24 BBY: Tanya Valken's Quarters
There are whispers of war. The galaxy teetered on the brink of chaos, its once-stable Republic fraying under the weight of corruption, corporate influence, and political division. In the Core Worlds, prosperous planets like Coruscant thrived, their towering cities symbolizing the Republic's ideal of unity. But in the Outer Rim, discontent simmered. Worlds long neglected by the central government grew resentful of their exclusion from power and protection. The Separatist movement, led by Count Dooku and supported by powerful organizations like the Trade Federation and Techno Union, called for independence, drawing thousands of systems away from the Republic. The Galactic Senate, paralyzed by bureaucracy, struggled to address the growing crisis. Tensions mounted as rumors of war spread, and whispers of a secret army, the Grand Army of the Republic, circulated through the halls of power. The galaxy was a powder keg, and all it needed was a spark. The Jedi isolate themselves from politics, just as the temple is isolated from the outside world. Tanya, while being isolated in the temple, was aware of the inefficiencies of such a system but remained blind to the extent of its true degradation.
Months have passed, and my basic training is nearing its conclusion. Master Jorik seems convinced that I'm ready to become a Jedi Knight—a notion that, of course, requires some ritualistic ordeal to prove my worth. Another ceremonial hoop to jump through, no doubt steeped in their sanctimonious doctrine. The Jedi adore their rituals, their performative traditions, and it's utterly exhausting to humor them day after day.
As part of my training, I've undergone foundational instruction in lightsaber combat. Jorik insisted that I explore each form to determine which best aligned with my natural abilities. Tedious as it was, the process yielded valuable insights.
Among the seven forms, Ataru—Form IV—proved to be the most compatible.
Ataru is dynamic, acrobatic, and relentlessly aggressive. It relies on speed, mobility, and overwhelming force, a style that resonates with me—likely due to my experience as a combat mage. In my previous life, I relied on tactical maneuverability to outpace and eliminate enemies before they had the chance to react. My small stature and deep connection to the Force make Ataru a natural fit.
I've devoted significant time to mastering it under Jorik's supervision. But I know better than to rely solely on one approach.
Diversification is key—not just in business but in survival.
Any fool knows that putting all your resources into a single venture is a calculated risk.
So, I have dedicated myself to Makashi—Form II—during my free time. While Ataru is designed for maneuvering around larger opponents and engaging multiple adversaries, Makashi specializes in one-on-one dueling. Its refined, precise movements are tailored for countering other lightsaber users.
I've spent hours practicing Makashi against training droids, refining its deliberate, controlled strikes. Admittedly, it's a far cry from my usual aggressive, high-mobility combat style. It demands a level of finesse and patience that still feels unnatural. But I recognize its importance.
Here, in this world, I don't have the luxury of commanding a battalion or relying on subordinates.
Here, my survival depends entirely on me.
As much as I detest the idea of dirtying my hands with needless combat, pragmatism dictates that I be prepared for every eventuality. If I must fight, then I will do so with efficiency and precision.
This isn't about honor or philosophy, as the Jedi would have me believe.
This is about business. A long-term investment in my own survival.
And like any good investment, it will pay dividends.
The Jedi Temple's sparring chamber was an expansive space, designed for combat efficiency and discipline. The smooth, polished floors provided fluid movement, while ambient lighting cast a subdued glow, allowing focus without distraction. The walls were lined with weapon racks and training droids, their silent presence a reminder of the rigor expected of every Jedi.
At the center of the room, a holographic combat simulator flickered idly, ready to project various dueling scenarios.
Today, however, Tanya and I were practicing the fundamentals.
"You're improving quickly, my Padawan," I noted, observing her stance. "But you must learn to control your form."
"Yes, Master."
"Speed and aggression—these are Ataru's strengths, but they are also its greatest weaknesses. Your stamina is finite, Tanya. True mastery does not lie in raw force, but in patience. Learn to find your opponent's opening, not by overpowering them, but by waiting for the right moment to strike—swiftly and decisively."
She gave a small, calculated nod.
"I appreciate your insight, Master. It truly helps me improve."
