176To be in command at such moments and have a clear head is its own supreme reward, just as cowardice is its own punishment. I have always pitied the coward, in whom battle arouses a series of hellish tortures, while the spirit of the brave man merely rises the higher to meet a chain of exciting experiences. - Ernst Junger, the Storm of Steel.
(LINE BREAK)
6 months after the explosion:
The cold sizzles through my veins, more like shards of ice than fire, prickling at my skin as I hold the rock in my hand. I close my fingers around it, feeling the rough, jagged surface against my palm. Every instinct in me wants to lash out, to let this energy burst free like a storm. But I hold it in, let it simmer and build.
The rock is nothing—just a chunk of hardened stone. It shouldn't mean anything, shouldn't matter, but right now it's everything. I can feel the darkness flowing through me, curling and twisting, a force I can barely contain. I welcome it. I draw it in deeper, letting the cold seep into my bones, feeding off my anger, my pain.
The world around me fades, the walls of this miserable cell becoming just shadows at the edges of my vision. All I can focus on is the rock, the power building inside me, and the need to crush it. To prove that I can.
I tighten my grip.
The sharp edges bite into my skin, but I don't care. The power surges, and I channel it—guide it with every bit of rage, every ounce of hatred I've buried. My fingers curl tighter, my knuckles whiten, and I feel it happening.
The rock trembles, just a little at first, like it's resisting. But I can feel the cracks forming inside it, the tension building, until suddenly it gives way. There's a sharp crunch, and then it crumbles. The cold fire in me roars as the rock shatters, splitting into pieces, crumbling into dust between my fingers. The sensation is electric, intoxicating, and I wanted more.
I stared down at the remains in my hand, feeling the powdery grit stick to the sweat on my skin. It's nothing now. Broken. Destroyed.
Just like everything else around me.
The cold lingers, but it's fading now, slipping away like smoke. I let out a slow breath, feeling that twisted satisfaction settle in my chest. The darkness is still there, just under the surface, waiting.
Always waiting.
(LINE BREAK)
The pit was alive with the sound of battle, the crowd roaring with anticipation as I faced off against the three. Dust swirled in the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and blood, but I barely noticed it. My focus was locked on the Zabrak, the biggest threat. His skin was a dark yellow, his muscles coiled like a spring, ready to strike. He held a massive axe, currently swinging it at me, the blade gleaming dangerously under the lights.
The other one, a human, wasn't as large, but wa no less dangerous. He wielded two knives, his eyes flicking between me and the other as if waiting for the right moment to strike.
But I didn't have time to worry about both. The Zabrak had to go first.
He swung his axe, a wide arc aimed for my head, but I was already moving. The Force sharpened my reflexes, my body reacting faster than thought. I ducked under the blade, feeling it whistle past my ear, and closed the gap between us. My tomahawk swung up in a tight, quick motion, aimed at his side. He twisted away, but not fast enough. The edge of my tomahawk clipped his ribs, drawing blood.
The Zabrak snarled in pain, his axe swinging again in a brutal overhead chop. I couldn't block it, not with the tiny weapons I had. Instead, I sidestepped, my feet light on the sand, and kept moving in closer. If I gave him space, he'd use that massive weapon to tear me apart. I couldn't let that happen.
The human was circling, looking for an opening. He had learned his lesson that I did not need to see him to know when he would attack, the bite of my tomahawk on his forearm attesting to that. I could feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to make a mistake. But I wasn't about to give them one.
The Zabrak came at me again, his axe swinging in a sideways arc, trying to catch me off balance. I ducked low and closed the distance again, my tomahawk slicing toward his knee. This time, the hit landed solidly. He grunted, stumbling as his leg buckled slightly. I followed up with my knife, slashing at his arm to force him to drop the axe, but he shifted just enough that the blade only grazed him.
I heard the whistle of a blade behind me and spun just in time to see the human, knives in hand, lunging at me. I kicked out wildly, driving my boot into his gut and sending him staggering back, but my leg was still too short and a dagger came slashing down, landing a cut across my shin. Adrenaline and my own rage had me ignoring it. The Zabrack, with his axe, took the opportunity to swing at me, and I barely twisted out of the way, the blade cutting across my shirt and opening a gash across my chest; but not serious enough to kill me.
Too close.
I couldn't afford to lose focus. The Zabrak had recovered, his eyes burning with rage, and the human was growing more aggressive not that I'd been injured by both in quick succession.
I needed to end this quickly.
I lunged at the Zabrak again, swinging my tomahawk at his head. He blocked with his axe, but that was what I was counting on. His weapon was too large, too slow. As soon as he lifted it to defend, I was already moving again. I ducked under his guard, driving my knife into his side. This time, it went deep.
The Zabrack grunted, sounding more like a gasp. The Force warned me of the human behind me and I shifted to block the attack on the handle of my tomahawk. He attacked rapidly, too fast for me to block three quick stabs, forcing me to back up and pull my left arm up to defend.
The Zabrack grabbed my arm before it could come up completely, and I felt the Force scream a warning as I wouldn't be able to shift out of the way.
Instinctively, I mentally shoved at the Zabrack, sending him flying back several feet onto his back, the Force having bent to my will.
The knife stab at my face was blocked, but the second aimed at my shoulder was only partly avoided and I felt cold steel part the outside of my bicep.
Hissing under my breath, the pain made my anger and perception deeper, and I countered with an animal ferocity. I used the longer weapon of mine to shove down, having caught his left hand via the knife in a hook of the tomahawk head. I stepped into his guard, swung back up, and buried the weapon deep in his gut.
Fool never fought against someone with an ax or other similar type of weapon evidently.
My knife wasn't unused. I slashed upwards, snagging his neck and smashing across. A wet gurgle escaped him, blood spurted down onto my face, and I shoved forward with my shoulder, the now mortally wounded man collapsed.
It took maybe a couple of seconds at most.
I then pivoted on my heel and shot towards the Zabrack before he could get up and get to his ax that lay almost within arms reach. Right as I reached him and started to bring my tomahawk down on the back of his skull, he rolled to his right and I felt a cold sting in my right leg as he swung with his left arm.
Then I registered that the cold stinging was a knife, embedded in my leg.
Instead of keeling over in agony like he probably suspected, it just fed my fury and drowned out all the pain, making me howl in rage as a wave of energy amplified every sensation and emotion I was feeling into a blazing hurricane of fire.
I saw the expression of shock for just a moment before I split his head down to his teeth. Bits of horn, skull, brain matter, blood, and teeth exploded in a macabre shower of confetti. Even more blood sprayed on me, and I could taste it as I jerked the hunk of durasteel out of the Zabrack's face, catching one of the still remaining teeth as I pulled it out. There was enough brain and blood on the ax that the tooth stuck to it, reminding me eerily of when I needed an infected tooth removed.
At least the Zabrack didn't have a headache like I had… he had a splitting one right now.
