'ar challenged me himself.
The man was still faster than anyone his age had the right to be, jetpack flaring, fists moving like pistons.
But I'd been holding back.
"Hyōton: Ice Fang Blade!" I shouted, channeling chakra through my permafrost kyber crystal embedded in the hilt.
My blade became a glowing arc of cold energy, slicing his blaster clean in two.
He stopped, stunned.
Then laughed.
"You're either going to save Mandalore… or freeze it solid."
"Why not both?"
Snow Diplomacy
A week later, I met another Jedi team.
Different from before—older Knight, young Twi'lek Padawan, very by-the-book.
They were here to "monitor unusual energy fluctuations."
Which, translated, meant: "Someone told the Jedi there was a snow ninja on Mandalore."
The Knight approached me. "You are… Kama Vizla?"
I nodded. "Snow brat. Glitter terrorist. Resident chakra consultant. How can I help?"
"I sense no Force in you… but something else. A strange flow. It resists me."
"Yeah, that's called 'privacy.' We don't just let people rummage through our heads where I come from."
The Padawan looked confused. "Where do you come from?"
I smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know."
The Laugh Before the Storm
Life was good.
At least, as good as it could be when I was the most powerful snow-themed ninja in a galaxy that didn't even have ramen.
I had my armor. My blade. My sarcasm.
But I knew peace wouldn't last. The Sith were out there. The Clone Wars were inevitable.
And somewhere in the shadows, Palpatine was already plotting.
But hey—at least I had glitter bombs and an ice sword.
Let the galaxy burn.
I'd bring the snow.
End of Chapter 3