I sighed. "You can drop the flattery. I'd prefer honesty."
Tanya smirked, shifting her weight slightly. "Then, Master, I have a request."
I raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead."
"Would you do me the honor of a sparring match?"
A brief pause.
"If that is your wish, then so be it."
She gave a formal bow, ever the picture of discipline.
"I would greatly appreciate it, Master."
I studied her for a moment before nodding.
"If you have no further questions, then let us begin."
Tanya's grim green eyes locked onto mine, a hollow intensity lingering behind them.
"I have none," she answered simply, standing at attention. "Let's begin."
As we both assumed our positions, training sabers in hand, the air between us grew taut with anticipation.
Tanya wasted no time—the moment the duel began, she thrust out her palm, unleashing a Force push to create distance.
As expected.
With my stance grounded in Form III—Soresu, I absorbed the shockwave, my balance unshaken. Tanya was fast, but predictable. Like Master Yoda, her small stature granted exceptional speed, but speed alone was not enough.
She lunged toward my left flank, striking with precision. I intercepted each blow, parrying her ferocious assault while keeping my stance centered. Her rapid Ataru strikes demanded constant movement, but I refused to give her the opening she sought.
She's trying to push me back.
Tanya adjusted, Force-leaping backward to reassess. I recognized the subtle shift in her stance—she was calculating her next move.
I decided to press the offensive.
With deliberate force, I lunged forward, striking with enough weight to force her into defensive footing.
She parried with skill, but her stamina was beginning to wane.
A faint grin tugged at her lips as she shifted her footwork, her style transforming mid-battle. The relentless speed of Ataru gave way to the graceful, calculated flow of Makashi.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second.
And that was all she needed.
Tanya suddenly vaulted over my head, her training blade clashing against my guard.
I turned, ready to counter—
Too late.
With blinding speed, she landed a precise kick to my shoulder, knocking me off balance for a split second.
It was enough.
She struck.
My training saber was forced from my hand, clattering against the polished floor.
I stood there for a moment, processing my defeat.
Then, I turned to my Padawan, astonishment creeping into my expression.
"You've been training extra, haven't you?"
She straightened, pride gleaming in her posture.
"I have, Master. I used my free time to refine Form II—Makashi. A Jedi should always seek to master their blade."
I regarded her carefully.
Tanya Valken…
She never let an opportunity go to waste.
"You continue to impress me," I admitted. "The Force has truly gifted you."
There was a flicker in her gaze—something I couldn't quite place.
I shook off the thought.
"I now know your training is complete," I said at last. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we will discuss what comes next."
Tanya nodded steadily, bowing her head.
"I thank you, Master. It has been an honor."
A pause.
Then, with absolute neutrality, she spoke her final words for the day.
"May the Force be with you."
As I walked back to my quarters for the night, I couldn't help but allow a smile to creep onto my face. Passing school for the third time is, unsurprisingly, a trivial endeavor. This place will be behind me soon enough, and with it, all the pomp and pretense of the Jedi Order. A peaceful, stable life awaits—one where I can finally leave these games behind.
But for now, I must focus on the path ahead. While I bested my master today, my form and tactics remain far from perfect. Breaking through the defenses of Form III, Soresu, is nothing short of exhausting. That style is the epitome of patience and resilience, designed to wear an opponent down through attrition. An effective strategy, to be sure, but it's also infuriating to face.
Honestly, I don't understand why the Jedi limit themselves so rigidly to the blade. In my past life, marksmanship was a cornerstone of combat training. A firearm is efficient, versatile, and, most importantly, lethal. For an organization like the Jedi—small in numbers and dependent on a quality-over-quantity model—it seems like an oversight. While they can deflect blaster bolts with precision, that advantage dwindles when they're surrounded. No matter how skilled, a Jedi is still one person, and sheer volume of fire would overwhelm them.
That leads me to wonder: what are firearms like in this galaxy? They're almost certainly more advanced than the ones I've used in my previous lives, but I haven't seen any at the temple. Perhaps the Jedi view them as crude, unworthy of their mystique. Typical. But practicality will always trump ideology. I'll need to get my hands on one someday, if only to study its mechanics and tactical applications.