I started giggling at that thought, then it turned into laughter, then into me hysterically cackling at arguably the stupidest fucking joke I'd ever made. But I didn't care, I won and I'm alive, and fuck, my leg hurt now. I collapsed to the ground less than gracefully, taking the weight off my leg and I still kept laughing even in the dirt.
(LINE BREAK)
Windu walked through the halls of the Temple, making his way to the section where the younglings trained and resided. He had asked to be updated on Anakin's progress, as was expected for when he would take the boy as his apprentice, but the reports he received had been concerning to say the least. The boy was struggling to adjust, and Windu could sense the depth of his issues.
Anakin had gotten into fights with other students, mostly from what the teachers believed was him being startled from his thoughts and reflexively lashing out. He was cold, detached, and kept his distance from the others, barely interacting outside of classes. Unlike the typical frustration of younglings, Anakin's responses were calculated and often laced with a controlled frustration. It wasn't a lack of discipline, it was something deeper, more troubling.
His actual studies were excellent in contrast. The boy excelled in mathematics, had a functional understanding of multiple languages spoken mostly in the Outer Rim, and hardly needed to put intense effort in such matters of study. As for the basic katas younglings his age studied, flow exercises mostly, he also excelled at.
Windu recalled how Anakin rarely trained in meditation if he could avoid it, preferring to spend his time alone in the training rooms. He pushed himself physically but neglected the mental and spiritual training expected of Jedi. The boy also didn't sleep much, and when he did, he was plagued by nightmares.
It was clear that Anakin was suffering, and the Temple hadn't been able to help him overcome it. Despite everything, Windu knew the boy's potential was immense, but how that potential would manifest was still uncertain.
Windu approached the room where Anakin was being kept, a meditation chamber currently serving as a form of detention for the boy. Waiting outside was Master Fy-Tor-Ana. She greeted Windu with a slight bow, her short brown hair framing a face that was often as reserved as her demeanor. Fy-Tor-Ana was known for her reclusive nature, preferring quiet reflection to the more public responsibilities many Jedi undertook, such as taking a Padawan of her own.
"Master Windu," she greeted him quietly.
"Master Fy-Tor-Ana," Windu acknowledged her, his expression neutral but inquisitive. "You've been overseeing Anakin's progress?"
She gave a short nod. "Yes, though it's been... difficult," she admitted. "He's disruptive in class, particularly with Ferus Olin. The two of them seem to clash more than any of the others. It's more than just competitive tension, as they are two of the best students. Anakin's pranks are disruptive, and while harmless enough at first, they've escalated. Ferus, unfortunately, has become his main target."
Windu's expression hardened slightly. "And what of his behavior during training?"
Fy-Tor-Ana sighed softly. "He's had frequent outbursts. He often refuses to participate in meditation and channels his frustration into physical exercises, which, while helping with his anger, is not solving the core issue. He's also gotten into fights, particularly during sparring classes. His aggression, especially when he feels cornered, worries us."
"With Ferus?" Windu asked.
"Yes, and others as well. But Ferus seems to trigger something deeper in him," she replied. "It's not just about competition; there's something in Anakin that reacts strongly when Ferus is involved. As if he feels the need to prove himself constantly."
Windu considered this. Anakin's aggressive tendencies were a growing concern. His isolation, coldness, and the unresolved grief that haunted him had all begun manifesting in ways that the Temple's structured training couldn't contain.
"I will speak with him," Windu said, his tone final.
Fy-Tor-Ana nodded, stepping aside to allow Windu access to the meditation chamber where Anakin waited.
Windu stepped into the meditation chamber, his presence quiet but unmistakable as the door slid shut behind him. The room was dimly lit, a faint glow reflecting off the stone walls, creating an atmosphere designed to center one's thoughts. At the far end of the room, Anakin sat in the center of the room, arms crossed, staring at the floor with an intensity that spoke more of anger than focus. His body was rigid, and Windu could feel the sharp spike of annoyance radiating from him through the Force. The air in the room seemed to hum with tension, a stark contrast to the calm that was supposed to be cultivated in these spaces.
"Anakin." Windu said his name calmly, pulling Anakin from his thoughts. "Would you walk with me?" The time of course did not sound like a request and more like a simple command.
Anakin gave him a flat look, having tolerated his presence more compared to anybody else other than Tholme and a few of the healers. He sat up and then got to his feet, looking the part of a Jedi initiate in his simple tunic and pants.
"Anakin?" Windu said his name once again, leaving the question unspoken.
Anakin exhaled loudly, using his voice finally. "Yes, Master Windu." He then walked up to the Korun Jedi and looked up at him. Windu turned on his heel, hands in the folds of his robes, and began to walk towards the entrance and exit of the chamber. Anakin followed.
They walked in silence, the quiet footsteps of Anakin barely audible next to Windu's measured pace. The tension between them wasn't hostile, but it was heavy, lingering in the air. Windu led them through the Temple's winding halls, past meditating initiates and the serene calm of other Jedi, but he said nothing as they moved. Anakin kept his eyes forward, occasionally glancing sideways but quickly averting his gaze whenever it landed on another Jedi.
It wasn't until they neared the large fountain that Windu slowed his pace. The sound of streaming water filled the air, the faint trickling offering a stark contrast to the dry heat and sands of Tatooine that Anakin had known, from what Windu had been made aware pertaining to the boy's history. Windu watched from the corner of his eye, gauging Anakin's reaction. The boy hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the fountain, drawn to it despite himself. A faint spark of interest shifted in the Force, subtle but there.
Windu stopped by the edge of the fountain, watching the rhythmic cycle of the water. He let the quiet stretch out a little longer before speaking. "Does Ferus Olin anger you for some reason?"
Anakin frowned at the question, his mouth opening as if to reply immediately. Then he paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he turned his head to face the fountain. He looked at the cascading water, his expression thoughtful, conflicted. A beat of silence passed, and then he shook his head, his voice low. "No," he muttered, though his tone held something unspoken.
"Then why are you hostile to him?"
"I'm not."
Windu stood still, his focus on Anakin even as the boy continued to stare at the fountain. The faint pull of interest was still there, the tiniest shift in the turmoil of emotions that usually swirled around him.
"You remember when we last talked?" Windu asked, pulling one of his hands from his robes and gesturing from left to right with it towards the water. As if an invisible finger traced along the waters, the Force reached out at Windu's command and caused a ripple throughout the sparkling liquid that expanded in a perfect circle. It caused the faint shimmer to cease for a moment, as everything cleared and the bottom of the marble could be seen. "Those who are gifted with being open to the Force as we are can see and feel things that most in the Galaxy can only dream of experiencing. Do you remember when I said that?"
Anakin nodded quietly, replying with a soft yes.
