Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
I barely managed to duck as a blade whistled past my head.
They weren't holding back at all. I was certain that if a strike like that connected with my skull, I'd be heading straight for a casket, or more likely, tossed down a trash chute.
Faced with the next blow, I didn't even try to parry; I simply threw myself into a high-speed roll to the side. Two opponents were pressing me hard, both at least a head taller and several years older than I was.
In the gloom of the hall, it was nearly impossible to make out their faces. Frankly, I didn't care; right now, I was twisting like an eel on a frying pan just to avoid being butchered.
Another dodge ended with my face meeting a boot. Judging by the copper taste in my mouth, I was going to be short a few teeth.
They didn't give me a single second to process the situation. I was operating on pure instinct rather than strategy. Precognition helped me block a strike, any later and I'd be scraping my brains off the floor. Judging by the way my wrist went numb, that wasn't a metaphor.
Our new "friends" weren't burdened by compassion, empathy, or any other "weak" qualities. Utter cruelty and ferocity, that was what our fractured group had run into.
Everything unfolded with terrifying speed. It took mere seconds to realize who held the advantage. I'm far from the most sensitive Force-user, but even I could feel the fear and burgeoning panic dominating our ranks. From the enemies, there was only bloodlust.
One moment they were standing dozens of meters away. A blink later, a blade was at your throat.
Some had the sense to peel away, sliding along the walls like shadows. But the majority of the children decided to fight wall-to-wall. The desire to dominate, to crush the opponent, was almost physically tangible. Fear morphed into anger, and anger into raw fury.
For some, instinct commanded them to prove their right to the title of "best." Others were simply enraged by their own weakness and refused to admit it.
Sadly, the outcome was predetermined. We were outnumbered and, worst of all, poorly trained. Our enemies outclassed nearly every one of us in lightsaber combat and Force mastery. Most of my group fell in the opening minutes without taking a single enemy with them.
They dealt with us harshly, quickly, and efficiently. It was hard to distinguish anything in the slaughter, but I caught glimpses of the carnage.
I saw one of Tifa's subordinates get his wrist caught in a lock. You couldn't hear it over the din, but judging by the unnatural angle, the arm was snapped in at least two places.
Another was hoisted into the air with a Force Push and slammed bodily into the stone flagstones. I wouldn't be surprised if his spine or ribs were shattered.
I don't know what they did to them, but every single one of those attackers was literally saturated with the Dark Side.
Only those who retreated early survived. There were only five of us left, each occupied with running as far as possible from the enemy. We didn't even consider resistance.
However, we only delayed the inevitable.
The "enemy of my enemy" rule ceased to exist among the newcomers. Those who stood shoulder-to-shoulder a second ago began tearing each other apart.
It would have been wonderful if they'd forgotten about us entirely, but luck wasn't on our side. Among the newcomers were those whom even the chaos of battle seemed to avoid.
A teenager, maybe sixteen, stood out from the crowd like a king among servants.
He walked confidently, cutting through the throng without even looking around. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his golden eyes viewed the proceedings as something trivial and insignificant. He radiated such power that you instinctively wanted to either bow or get out of the way.
It wasn't like being near the Master, our Instructors usually veiled themselves in the Force, but it was still potent. Right now, no acolyte here could rival him.
Several others followed their leader, guarding his six, their movements oozing relaxation and confidence.
Anyone in this group's path scrambled to move. A few weren't fast enough; they fell not to blades, but to the leader's physical strikes.
I watched closely from the shadow of an outcropping and still barely tracked his movements. He moved with phenomenal speed.
Realizing he couldn't get out of the way in time, one acolyte lunged at him with a frenzied scream. A swift flick of the leader's hand, and he continued on his way as if nothing had happened. Only the red splatters on his face told the story.
A moment later, a sharp cry rang out, and the stricken acolyte collapsed onto the stone floor like a broken doll.
Taking a position in the dead center of the hall, the group surrounded their leader so no one would disturb him. A booming voice echoed through the high vaults.
"Weaklings! If you do not wish to fall by my hand first, hunt down our 'new friends.' Show them the gap between us, and perhaps you will live a few seconds longer."
Most of the combatants instantly broke off their fights and surged toward us like hunters who had finally spotted their prey.