Lost in thought, I reached my room and opened the door. The dim lighting cast long shadows into the corners, and an unsettling stillness filled the air. The silence here is oppressive, almost suffocating.
I should get some sleep. Acting so considerate and deferential around these Jedi all day is taxing in ways combat never was. Maintaining this facade of politeness—it's exhausting. Sleep, at least, offers an escape from the constant mental strain.
Albeit a temporary one.
For a few hours, I can retreat from the demands of this charade, from the weight of reality itself. And when I wake, I'll pick up where I left off, marching steadily toward the life I deserve.
24 BBY: Lower Levels of Coruscant
In the shadows of Coruscant's lower levels, the dim glow of flickering neon signs barely penetrated the oppressive darkness. Beneath the tangled web of sky lanes above, a lone figure stood cloaked in black, his presence blending into the oppressive gloom. The air was heavy with the hum of distant machinery and the faint echoes of life far removed from the towering spires of the elite. Here, in the depths of the galaxy's heart, secrets thrived.
The figure's hood concealed his features entirely, but his presence exuded an air of palpable menace. He waited in silence, still as a statue, until the faint shuffle of boots on metal announced the arrival of another. A second figure emerged from the shadows, his movements deliberate and refined. Pulling back the hood of his ornate cloak, he revealed a face lined with years of experience and ambition. His white hair glinted in the dim light, and the regal clasp at his chest suggested a man accustomed to power. The hooded figure spoke first, his voice a low rasp, like wind scraping through ancient tombs.
"Report. What progress have you made?"
The elder man inclined his head slightly before responding.
"Our efforts proceed as planned. Minor setbacks remain insignificant. The Outer Rim worlds grow more disillusioned with the Republic's incompetence. Its bureaucracy has failed them repeatedly. The movement is gaining momentum, and it will proceed on schedule."
"Good," the hooded figure hissed, his voice dripping with approval. "The seeds of their discontent are taking root. The Republic rots from within, ripe for the harvest."
A moment of silence passed before the hooded figure tilted his head, as if listening to something unseen. "I have sensed… something. A strong presence in the Force. Have you felt it as well?"
The elder man's expression tightened. "Yes, I have. It has not gone unnoticed."
The hooded figure leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Jedi are fostering one with great potential. A child, but formidable. My sources name her Tanya Valken. She may become a threat to our plans."
The white-haired man raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful. "A child, you say? Such raw potential would be… easier to shape, if approached correctly. The Jedi's grip on the young is strong, but not unbreakable."
"Indeed," the hooded figure murmured, his tone contemplative but laced with venom. "This one is exceptional. By the age of just fourteen years, she has advanced to a Jedi Knight. An anomaly among their kind."
The elder man allowed a faint smile to curve his lips. "Then she must be monitored closely. If her abilities can be turned, she would be a valuable asset. If not…"
The hooded figure straightened, his hands folding into the depths of his cloak. "Proceed with the plan. Let no distractions deter us. The time has come to purge the Republic of its corruption and usher in the grand plan."
The elder man inclined his head once more, his voice steady. "It will be done."
As the hooded figure turned away, the faint sound of his steps echoed into the darkness, leaving the elder man standing alone. For a moment, he lingered, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, before donning his hood once more and disappearing into the labyrinth of Coruscant's underworld.
24 BBY: The Jedi Temple
The next morning, I awoke early, ready to tackle another day of training. My routine began as it always did, reviewing notes and conducting research on my datapad. Knowledge was power, and I had no intention of neglecting this.
A familiar presence disrupted my focus moments before a knock sounded at the door.
Opening it, I found Master Jorik waiting. His expression was solemn, but there was a quiet pride in his eyes, a rare softness that only heightened my interest.
"Tanya," he began, his voice steady but carrying unusual weight, "the time has come for you to advance to Jedi Knight. You have proven yourself worthy, despite any doubts others may have had due to your age. Your dedication, focus, and strength in the Force have surpassed all expectations."
I straightened, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
"It is a privilege to accept such an honor, Master," I replied smoothly.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, the kind that carried pride, hope, and perhaps a tinge of sentimentality. It was clear he had been waiting for this moment.