"Everything we do echoes and ripples across the Force, just as what I did with this water. I can sense that you hurt, Anakin, and I can see the pain just as clearly as I can see the water ripple." Windu then paused for a moment, seeing the boy take a breath and his posture shrank a bit. "And I can sense the mark your brother left on you."
Windu knew what Anakin's reaction would be before he even did the action. The boy's eyes shot towards his, a fire behind the azure gaze.
"You don't know a thing about Kane." He bit out, refusing to avert his eyes. His presence stirred up an inner fire that Windu found to be all too familiar, and he now knew he had Anakin's undivided attention.
"I know everything I would ever need to know about him by seeing you, Anakin." Windu replied calmly. "He was a good brother to you, otherwise you would not miss him or act out now. Am I correct?"
Anakin's breathing was loud and rapid, his emotions simmering and shaking under the surface. He was fragile, like a cracked pane of glass, barely holding together.
"He…" Anakin couldn't finish the sentence.
"He would want you to be happy." Windu finished it for Anakin, his own dark gaze not leaving Anakin's. "Would Kane want you to pick fights with your classmates, or would he want you to be the greatest Jedi and friend you can be?"
That last question caused a flare in the Force, and the Master of the Order felt a shatterpoint be struck. Several avenues that were only in existence near the periphery of his vision suddenly closed, a new spider web of fissures and cracks opening up that led to a far less blurry outcome. What he could glean from the future, sparse as it was, brightened a shade.
Anakin looked away, sniffling softly.
"He wanted to be a Jedi too." He mumbled wetly, wiping his face with his sleeve. "He kept fighting bad men, and said we would free everyone."
From what they had been able to gather about Kane from the fragments of information that Anakin had been willing to give, he was around 5 or 6 standard years older and if the gaping wound of a severed Force bond was anything to go by, he too was Force sensitive.
It was a great misfortune that he had not been found earlier, because he sounded like a boy with a strong sense of justice and righteousness.
"He can never be a Jedi now, and the Galaxy is a darker place without him in it." Windu stated, looking towards the fountain now. "But you are here, in this Temple, training to become a Jedi Knight as your brother wanted. Can you do that for him? Can you be everything your brother wanted you to be?"
The Force amplified ones senses, yet Windu was not certain he needed a connection to the Force to hear the sound of a tear striking the stone floor; or the second, then third.
The younger of the two spoke not a word, only softly crying to himself.
"I'll try." Anakin Skywalker finally said.
Windu remained silent for a few moments, giving Anakin the space he needed to let the emotion flow through him. The boy's tears were quiet but powerful, each one a release of the tension he had carried since coming to the Temple.
"Would you like to stay here for a little longer?" Windu asked, his voice calm and measured, offering Anakin the chance to gather himself at his own pace.
Anakin wiped at his face with his sleeve again, shaking his head. "No, Master Windu," he replied, his voice slightly hoarse. "I need to say sorry to Ferus."
Windu studied the boy for a moment longer, feeling the sincerity behind the words. Anakin's pain still lingered, but the rawness of his emotions had lessened, if only slightly. This was a step forward, however small.
"Very well," Windu said with a nod. He turned toward the path leading back to the rest of the Temple, waiting for Anakin to follow. This small act, the willingness to admit a mistake and to open up, was a sign of growth. For now, it was enough.
In the following months, Anakin would go on to dive into all of his studies with a fervor that surprised all his instructors, and the amount of arguments, fights, and less-than-nice spirited pranks towards the other initiates disappeared almost completely within days.
"I hate you!"
"You were my brother Anakin, I loved you!"
'Where is thine brother?'
'Who am I, my brother's keeper?'
Blue eyes filled with mischief, a grin upon the lips of a youthful face. Golden eyes wreathed in sulphur and blood. A howl of fury, metal scraping against bone and a screeching whine of sundered durasteel.
"I will take all that you are." A voice dripping with malice echoed across a plan of shattered rock and scorched earth. "I will take until you are naught but a shell, and only then will I grant you the mercy of death."
I woke up to the sharp clang of metal hitting metal, the sound rattling through my skull and pulling me from whatever restless dream I had been trapped in. My leg throbbed, and the bacta-soaked bandages on my thigh and arm clung to me, cool and sticky. I shifted, the ache from the injuries making itself known, though duller than before. The steady hum of the cell block settled into my ears, the one constant in this place. I had no idea how long I'd been out.
"Runt!" A voice barked from beyond the bars, sharp and biting. I didn't bother to look right away; that voice had become as familiar as the cold air in here. "Get up. You've got a promotion."
I blinked, confused. Promotion?
I sat up slowly, the pain in my muscles reminding me of the last fight. The guard was staring at me, impatient. He hit the bars again with his stun baton. I bit back the urge to glare.
"Promotion?" I muttered under my breath, still trying to wrap my head around what that even meant in this place. Promotions here didn't mean anything good. They meant more fights, more blood spilled. It meant you were either getting closer to dying or closer to something worse.
"Get moving," the guard growled, tapping a button on the wall panel.
With a hiss, the door to my cell slid open. I stood, legs shaky but holding. I stepped out of the cell, the cold floor beneath my feet grounding me in the moment. The guard didn't say anything else, just started walking ahead. And I followed, trying not to let the confusion show on my face.
I followed the guard through the dimly lit halls, my footsteps echoing lightly behind his. The bacta bandages still tugged at my skin, but I focused on keeping my pace steady. After a few turns, we reached a checkpoint I hadn't been through. Two more guards were waiting there, one of them holding a pair of restraints.
"Hands," the first guard barked.
I clenched my jaw but raised my hands without protest. The cold metal clamped around my wrists with a click, binding them in front of me. The second guard stepped aside, and the first motioned for me to keep moving. We walked past the checkpoint, out of the building, and into the open air. The brightness outside stung my eyes for a moment, a sharp contrast to the dim lighting inside.
"Oh hello, you big, yellow bastard." I muttered under my breath at the star that this shithole moon was illuminated by, feeling my skin itch from the feeling of sunlight for the first time in weeks. I normally didn't get to go outside, mainly because they seemed to worry about me escaping. Something about someone my age being able to kill fully grown Zabrack men had them being rather wary of me.
Parked a few meters away was a landspeeder. The first guard nodded toward it. "Get in the back."
I didn't ask questions. No point. I stepped toward the speeder, the restraints pulling slightly against my wrists as I climbed into the back. The guards got in, one of them taking the driver's seat while the other sat up front.
The engine hummed to life, and the speeder lifted off the ground. We sped off, the wind tugging at my mangy hair and clothes as we moved. The surroundings blurred by, and I lost track of time as we traveled, my mind trying to figure out what this so-called promotion meant.
After a couple of miles, we slowed down in front of a building I didn't recognize. It was bigger than the one I'd been held in, with high walls and a more official look to it. The speeder came to a stop, and the guard turned to look at me, his face blank but eyes watchful.
"Out," he said.
I slid out of the speeder, my feet hitting the ground softly. Whatever was waiting for me inside that building, I'd find out soon enough.