And in the center of it all stood... the new Number One. I had no doubt he would take that rank. Through the Force, I could clearly feel that he took genuine pleasure in the surrounding carnage and his own sense of superiority.
For a while, I managed to evade my pursuers, thanks to their lack of coordination.
All my focus went into dodging. But now, it seemed my end had come. A blow to the face broke my concentration, and I was forced to defend from my knees, unable to find an opening to stand.
Crude, direct, but devastatingly heavy blows rained down on me.
This wasn't high-art fencing; it was a brutal attempt to beat me down with primitive, effective strikes. The worst part was that it was working. After three blocks, I couldn't feel my hands, but I refused to let go of my hilt through sheer willpower.
My opponent's face, twisted in a grimace of battle madness, was repulsive. Golden eyes, rimmed with burst capillaries, stared with unhidden hatred.
It couldn't last forever. The blades drew closer to my throat.
A heavy kick to my lead leg shattered my phantom balance. I slipped, and pain seared my shoulder. The enemy blade shifted trajectory, lunging for my neck.
Jerking my head so hard my vertebrae popped, I managed to pull away, feeling the vibration of the blade as it whistled past my skin.
He wouldn't give me a second to breathe. I tried to rise to one knee to block the next strike, but a deceptive flick of his wrist sent my saber flying from my fingers. A kick sent me sprawling. The red blade descended, slowly eclipsing my entire field of vision.
A scarlet flash from the side—someone's weapon slammed into my opponent's head. But before I could see my savior, the same darkness claimed me.
******
I realized where I was before I even fully opened my eyes. The dear, familiar bacta tank. How much time had I spent in here this time? A medical droid helped me out and asked the question that had become routine:
"How is your well-being?"
"Moral or physical?"
"I am interested exclusively in the physical."
"In that case, excellent. Morally, however, I am crushed."
"Excellent."
"Thanks for the support, clanker."
"You are welcome. If there are complaints regarding your health, you may always consult me."
"Yeah, I know."
The clean clothes felt good against my skin, bringing a sense of freshness. Or maybe it was just that I'd finally had some decent rest.
The happy hours of oblivion were over; I needed to analyze the fight and watch the recordings. I hadn't spent all that time secretly placing cameras around the hall for nothing.
It had been a nightmare trying not to get caught by other acolytes while hiding those devices in the corners. Why is it that when normal people sleep, these lunatics are walking around, prowling, and training?
However, my plans were derailed. At the threshold of my room, I was intercepted by Kamma.
"There you are. I've been waiting. We need to talk."
A heavy sigh was my only response.
"What do you want to talk about? We've seen each other maybe five times recently. Where the hell have you been hiding? And if you've dug up more holograms of naked Twi'leks from the archives to brag about, I'm going to decorate that wall with you. Got it?"
"Tch, you have no appreciation for the arts. The female form is one of the seven wonders of this galaxy," Kamma said, turning suddenly serious. "But that's not it. You realize there's going to be a total redistribution of power now. We need a plan."
"You want to join one of the groups?"
"I haven't fully decided. That's what I want to discuss. But not here. Even the walls have ears, especially now."
"Fine, you've intrigued me. Lead the way."
We navigated the corridors, sharply changing direction several times. It felt like we'd walked our level twice over. At a random turn, Kamma grabbed my sleeve and shoved me through an inconspicuous door, unlocking it with the Force.
It turned out to be a storage room piled to the ceiling with domestic appliances. In the corners lay literal mountains of linens, shirts, and other fabrics.
Something was spinning, humming, and grinding; water was rushing somewhere. By the smell and sound, it reminded me most of the laundries from my old world.
Besides us, the girl with the third rank, Lana, was there. This time, her curly red hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, though a few rebellious strands fell over her face. She kept brushing them back so they wouldn't get in her eyes.
Up close, her face was quite pretty. Large green eyes, a soft jawline, and freckles on her cheeks. She didn't look like someone being trained to kill. She looked more like a girl who would help her mother sell flowers in a shop.
She was examining me just as shamelessly. The silent introduction lasted about a minute before Kamma took charge with his blue-skinned hands.