"Your hard work has paid off, my Padawan," he continued. "However, one final trial remains before you can truly be called a Jedi Knight: the construction of your lightsaber."
The significance of this ritual was not lost on me. I had read extensively about it—the connection to the Kyber Crystal, the test of will and identity, the Jedi philosophy it was meant to embody. But honestly, it is a circuitous effort, a Jedi baptism.
"Yes, Master. When shall we begin?"
"Immediately," he replied. "I anticipated this moment and made the necessary preparations ahead of time. Our transport awaits us."
His confidence in my readiness, so assured that he had planned ahead, struck an unexpected chord. It wasn't often that someone's belief in me felt genuine, unmarred by ulterior motives. Still, I couldn't afford to dwell on sentiment.
"Thank you, Master. I won't let you down," I said, falling into step beside him as we made our way to the docking bay.
The temple's grand halls gave way to the open air as we stepped outside. The hum of an awaiting ship filled the silence, its sleek design glinting in the early light. As we approached, a grin crept onto my face—a mix of satisfaction and anticipation.
The construction of a lightsaber was a sacred rite among the Jedi. It was their ultimate test of identity, a symbol of their connection to the Force and their commitment to their Order.
I would master this task not as a validation of Jedi teachings, but as a personal triumph. The lightsaber would be mine, forged through my will and skill, not their philosophy. It would serve as a tool for survival and strength, a symbol of my readiness to take the next step.
We arrived at the docking station where our ship awaited. A sleek yet modest vessel, it stood as a testament to the Jedi's preference for function over ostentation. Well in this case at least. As we boarded, we were greeted by an older-model droid. Its metallic voice carried a faint air of sophistication, as if it were determined to project sagacity through its synthesized tone.
"Greetings, Master Jorik Nydaris and Padawan Tanya Valken," it said, inclining its head with mechanical precision. "I am Professor Huyang. I have completed preparations for our journey. Please, make yourselves at home."
The droid already knew me by name. Evidently, Master Jorik had informed it of my arrival ahead of time. Convenient, I suppose—it spared me the ordeal of exchanging pleasantries with a machine.
As the ship's engines hummed to life, I glanced out the viewport. Coruscant's sprawling cityscape receded beneath us, a never-ending sea of lights that stretched to the horizon. The planet-wide metropolis was both awe-inspiring and suffocating, a paradox in every sense.
Confined to the Jedi Temple for most of my time here, the outside world remained largely alien to me. Despite my extensive readings, there was no substitute for seeing it firsthand. This galaxy's scale was beyond comprehension—vast, bustling, teeming with life.
The ship slipped into hyperspace, and I found myself mesmerized by the streaking stars outside. The sight stirred a fleeting sense of wonder. My old self, in my first life, would have envied me now. Back then, spaceships and interstellar travel had been confined to the pages of science fiction. Now, it was my reality.
The voice of Professor Huyang interrupted my musings, sharp and precise. "Padawan Tanya, please report to my workshop. It is time to begin constructing your lighsaber."
I made my way to the workshop, where Huyang and Master Jorik awaited. The room was immaculately organized, its walls lined with rows of lightsaber components and hilts, each meticulously arranged like artifacts in a museum. The air was thick with the weight of tradition, every piece a reminder of the Jedi Order's ancient legacy.
Huyang's photoreceptors glowed faintly as he addressed me. "Tanya, for over a millennium, I have served the Jedi Order. I have guided countless young Jedi in the construction of their first lightsabers. You remind me of my time teaching Grandmaster Yoda."
"Thank you, Professor," I replied.
Huyang gestured to the collection of hilts before me. "Your hilt is a reflection of you, Padawan. Select one that resonates with your skills and identity."
After surveying the options, I chose a design featuring crossguards. It was simple, efficient, and practical—qualities I valued above all else. Crossguards had endured across countless cultures and eras for good reason. They offered essential protection for the wielder's hands, deflecting strikes and improving balance. Their utility was undeniable, a testament to the principle that effective design persists through time.