As I stepped out of the landspeeder, my eyes fixed on the building ahead. Thick, gray walls of stone and durasteel rivets in certain sections, sturdy construction—this wasn't just some ordinary complex. It looked like an above surface bunker, maybe repurposed, with a few scattered windows like someone had half-heartedly decided it should seem more livable. But I knew better. The whole place gave off the same vibe as the holding cells back in the arena, just… quieter.
I shifted my wrists in the restraints, stretching out with the Force. The usual background hum of the guards was there—boredom, routine. But underneath it, there was something more. Faint flares of emotion—anger, fear, tension—all muted, like someone had thrown a thick blanket over them. The kind of emotions I'd learned to feel around the arena.
It wasn't quite as sharp, though. Whatever this place was, it felt different from the blood and chaos of the fights. Maybe it was a training area, or quarters for other gladiators. The thought crossed my mind as I glanced at the walls again, noting how defensible the place seemed. Whoever was inside, they were being kept close, but not in the same way I had been.
The guard gave me a shove toward the entrance, and I moved without a word, my senses still tuned in to the faint, muffled emotions coming from within. I had no idea what this place was exactly, but it felt like I was about to find out.
I was right.
The moment I stepped inside, it all clicked. The place had the feel of a training facility. I wasn't sure if I was relieved or uneasy about that. The personal quarters I found myself in were a mix of utilitarian and ornamental—alien art lined the walls, and there were sets of armor and weapons displayed as if they were trophies. Whoever lived here wasn't just training; they were proud of what they did.
I barely had time to take it all in before a man appeared—human, or at least mostly so. He had the sharp, efficient look of someone who ran things behind the scenes. His eyes gave me a quick once-over, clearly unimpressed.
"Clean yourself up," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who expected to be obeyed. "You're expected to look presentable."
I didn't even get a chance to respond before my escort gave me another nudge, guiding me toward another room. The bathing chamber was surprisingly large, with a mirror hanging above a basin and a showerhead tucked in the corner. I glanced around and spotted a neatly folded set of clean clothes laid out by the mirror, already prepared for me.
"Right," I muttered as the guards stood by. "I'm gonna need my hands free to wash myself unless you're planning on helping."
My voice dripped with sarcasm, and I shot a pointed look at the restraints on my wrists. The guard scowled but didn't argue, tapping a button on his wrist control panel. The restraints unlocked with a click, and I flexed my fingers, feeling the cool air hit my skin.
With a brief glance back at the guards, I stepped toward the shower, my eyes drifting once again to the clean clothes. This whole setup was too polished, too well-organized for me to be just another fighter. Something else was going on here.
I turned and walked toward the mirror, letting out a low, dark laugh under my breath.
That's more like it, I thought.
What stared back at me barely resembled the person I once was. My dark hair, tangled and greasy, hung down almost to my sternum, caked with dried blood, sweat, and grime from gods know how long. My clothes were shredded, practically hanging off me in tatters, stained with dirt and blood. I looked like I'd been through hell, and I guess that wasn't far from the truth.
My eyes caught my attention next; bloodshot and looking like others I had seen, eyes of men who had seen the darkest the world had to offer. My irises had seemingly darkened to the point they looked almost pitch black, especially against the ghostly pallor of my skin. It was like I was seeing a different person altogether.
But it was the scar that really stood out, an angry, jagged red line slicing through my face. It cut through my eyebrow, down the side of my orbital socket, and stretched past my upper cheekbone in two rough sections. One where the shrapnel entered, and the other where they'd pried it out, not bothering with finesse.
I started by stripping off what was left of my clothes, the fabric practically falling apart in my hands. They hit the floor, and I stared for a moment at the sight of the grime and filth that had built up on me. The canister of soap by the sink was the only thing that seemed halfway decent in this whole mess. I grabbed it, twisting the top off and pouring the thick, clear liquid into my palm.
I began scrubbing, starting with my arms, working the soap into my skin. It stung at first, probably hitting a few cuts I hadn't noticed, but I kept going, working the lather over every inch of me. The soap was cold, but it cut through the layers of dirt and blood with each movement. I scrubbed harder on my chest and legs, the tension easing bit by bit as I tried to wipe away the months of what I'd been through.
Next, I moved on to my hair, dipping my head down into the sink and turning the faucet on full blast. The water felt good, despite being a little too cold, rushing through my tangled hair and sending dirt and dried blood swirling down the drain. I poured some soap directly onto my scalp and worked it in, scrubbing hard with my fingers until I could feel it loosen.
Once I rinsed it all out, I ran my fingers through the wet strands, trying to get them as straight as I could. It wasn't perfect, far from it, but it was better than the tangled mess it had been. Anything was better than looking like a half-dead wild animal.
I stood there for a moment, water dripping from my hair, feeling a little more like myself.
I grabbed the clean clothes by the mirror, feeling the fabric between my fingers. It was soft—too soft for someone like me, but I wasn't going to complain. I slipped on the shirt first, a plain gray thing but clean, and then the pants. They fit better than I expected. After everything else I'd worn lately, they felt like luxury.
I glanced in the mirror once more, running my fingers through my still-damp hair, half surprised to see someone vaguely human looking back at me. A far cry from the wreck I'd been just minutes ago.
Turning toward the door, I caught sight of the guard standing just outside, waiting.
"Restraints?" I raised my hands, staring at the guard coldly.
The man clapped the restraints back on me, securing them and I felt the slight magnetic hum as the chain tightened. The guard then, with a grunt, tugged me back toward the corridor. We made our way through the hallways, heading back to the same room that had caught my eye earlier—the one with the alien art, armor, and weapons on display.
As we stepped inside, the room seemed larger than I remembered. The lights cast long shadows across the weapons and armor hanging on the walls. But my attention was quickly drawn to the figure seated on a repulsor throne at the far end. A Hutt, massive and grotesque, lounged in the center of the room. His skin, a reddish-green hue, shimmered under the lights.
I recognized him, through my muddled fever dreams of right after they had died, it was my current owner, who was rather cross with me when we first met as I had killed some people who were contracted to him for a few jobs.
Two guards in full armor stood flanking him, their visors fixed forward, unmoving like statues. The Hutt's heavy-lidded eyes scanned me slowly, a thick smile creeping across his face as he spoke in a low, rumbling voice, thick with amusement.
"Hmmm, so this is the human child that I have heard about," he said in Huttese, his words deliberate, testing. "I expected you to have died after you were sold to me."
I gave a slight tilt of my head, lazily staring at him and noting for a moment that I could not exactly feel him through the Force in the same way that I could feel others. It was slightly different, like I was pressing against leather instead of cloth.
The Hutt's slitted eyes narrowed slightly, his tongue flicking out as he observed my reaction. He clearly noticed that I understood him.
"Answer me, human," he commanded, his voice heavy with authority. "Do you understand what I am saying?"