"Set, meet Lana. Lana, this is Set." We nodded in sync. "You know me, so let's get to the point. As you noticed, we have 'reinforcements.' It was expected, but their level is much higher than ours. It seems they were trained separately. And they definitely aren't Padawans or Younglings from the Order. I didn't see a single familiar face. My memory is good; if I'd seen them, I'd have some association. Here? Zero. Our numbers are now around fifty to fifty-five students, depending on how many survived today's 'test.' The newcomers have the numbers, and they are stronger, older, and better trained. They're going to set the tone for our training now."
"You think so? The rules clearly describe what to do. I don't think there will be radical changes," the girl said in an unusually pleasant, velvety voice. "It's enough to act within the rules."
"Oh, they'll happen, don't doubt it. Rules can be bypassed. I already know seven zones where there are no cameras, and those are just the ones I've found. If they catch a student near one of those zones, that's it. No witnesses, only a victim. If you go to an Instructor, there's no guarantee they'll listen. But if it comes to an inquiry, several people will swear in unison that you just fell down... seven times... headfirst... onto your right eye. Or say you're going to the library and five people block the path. You can't go around, can't jump over, what do you do? Fight? Then they report you for breaking rules. And don't get me started on training. Do you think our Instructors care about our injuries? They probably have a minimum quota to get to graduation. They can just say, 'Sorry, my Emperor, they weren't worthy of your leadership.' Weaklings aren't needed in the Empire."
Lana and I processed the information for a few minutes. I hadn't heard about the "blind zones" before. It wasn't surprising; our training probably worked on the "rats in a barrel" principle. Only the meanest and strongest remain.
"What are you proposing?"
"The three of us form a group." My face must have scrunched up, because Kamma hurried to continue. "Not like Tifa's, where everyone plays friend while secretly pining for her. No, we'll be partners. Everyone does what they want, but we have common activities. For example, we spend individual training time together and spar with each other, not just droids. You two are being ignored by the other Daughters and Sons, right? Fighting a machine is one thing; fighting a sentient being is another. With the new power structure, it'll get worse. It's not in their interest to let us grow. Remember the Director's words? 'The best get the best.' There's no such thing as healthy competition here. What do you think?"
I didn't know what Lana was thinking, but I was wondering if he was lying. My attempts to read his emotions through the Force failed. I don't know how, but he was shielded. In the flow of the Force, he was a white spot that revealed nothing. I'd need to look into that technique; it could be useful.
I thought for ten minutes. They didn't rush me.
There were pros and cons. The situation had changed, and being in a group was now more advantageous. I couldn't afford to play the "Lone Wolf" anymore. But it also increased the chance of a knife in the back...
I decided to trust my intuition. If anything happened, I could always retreat or strike first. I was sure that in a direct confrontation, I could take them. The key was to never let my guard down.
Lana seemed to reach the same conclusion. "I'm in."
"Glad to hear it, Lana. Set, your opinion?"
"Likewise. Let's try working together."
Thus began a new era of my training. As Kamma predicted, the order among the acolytes grew harsher. Within weeks, the newcomers had completely dominated almost everyone except our group, a few others who somehow resisted, and Sibar.
At first, there were dissenters, those trying to maintain independence.
Evidently, the Dark Side affects sentients differently. Some are ready to do anything for power, including humiliation. Others will fight constantly, growing through combat. Or maybe it's just character. Chicken or the egg?
Many were caught alone and beaten; long, merciless beatings. Broken arms and legs became common even outside the training halls.
After two weeks of total terror, many voluntarily moved under the wing of the new "regime."
Kamma, our unofficial leader, managed to negotiate so we were largely left alone. We were either ignored or mildly inconvenienced, but nothing radical compared to the others.
Those who remained didn't resist; they just tried to survive. The brawls continued, and the Director turned a blind eye, until a corpse appeared.
It was found in a maintenance corridor. By that point, the acolyte had been dead for three days. No one knew exactly what happened, but the fights stopped abruptly after that, and several students from the new group were demonstratively punished.
Discrimination and violence didn't vanish, but they acquired boundaries that everyone tried not to cross.
The "shining star" of our collective was Sibar. He got into fights with enviable frequency, usually losing. It was as if he liked the process of being beaten. Action for the sake of action, not results.