As I examined the hilt, a stray thought crossed my mind: the crossguard's enduring practicality was not unlike that of a shovel. Civilization itself owes much to such tools of simplicity and versatility. In the end, whether building trenches or cutting down an opponent, the principle is the same: use what works, and don't overthink it.
"An excellent choice," Huyang remarked, his tone approving.
Master Jorik nodded in agreement. "Before you can build the rest, the next step is to acquire your Kyber crystal. When we arrive at Ilum, I will guide you to the crystal cave, where you shall proceed alone. There, you must face your fears. Let the Force guide you to your crystal."
When we reached Ilum, the icy winds howled with unrelenting fury, whipping snow into blinding swirls that clawed at our cloaks. The ship's ramp lowered, and the frigid air swept in, sharp and biting against my face. Even bundled tightly, the cold gnawed at me as we trudged through the thick snow toward the cave's entrance. Huyang, wisely, stayed behind, leaving Master Jorik and me to press forward.
Inside the cave, the storm's chaos gave way to an oppressive silence. The walls glistened faintly, their icy surfaces refracting dim light, while the occasional drip of melting ice echoed through the cavern like the ticking of a clock. Every step felt heavier, the air colder, as if the cave itself were testing my resolve.
Master Jorik stopped, turning to me with an expression that was both solemn and encouraging.
"It is here that I must leave you," he said. "From this point on, you must proceed alone. Trust in the Force, Tanya. May it be with you."
"Thank you, Master," I replied, my voice steady. "I shall return."
Without hesitation, I stepped deeper into the cave, reaching out with the Force to guide my path. The air grew colder still, the faint luminescence of crystals lighting the way ahead. Icicles hung like daggers from the ceiling, a stark reminder of the cave's dangers. At a fork in the tunnel, I paused. A subtle pull, barely perceptible, tugged at me from the left.
I followed it instinctively.
The corridor opened into a grand chamber, the walls and floor shimmering with the soft, otherworldly glow of Kyber crystals. Shades of blue and green painted the room in muted brilliance. This was it—my crystal was here. I could feel its call, faint yet insistent.
As I stepped forward, the shimmering lights seemed to freeze in place, and a chill far deeper than the cave's temperature gripped me.
A voice echoed through the chamber, cold and mocking. "Ah, the blasphemous child continues to deny God's grace."
My fists clenched, my jaw tightening as recognition settled over me. "I should have known you'd be here, Being X."
The oppressive presence thickened, pressing against me like a heavy shroud. "Indeed. Yet you persist in your denial of the divine."
"I've told you before," I snarled. "I don't need you. Your so-called power is meaningless to me."
A cruel chuckle reverberated through the chamber. "How lost you are, my child. But I am merciful. Once again, I shall bless you, for you remain blind to my benevolence. Your Kyber crystal is now imbued with my grace. You shall spread my name far and wide."
I froze as the Force twisted around me, seizing control for the briefest of moments. A Kyber crystal materialized in my hand, its golden glow erupting with an intensity that mocked my defiance.
"Damn you, Being X," I whispered, my voice trembling with fury as his presence began to fade.
Kneeling, I stared at the crystal in my palm. Its radiant golden hue shimmered with a beauty that belied the cruel irony of its origin. My lips moved unbidden, words spilling out before I could stop them.
"Dear Lord, I pray that every step I take is guided by your benevolent hand."
The realization hit me like a hammer blow. My hands flew to my head, clawing at my hair in frustration. "No! This can't be happening! This won't keep happening!"
The crystal's golden light dimmed, fading back into dormancy, but the damage was done. It was the Type 95 all over again—a power tainted by Being X's meddling, a tool that came at the cost of my free will.
But I would not let him win.
My resolve hardened as I rose to my feet, gripping the crystal tightly. I had dealt with this curse before, and this time, I would wield it on my terms. Being X would never control me again.
I could barely contain my visible aversion as I stomped back through the cave. Emerging from the chamber, crystal in hand, my mind churned with plans to resist the deity that haunted me once more. Master Jorik awaited my return at the cave's entrance, but I knew that this was only the beginning. Whatever Being X had in store, I would have to face it head-on.