I stared at him, the coldness in my chest deepening. "Yes," I replied, my voice flat, offering nothing more.
The silence stretched for a moment. I could feel the weight of his gaze, but I was in no mood for conversation. Whatever game he thought he was playing, I wasn't going to give him anything extra.
The Hutt leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest. "Do you know why you were brought here out of the pit?"
I met his gaze with a cool indifference. "No," I replied, my tone laced with disinterest. The truth was, I had no idea why I was standing before him, but I had little intention of offering him anything more than that.
The Hutt chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that echoed off the walls. "You see, little one, you are quite the anomaly. Somehow, despite being just a child, you have managed not to die in that pit. Most do not last long, but you... you have survived." He paused, allowing the words to hang in the air, a twisted sense of pride filling his voice.
"And?" At this point, I don't care if he ordered one of his guards to shoot me for disrespect. If he did, he did. I was still at this moment debating on whether the effort of surviving to kill the Sith and bring all the dreams of Darth Sidious crashing down in a storm of steel and blood was worth it. I had no purpose other than that at the moment, that or killing mindlessly in a slave pit.
"You have been promoted. You will be trained as an actual gladiator, a participant in the official arenas. Imagine it! The crowd will roar for you, and you will bring honor to your name, or at least entertain those who watch." His smile widened.
"As well as bring notoriety to you," I said slowly, meeting his gaze with my own. "If I even manage to survive a few official fights, it will reflect well on producing excellent gladiators."
That got a strange look, because that's not normally the level of insight you would expect from a slave who was 11, or was I 12 now? I don't even remember exactly when my birthday was, and wasn't that ironic?
The Hutt then gave a low chuckle, bringing his repulsor seat closer to me, but still a safe distance.
"Fight well, and perhaps I will give you your freedom."
My lack of response aside from a raising of my brow had the mass of blubber adopting a look of confusion for a fraction of a second. Normally a slave would hop at the chance of freedom, but I hardly reacted.
I would be free either way, and perhaps I would do what the Chosen One would have done had I not killed him.
(LINE BREAK)
The training room buzzed with energy as Anakin faced off against Ferus Olin, a student known for his agility and quick reflexes. Anakin's heart raced, feeling the familiar hum of the training saber in his hand. They stood in a ready stance, eyes locked, waiting for the signal to begin.
With a subtle nod, they launched into the spar, moving in a fluid dance of strikes and parries. Ferus quickly advanced, his saber a blur as he aimed a series of rapid slashes at Anakin. Each strike was met with a precise block, the sound of their sabers clashing echoing through the room. Anakin focused on maintaining his footing, weaving in and out of Ferus's reach, his movements a blend of grace and power.
Anakin sidestepped one of Ferus's attacks, pivoting on his foot to regain position. He then executed a swift counter, flicking his wrist to redirect Ferus's blade and create an opening. Ferus responded quickly, shifting his weight and sliding to the side, but Anakin was already anticipating his movement. With a sharp thrust, Anakin caught Ferus off-balance, the training saber gently knocking his blade away and sending him to the ground.
"Gotcha!" Anakin exclaimed, a mix of triumph and surprise flooding through him as he stood over Ferus, the tip of his saber hovering near his opponent's shoulder.
Ferus looked up, surprise etched on his face, before a grin spread across it. "Okay, okay, you got me," he admitted, chuckling as he pushed himself up to a seated position.
Anakin deactivated his saber, extending a hand to help Ferus up. "Come on, get up. I didn't mean to knock you down that hard," he said, a playful grin on his face.
Ferus took Anakin's hand, pulling himself up with a nod of acceptance. "Nice move, Skywalker," he said, brushing off the dust from his clothes.
Anakin felt a rush of pride at Ferus' compliment. "Thanks."
Ferus smirked, shaking his head. "Next time, I won't go easy on you."
"Deal," Anakin replied, the camaraderie between them solidifying in that moment. They shared a brief laugh, the tension of the duel easing into friendly conversation. Anakin felt lighter, energized not just by the victory.
The burden that had clouded him for such a long time had started to go away. It was still there, and it would probably be there forever, but now he did everything because he knew that Kane would want him to, and he knew that Kane would be proud of him for making a friend in Ferus.
His teachers complimented him on his progress, all of his studies were going well, and he was making friends. He had even been told that if he continued to progress in his dueling skill, he may be permitted to occasionally spar against the students that were a year ahead of him.
He would do everything to be the Jedi he knew Kane would have been and wanted him to be.
(LINE BREAK)
I tightened my grip on the short sword, feeling the cold, dull metal press into my palm as I circled my opponent. The gladiator across from me, a seasoned fighter and human male nearly twice my size, lunged forward with a predictable strike aimed at my chest. I pivoted sharply, the flat of my blade meeting his with a loud clang, and pushed back hard with my limbs being reinforced in strength by the Force, sending him off balance for a moment.
As we squared up again, his movements were precise—trained. He was faster than most I had fought before, but it was clear he was holding back, keeping it controlled for the "training" session. My eyes narrowed, watching him closely, waiting for the next move.
Another swing came, this time low, but I sidestepped easily, the dull edge of his weapon barely grazing past. The whole thing felt mechanical, rehearsed. We weren't trying to kill each other, but my mind couldn't help but wonder what this would be like in a real fight. I could see it—the gap in his defense as his arm stretched too far, the weak spot near his ribs when his guard dropped just a fraction.
If we were using real blades... he'd already be dead.
The thought ran through my mind darkly, the satisfaction of seeing his blood spilling out, of ending the fight quickly. But that wasn't the point. This was training. I was supposed to be learning technique, precision, timing.
Another swing came, this one aimed at my head. I ducked, stepping in close and driving my blade up, close to his throat, stopping just inches from his skin. The gladiator's eyes widened, and he took a quick step back, resetting himself as if nothing had happened.
I let the sword drop back to my side, staring at him coldly. It was almost laughable. We both knew how many times I could've ended him if the blades were sharpened. I could feel it in every step, every miscalculated strike on his part. But I kept going, playing along with the routine.
The instructor called for us to reset, barking out some commands about stance and footwork. I barely listened, my mind still racing with thoughts of the fight. Maybe this training was supposed to make me better, to teach me control. But right now, all I could think of was how easily I could take him down.
In the arena. I thought to myself, keeping the short sword steady in my hands. In the arena, I need not hold back.
The next strike came faster, a blur of metal aimed at my ribs. I barely had time to block, raising my short sword just in time to deflect the blow. The impact sent a jolt up my arm, but before I could adjust, my opponent was already stepping in with another strike, this time toward my shoulder.
He was speeding up.
I caught the next attack with the flat of my blade, twisting my wrist to parry it away. The moment I did, another came at my legs. I leapt back, barely avoiding the swing, the edges of the dull blade brushing past my knee.
A savage grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. Finally.