Rumors flew that he'd gone mad. Some said he was practicing an ancient art of drawing power through pain. Another theory was that he was in shock because Tifa had defected to the new leaders and now ignored him. It was no secret that our former Number One was obsessed with that blue-skinned Twi'lek.
He would sometimes jerk his head as if he didn't know where he was, or frantically scratch his neck until it bled. He might grab a tray and beat a random acolyte with it for no reason. He was punished repeatedly, but he never stopped.
But I didn't care much about him, I cared about my shameful loss. I had been able to offer absolutely nothing against my enemies. Even in a one-on-one, I wouldn't have won.
The only way out was to crank up the pace of training. I needed my lightsaber skills and my Force control equally. I couldn't afford to focus on just one.
My cameras were a godsend for growth. It's incredibly useful to see your own mistakes from the outside. I also monitored the other students; knowing what a potential rival can do is vital. I had a folder on my bracer for every acolyte, detailing their capabilities.
Unfortunately, I was now floating in the middle of the rankings, meaning I'd lost my private meditation and training room. Sad, but not fatal; sparring with my new partners was great practice, and I could meditate in my quarters.
But I still needed to break into the top ten to get a personal training room, a perfect 10x10 meter space. If I'd set up cameras, someone else might have too. Kamma, for one. We were partners, but who knows the future? I wanted a few lethal surprises that no one would see coming.
My defeat proved I was still a "frog in a well," blind to the world around me. My training mantra became: Death is not a valid excuse for missing a session. Sometimes I slept only five hours. The Force kept me from collapsing. At some point, this state helped me reach a new level of perception in duels.
I'd been punishing myself with this schedule for a month. Despite meditations and bacta baths, my body was giving out. I spent most of my time on autopilot. Only in training did I give 100%; the rest of the time, I was an amoeba floating in a puddle.
So, it wasn't surprising that someone decided to test my resolve. I certainly didn't look like someone who could fight back.
It happened right after a fencing session. The Instructor hadn't left yet, lecturing one of the youngest acolytes through "visual demonstrations" on the boy's body.
I stayed behind to drill forms and stances. From my experience with the Grand Inquisitor, I knew that when you're exhausted and your arms barely move, your technique becomes more precise because your body starts relying on efficiency and muscle memory. A perfect strike requires almost no raw strength, only technique.
As I delivered a sliding strike of Form II: Makashi, a prickle of danger touched the back of my neck. Reflexively tilting my head, I avoided a blade that whistled past my face. I was so drained it took a few seconds of blinking to realize what had happened.
"Oops! So sorry. Did you get hurt, little one?"
A brute of about fifteen approached, looking down at me with arrogance. I knew him, one of the new leader's group. No one knew the new Number One's real name; his lackeys just called him "Leader" or "The First."
Unlike his boss, this guy had more arrogance than skill. According to my data, he was one of the weakest in that group, a "solid mid-tier" compared to us, but at the bottom of his own old pack.
Clearly, his own shortsightedness and the lack of consequences gave him a false sense of security. Stupid, fawning, and not very strong, that was the best description for him. Though, why stupid? Maybe that's exactly why they keep him around.
"Well? Are you going to answer or not?" I'd forgotten about him while lost in thought. "Or am I that terrifying? You know, if you—"
"A transparently weak move," I said, my voice indifferent. The filter between my thoughts and words was gone; I didn't have the energy for it. Exhaustion manifested as total apathy. I had five hundred repetitions left before my break. "If you want to provoke someone, at least be original. You have less brains and creativity than a dead Hutt..."
His face began to splotch with red. His knuckles cracked as his fists clenched. He wasn't even trying to hide his intent to beat me. He was working himself into a lather. Fine, if a fight is inevitable, I'll hit first.
I lazily rocked from heel to toe, waiting for him to get close, then executed a move I'd just been practicing with the droid.
My red blade froze inches from his chin. To avoid the plasma, he had to crane his head back awkwardly, making him look ridiculous, like he was trying to do a backbend but was afraid to commit.
"Oops! So sorry. Did you get hurt... little one?" I tried to put some emotion into my voice; I think it landed. His desire for a simple fight was replaced by a desire to kill. His eyes turned bloodshot. "If not, then get lost before I actually hit you. Though you'll probably just pop on your own, look how red you are."