It wasn't just the repetitive, sluggish moves anymore he was trying now. And I could feel it. The adrenaline spiked, my senses sharpening, and I instinctively dug into the Force. It hummed through me, every nerve on fire, and I could sense the next move before it came.
He swung at my head, but I was already stepping to the side, the attack missing by a mile. Another strike came low, but I twisted around it, my short sword moving faster now, reacting almost on instinct. Each time he tried to catch me off guard, I was already there, my body reacting before I even had time to think.
The Force pulsed through me, flashing warnings before every strike. My opponent's intentions hit me like a sixth sense, and I could almost see the arcs his blade would take before he even moved.
He came at me with a series of rapid swings, trying to overwhelm me. I sidestepped one, blocked another, ducked under the third. My grin widened. This was what I needed-the push, the challenge. My opponent's frustration was evident in the force of his attacks, but it only fueled me more.
As another strike aimed for my midsection, I twisted to the side, letting the blade skim past before slamming my sword against his, driving it back and away from me. For the first time since this session started, I felt alive, every sense on fire, every muscle tight, ready.
This was what it meant to fight.
He then backed off, giving me a nod of respect.
"You might actually survive your fight tomorrow if you keep that up." He said, resetting his stance and maintaining a low guard since my lack of reach meant that I could not exactly hit his face.
I didn't respond. I just reset my own stance as well and bent my knees in preparation for the next round.
(LINE BREAK)
I sat on the cot, staring at the wall, my hands resting on my knees. The quarters were larger than the old cell, sure, but the bars on the window and the heavy lock on the door reminded me that this was still a prison. The thin mattress beneath me wasn't much better than the stone floor, but it was an improvement… if that even mattered.
I could feel it building inside me as I stoked my presence in the Force further, that familiar burn in the pit of my stomach.
The Force swirled around me, darker than before, heavier. It responded to my anger, feeding off it like a fire stoked by the wind. Every breath I took fanned the flames, pushing me deeper into that place where I could feel every nerve ending ignite. I would have made for a terrible Jedi, and now I would never be one.
In here, there was nothing but me and my fury.
The door slid open with a harsh clang. I barely reacted, though my head snapped up to meet the guard's eyes. It was the same one as before—the one who had led me to meet the Hutt. His expression was unreadable, but I didn't need to see it to know why he was here.
"It's time, Runt." His voice was gruff, the usual disdain thick in his tone.
Today was going to be my entry fight into actual gladiatorial combat.
I stood, cracking my neck as I rose to my feet, feeling the heat of the Force burn hotter inside me. So, this was it. They'd trained me, kept me alive longer than they probably expected, and now it was time to see if I could be worth something in the sandpit.
Without a word, I stepped forward. The guard didn't have to drag me this time. I was ready.
As I walked past him, I could feel the weight of what was coming, but it didn't feel heavy. No, it felt...right. Like I'd been waiting for this. All the time spent stoking the fire inside, all the nights staring at the ceiling with nothing but my thoughts and the rage that wouldn't go away, it was about to pay off.
Today would mark the first of many days where they'd regret keeping me alive. I was going to come back one day and kill every single one of them, particularly the Hutt.
The guard led me through the winding corridors, the cold air biting at my skin. I could feel the restraints chafing against my wrists, the hum of the magnetic locks a dull reminder of the control they thought they had over me. We reached the checkpoint, and without a word, the guard pressed a button, and the restraints snapped tight around my hands once again.
Two more guards stood waiting by the same landspeeder that had taken me to meet the Hutt. They didn't say anything as they grabbed my arms and guided me into the back seat, securing the restraints to a metal loop embedded in the floor. I didn't resist. Not yet. There was no point in wasting energy on these goons.
The landspeeder shot forward, the wind whipping through the open sides as we sped through the extremely busy and hectic streets, nearly hitting a couple of the more stupid people that did not get out of the way. Buildings blurred past, and the world outside felt as dead as the inside of my cell. But soon, the scenery began to change. I could hear the faint rumble in the distance long before I saw it, the unmistakable hum of thousands of voices gathered in one place.
As we rounded a corner, it came into view.
The gladiator coliseum rose up before me, a massive structure that I stared at for a moment. Its towering walls cast shadows that stretched across the street surrounding it, and the roar from within grew louder as we approached. It was a respectable size, bigger than I'd imagined—easily the size of one of the larger NFL stadiums, if not larger. The stone and metalwork gleamed in the sunlight, banners flapping in the wind, bearing the symbols of the Hutt clans and the arenas.
It was an arena built for spectacle, for blood, and today, it was my turn to be the show.
The speeder slowed as we approached a massive gate, guards stationed all around. The crowds roared louder inside, but out here, it was just the dull thud of boots on stone and the low hum of machinery. As the speeder came to a stop, the guards yanked me from my seat, forcing me to my feet and pulling me forward.
I could feel my pulse quicken, the heat inside me growing. Today, I'd make sure they remembered my name.
The guards hauled me out of the speeder now that it was parked, their grips firm as they led me toward the building adjacent to the coliseum. It was squat and ugly, like a military building. It was just a slab of concrete, or this galaxy's equivalent, and metal designed for a single purpose. From the outside, it looked almost like a service building, but I could feel something sharper emanating from it as we approached, like there were some people in there that were guards instead of your typical civilian. The distant roar of the crowd echoed above, growing louder with every step.
We entered through a heavy metal door that groaned as it slid open, revealing a narrow hallway lined with lights. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and grime. I could feel my pulse thumping in my ears, each step taking me deeper into the building. The guards didn't say a word, just pushed me forward, steering me through the winding corridor toward a guard station.
Once inside, the guards shoved me in front of a checkpoint, where more men stood waiting, none of them the same species. One of them keyed in a code into a console, and I could hear the faint hiss of the restraints loosening slightly, but they didn't come off completely. Instead, one of the guards grabbed my arm, jerking me toward a set of what actually looked quite a bit like an earth elevator, no repulsor tech built into it.
We got in and descended down with a groan into the tunnel below the building. The deeper we went, the colder the air became. I could hear distant sounds, the shuffling of feet, low murmurs, and the ever-present roar of the crowd above us. By the time we reached the bottom, the sound was a steady rumble overhead, making the walls seem like they were vibrating.
It also created an ambient atmosphere through the force that tasted almost disgustingly sweet, but not in the way one would feel around family when they were happy; that was a warmness that wrapped around you like a well-worn blanket and was as soft as the fireplace as you leisurely listened to your grandfather recount tales of his own childhood. This was the kind of sweetness that would make you feel almost ill, and it was tinged with a metallic harshness that gave off the synthesia-like sense overlap of the scent and taste of blood.
At the end of the tunnel, a set of thick durasteel bars loomed ahead. Beyond them was a dungeon of sorts, filled with several other gladiators—men and women alike, some sharpening weapons, others sitting in silence, conserving their energy. Their faces were hardened, their eyes cold. This was where the fighters waited before they were sent up to the meat grinder.
The guards undid my restraints, then unlocked the gate and shoved me inside. I stumbled, catching myself just before hitting the floor. The space smelled of blood and sweat, like death waiting for its next meal. I could feel the vibrations in the ground now, the crowd directly above us, roaring for the next fight.
The room itself was mostly dark stone aside from the steel bars on the entrances, and the weapons rack was under guard by a Trandoshan and Zabrack in full plasteel armour and both had vibroblades sheathed at their sides. Only a few gladiators, the veteran ones who also had decorative equipment on for specific spectacles, had weapons on them that they were currently working on.
I looked around at the other gladiators. None of them paid me any mind. They were focused, ready. This wasn't the time for idle chatter. Above, the crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch, and I knew that soon enough, it would be my turn to walk out into that arena.
Save for the one. It was a wookie that had been talking with a humanoid I didn't recognize before seeing me, and it barked out a laugh that reminded me of a bear growling. My eyes zoned in on his hand, and my appraisal of the already dangerous alien went up a notch when I saw that his claws did not look like they had been clipped in quite some time and I could see that the fur on his fingers was matted like blood had congealed in it.
I could see why this one in particular was tossed into a gladiator pit.
I did not bother to sit down, because I did not want to have to deal with sitting near other people and deal with them potentially getting their attention drawn to me as I was without a doubt, the shortest person here.
Different people were called up by the guards to the tunnel that led directly into the arena itself, and I decided to do my own variation of meditation to sharpen my connection to the Force while I was at it.
I closed my eyes, feeling the chaos of the arena, the rhythmic pounding of the crowd's cheers like a beating heart above me. I breathed in, slowly and deliberately, letting the stench of blood and sweat fade into the background. Instead, I focused on the Force. It was there, as always, a swirling current of energy, chaotic and turbulent, but it had its rhythm. I let my anger, my frustration, fuel me, and I allowed it to sharpen my mind, not cloud it.
I wasn't here to survive by chance. No, if I was going to survive, it would be by force of will, by deliberate choices. Every moment, every strike, every breath… each had to be calculated. I would become a weapon, something honed and dangerous. The Force was a part of me, and I would use it to my advantage.
The crowd roared again, a match ending in either glory or bloodshed. Didn't matter which.
I cracked my neck, rolling my shoulders, eyes still closed, and felt the faintest hints of movement in the Force, whispers of what was to come. I let them pass through me, focusing on the present. The arena above was brutal, yes, but I could feel the patterns, the cycles.
Another fighter called, another match. I didn't care.
Finally, a guard shouted my name.
I opened my eyes, my mind sharp, emotions controlled in a focused fury. I was ready.
As I approached the tunnel, another figure stood beside me, his expression a mix of fear and dread. He was young, probably no older than 21, with short cropped, black hair and eyes. He looked at me for a brief moment, before turning his attention back to the guards.
I could sense his fear, and I was not amused. He stank of it, the weakness clinging to him like flies on shit.
We were given our weapons. The craven received a rough, durasteel shield, thick and dented from use. I was handed a sword, good enough to break bones or end lives with a solid strike. I felt its weight, balanced in my hand.
Then came the final touch, a chain. A thick chain was latched to my left wrist, the other end to the boy's right wrist. I felt the weight of it immediately, a constant reminder that my movements would be tethered to his. He glanced at the chain and then back to me, his fear even more evident now. This wasn't going to be an easy fight, not with the two of us shackled together.
I looked down at the chain, feeling the tug of it as the guard tested its connection.
The boy's grip tightened on the shield, his face betraying terror. I could feel the tension radiating off him, but I didn't have time to deal with his fear. He was either going to keep up or die trying. I had already made my peace with the reality that I might have to drag him through this, one way or another.
The guard unlocked the gate to the arena tunnel, the roar of the crowd growing louder as we moved toward the light.
"If you die or slow me down, I'm taking off your hand." I muttered coldly.
The kid looked at me in a mixture of shock and horror, then I felt a tension in his presence loosen. I then looked down.
He pissed himself.
I turned my gaze towards the tunnel, then glance at the guard for a moment before flicking my case back. The announcement came, then we walked forward down the tunnel and into the light of the arena.
The roar of the crowd hit me like a wave as we stepped into the light of the arena. Thousands of spectators filled the stands, a mass of bodies pressing in from all sides. They cheered, they shouted, a cacophony of sound that rumbled through the earth beneath my feet. Their excitement wasn't for us, though. No, they wanted to see blood. It was always blood.
I squinted against the bright sunlight, taking in the scene before me. The arena stretched out in a wide circle, its walls high and imposing. Dust swirled around my feet, kicked up from the recent fights. In the center, about a dozen men of various species waited, their eyes locked onto us. Each pair stood ready, a mix of human, Trandoshan, and other more alien species. Each looked dangerous in their own right, many with scars and hardened expressions that came from surviving in places like this.
There were about a dozen pairs—just like us, chained together, forced to fight as one. My eyes scanned the men quickly, assessing their weapons, their stances. No one was here by accident.
Beside me, the boy shifted uneasily, his grip tightening further on the shield. His breathing had grown more erratic, but I ignored it. His fear wouldn't help him now, and it sure as hell wouldn't help me. It was easy for me to reach a decision, and I knew that I was going to make it without hesitation.
I couldn't help but let a dark grin curl at the edge of my lips. The anticipation thrummed in my veins like fire, the Force stirring around me. The whispers of it guided me, preparing me for what was to come. I was ready. Let them come. Let them try.
Glancing around once more, I noted the arena was littered with debris—rocks, broken weapons, even bones from past battles. I could use that to our advantage, but first, I had to get through the initial chaos of the fight.
The gate behind us slammed shut with a resounding clang. There was no going back now. The crowd grew louder, their excitement reaching a fever pitch as the announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"Let the games begin!"
The moment the signal was given, the other pairs rushed forward, weapons raised, teeth bared.
I turned towards my 'partner' and without a moment of hesitation, I clenched my left arm to tense the chain and brought my blade down on his right wrist, an inch from where the chain was over his hand. The durasteel cleaved through ligaments, nerves, and connective tissue, the hand dropping to the ground and a spurt of blood erupted from the stump.
A soft gasp of shock came from him, the pain not registering just yet. I completely ignored him as I was free and I picked up the now free chain and jerked it up to my hand to catch it. I then let out a howl of animalistic fury, charging forth at the nearest enemy pair.
I then heard the echo of screaming from the coward that was now sans hand, and I blitzed a Trandoshan, who tensed to meet my attack.