I hadn't noticed a small crowd had formed. The Instructor was watching with interest. Beside me, a flare of anger erupted in the Force, and I had to move again, dodging a fist aimed at my face. "Move" is a strong word; I just fell to the floor, cushioning the impact with the Force.
It felt so good. Cold, smooth, pleasant floor... what else do you need for happiness? Just lying here, doing absolutely nothing...
"HEY! Sarlacc-spit! Grab your sabers and get to the arena! Problems are solved there. If you aren't in that circle in seven seconds, I'll tear your legs off and nail them to your heads personally. You'll fight until one of you falls. MOVE!"
The Instructor was on a tear. This was no joke. I'd had both knees broken once for hesitating. Best not to provoke him. Although... would that mean another hour in the bacta tank? Nah, not worth it.
Dozens of eyes watched us. I could feel the crowd's emotions: malice, anticipation, dark joy. Not a shred of sympathy.
My opponent was raring to go. The fact that I'd dared to dodge him had stung. I just wanted to crawl to my bed.
"Beg for mercy, and maybe I won't maim you too badly."
"You wish."
"I'll disembowel you, and no one will say a word to me."
"You wish. I'm telling you to your face: you're a pathetic nonentity and a weakling. You keep puffing your chest out like a Kowakian monkey-lizard. I was just standing here practicing, and you come at my back like a scavenger..."
"Why you...!"
"You wish."
"BEGIN!" the Instructor roared.
Nearly growling, my opponent lunged. I was too lazy to meet his blow with a block, so I simply stepped aside, letting the raging brute fly past me. Faint cheers followed the maneuver.
Bellowing like a wounded animal, he charged again. This time I had to use my blade, lightly parrying his strikes away. Most of them didn't even come close, but I guided them further off-target just in case.
Precognition told me where to step. The patterns of Form II: Makashi, drilled into my muscles over countless hours, allowed me to glide across the arena as if dancing with death.
At some point, I realized I could feel every one of his intentions. It was such a clear sensation that I didn't even need my sword.
Deactivating my weapon, I clasped my hands behind my back and stood still, rocking on my heels. I watched with curiosity as the "beastling" tried to figure out my plan. An unarmed enemy? Something's wrong.
"Are you going to continue?" my voice was steady. No heavy breathing, no sign of fatigue. "If not, admit defeat and let's end this."
With a snarl, he jumped at me, and our deadly dance resumed. If even one strike hit my head or neck, it would be over.
With every minute, his pressure increased, but what's the point if you can't hit anything? He couldn't keep this pace for long.
Sure enough, two minutes later, his breathing hitched and his movements slowed. Anger was no longer an effective fuel for the Force. Like any bright emotion, it flared and then vanished.
Now, I could safely end this.
I waited for the moment when he made another lunge, trying to crush me with his weight. I simply "flowed" to the side and used the toe of my boot to hook his leg for a split second.
And there he was, falling onto the stone floor of the arena before he could even comprehend what was happening. I wasn't about to give him a single moment to recover. A swift kick to the temple sent him into a long, deep knockout.
The onlookers who had been following this performance stood in absolute silence. I, however, was far too exhausted for any further displays.
Nodding to the Instructor and clipping my lightsaber back onto its housing, I trudged through the corridors toward the living quarters. My body ached, and my head felt like it was threatening to explode from the overwhelming noise within.
My entire perception of the world had narrowed down to a few centimeters around my body. I was certain that if anyone tried to attack me right now, they would face no resistance whatsoever.
I was so out of it, my mind drifting somewhere far away, that I didn't even notice when someone grabbed me by the shoulder and began to shake me.
"Set! Receiving? Can you hear me?"
Through the ringing in my ears, I recognized Kamma's voice.
"Stop shaking me..." The words had to be squeezed out, as if my mouth were stuffed with cotton. Forming actual sentences felt like a task beyond the reach of reality. "I... I'm..."
"You're completely incoherent. How did you get like this? Just follow me."
I had absolutely no idea where we were going. But at the end of the path, something soft and incredibly inviting awaited me. The moment my head touched it, sleep claimed me instantly.
————
Read ahead of schedule here → pat-reon(.)c-om/Bluuuxx [remove the parentheses and hyphen]