I staggered my steps, false lunging to my left and then to my right. He tracked my movements, but I changed up my pattern right as I leapt forward, my blade sneaking past his shield and digging a few inches into his throat. He fell to the ground from the lethal hit and I shifted out of the way of his partner slashing at me, the momentary shock of me wounding my own partner and immediately charging forward now worn off. I avoided another team where the swordsman slashed at my back, and I retreated, nearly surrendering to the tumultuous currents of my own fury.
The clang of metal echoed through the air as the chaos around me grew. Gladiators clashed from all directions, the din of battle accompanied by the relentless roar of the crowd. Dust swirled beneath the feet of the fighters, the stench of sweat and blood thick in the air.
I took a step back, surveying the arena with cold eyes, the chain that had tethered me to the craven, currently on the ground going into shock, hanging loose from my wrist. I twirled the heavy metal link experimentally, the weight of it familiar in my grip now. It would have to serve as my reach for the time being, at least until I got my hands on another weapon.
The Trandoshan I'd just taken down still lay crumpled nearby, but there was no time to dwell on the kill. Several teams were crashing into one another now-human, Trandoshan, and other species locked in fierce combat. Their swords clanged against shields, bodies slammed into one another, and the shouts of fury blended into a single chaotic melody.
Without a moment to waste, I swung the chain, feeling the rush of air as it sliced through the space around me. It was far from perfect-no blade, no finesse-but it kept the others at bay, forcing them to maintain their distance and not swarm me. The chain snapped against the shield of a nearby combatant, the force of it enough to stagger him back. His partner lunged toward me, his blade aimed at my side, but I sidestepped it and slashed down with a speed unmatched from Force augmentation. I missed the joint of his wrist, so it merely bit into his forearm and did not take his arm clean off. But I still felt it cut deep into bone and I jerked, sending him stumbling with a shout.
I lunged forward, putting my supporting hand on my blade to get further control over it, and I ran the tip of it clean through his skull, then I braced as the partner to the now slain human, a… I hesitated to call it a Zeltron, but it looked like one, shield bashed me and my lighter weight had me skidding across the sand and falling to the ground.
I got up and blindly slashed around me, forcing another team that had tried to pounce on me from behind to back up.
Using my left arm again, I jerked the chain closer to me and I swung wildly around, catching the sword on one of the gladiators that foolishly tried to intercept it. Before he could yank on the chain and force me to stumble towards him, I planted my feet and jerked the chain myself, wrenching the sword free from his grasp and I shot towards him.
His partner went to shield his comrade, and I saw the slightest opening where he had shifted to have his left side facing me and his shield was a little bit forward to mostly shield himself and his partner; but it left the nape of his neck vulnerable, and I went to go for a backhand slash that looked like it was aimed at the face of his partner. Halfway through the flourish, I shifted the trajectory and brought the blade slamming down at the base of his neck. It sank a couple inches into his vertebrae, and I pulled the blade free in a smooth transition that sent me propelling away and towards another team to prevent me from being pinned.
It was at this point that the remaining opposing team kept their distance from me, turtling up as they had seen me carve through more than one team.
They were actually starting to get frightened of me, and sensing that had me grinning with all teeth.
The air was filled with the scent of blood, dust that was kicked up from the fighting, and the sound of steel and screams. I drunk it in and grasped the Force, which now had a far more tangible touch to it, and darted again, howling wildly at a cluster of four other teams. The eight of them tensed up, closing ranks, but then I planted my leg just out of reach of their swords, pivoted, and dashed away, cackling at the fear that I elicited from them and continued to circle them while swinging the chain.
The crowd absolutely loved it, and I was running at what was a full sprint while the Force flowed through my limbs so the exertion only felt like a brisk jog.
As I continued to circle the four bunched-up teams, the fear in their eyes was palpable. They tightened their formation, shields overlapping as they tried to anticipate my next move, but I could see the cracks forming. Fear was the greatest weapon here, more effective than any blade or shield. They were waiting for me to make a mistake, to get close enough for them to strike, but I had no intention of letting them dictate the pace.
The chain whistled through the air as I kept swinging it, forcing them to keep their distance, their gazes flicking from side to side in panic. They were trapped in their little turtle formation, waiting for me to strike, but I had all the time in the world. Let them sweat. Let them choke on their fear.
Just as I was preparing for another feint, I felt it-a shift in the Force, a subtle warning. My team. They were closing in from behind, moving in for the kill. I grinned, savoring the moment. The other pairs on my side had finally caught up, their weapons drawn, their eyes locked on the vulnerable group ahead.
The clash was inevitable.
The roar of the crowd intensified as my teammates charged into the fray. Metal met metal, the sickening sound of blades slicing into flesh and bone ringing out across the arena. The four teams had no chance to react, already rattled by my taunts and intimidation. They tried to hold their ground, but the force of our assault was too much.
I darted in again, this time with precision. The chain whipped out, catching one of the opposing fighters across the face. He stumbled back, clutching at his bleeding wound, and I didn't give him a chance to recover. I dropped the chain and lunged forward, grabbing the hilt of a fallen sword from the ground, its weight familiar in my hand. I drove it into his side as I blocked his downward strike with my original, feeling the resistance of flesh and bone before yanking it free with a savage twist.
Another fighter tried to rush me, but I sidestepped, using the momentum of his attack to spin him off balance. My sword came down in a brutal arc across his chest, and he crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
The teams were falling apart now. My comrades pressed forward, breaking through their lines with brutal efficiency, leaving the survivors scrambling to defend themselves. It was chaos, a whirlwind of death and desperation, and I reveled in it.
This is what I had been made for.
I backed away and let the remaining men get killed, well I spat to the side as some blood had gotten on my face, not mine of course. I bore no new injuries, and I'd killed over half a dozen men myself.
The last of the opposing team was brought down, and the announcer called out that our team had won. The crowd's roar was nearly deafening, and every single sensation I could feel through the force was marked with the thrill of an entertaining shedding of blood. I looked around and saw that the team that I was supposed to be on stared at me like I was a rabid beast, and I just grinned.
They would remember this, and I would as well, but for different reasons. This was just another step on the road to hell.
I walked towards where I had left my partner, and I saw him crumbled on the ground. I sensed nothing from him, just as cold and lifeless as the others I had killed. He evidently had gone into shock and had not managed to stem the bleeding on his arm, and had bled out during the fight. The announcement came for us to cycle back into the waiting area where we had first started, a new round of fights getting started of a different kind. I didn't follow the rest of them for a moment though, I just stared at the man I had killed.
What I did to him could not be justified by pretty much anybody. He was basically unarmed, was no direct threat to me, and yet I killed him. But he did commit a crime though, an unwritten one. He had already died one death, so me ensuring that he did not die a thousand more was a mercy. The brave man dies only once, while the coward dies a thousand deaths. And I pity cowards, because their very nature consigns them to a lesser existence, and now his fate was to be forgotten by all except for maybe me, who will remember him as but another step to me getting out of here.
I then followed the rest of the gladiators, still holding two swords and the chain dragging behind me.
(END CHAPTER)
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