The roof was wet. Not the kind of wet where it's still raining, but that sticky, clingy wet that tells you the rain spent all night getting way too familiar with everything and then dipped before sunrise like a bad date. There was a low fog crawling across the nearby rooftops, making the skyline all vague and ghostly.
I, genius that I am, was out here in shorts.
Yeah.
Real smart.
The cold bit at my legs like a pack of tiny, icy piranhas, and my breath ca out in these little plus, like I was auditioning for the role of "pathetic frostbitten child #3" in so survival holo. But I didn't go back inside. I had a mission. A plan. A training arc, dammit.
And didn't old monks on mountaintops do this crap all the ti? ditate half-naked in blizzards to reach enlightennt or whatever? Surely my pale, goosebumped thighs were just part of the ancient Force tradition.
You suffer, then you get powers. Or maybe frostbite. Fifty-fifty.
Anyway.
I knelt down on the old plastital crate I'd dragged up here for exactly this kind of dramatic rooftop mont and opened the antique box.
There it was. My weird, half-spear-half-axe Force artifact thingy. Still wrapped like so museum curator's idea of proper preservation: silk-like cloth, so crisscrossed synth-twine, a wax seal that looked like soone had used their toe to press it. Whatever. Ceremony over.
I unwrapped it, and the mont my hand twitched toward it, the weapon jumped up and smacked into my palm like a loyal dog who'd also studied parkour. I couldn't help the little grin that crept up.
Gods, that never got old.
I an, yeah, my telekinesis was trash-tier most days. Like, "can barely nudge a spoon if I'm constipated with effort" trash. But the way this thing responded to ? That was power. Not big power. Not sexy power. But still—power.
I turned it in my hands, letting the cold tal whisper through my senses. The shaft had that uneven, handmade feel to it. Thick where it mattered, worn thin where hands had gripped it again and again. The faded grip texture told it'd been used. A lot. It was old, yes, but not brittle. Experienced. Like an old soldier that could still knock your teeth out if you underestimated him.
One side of the head was this clean, curved axe blade, sharp even through centuries of wear. The other side? A nasty spike that looked like it was ant to say "stay back" in a hundred different languages, including "ow." If I swung this thing at soone, I wouldn't need perfect form or Jedi grace. I'd just need enough room. Enough intent.
It was built for reach. Control. Probably used to keep multiple enemies at bay, or—if you had the guts for it—dominate a single fight with overwhelming pressure. All of this, of course, was based on extensive research I'd done at 2am while binging spear-fighting videos and trying not to think about Vasha's damp tank tops.
Don't judge. We all have our coping chanisms.
But the weapon wasn't just tal. That was the weird part. The Force ran through it—quiet, calm, like a still lake under starlight. No aggression, no lingering trauma. Just... serenity. Peace.
That threw off more than a weapon soaked in death ever could've. Because if this thing had seen real use—and it had—it had also survived in a way most weapons didn't. It had aning. Legacy. Maybe even purpose.
I probed deeper, reaching out with my Psychotry. The signatures were there, but... blurred. Obscured. Like soone had rubbed their thumb across wet paint. The Force here wasn't protecting itself, it was just... old.
Layers on layers of mory, compressed and warped, like a hundred stories told on top of each other.
The axe-head tal had sothing strange about its structure too—tightly packed at the molecular level. A lattice so dense it should've made the thing heavy as hell. But it wasn't. It felt right. Balanced.
Whoever made this knew their stuff.
And maybe, just maybe, if I could peel back those layers without frying my brain, I could see what they saw. Learn what they knew.
I took a deep breath and adjusted my grip. The mist was thick now, the chill numbing my legs, but I didn't care.
Ti to see what this thing rembered.
The mont I reached deeper into the weapon's mories, I braced for the usual psychotric onslaught—the flood of images, emotions, and fragnted sensations that usually hit like a speeder to the face. But this ti? Nothing. Just silence. The axe-staff sat in my hands, inert as a rock, like it had decided to play dead just to ss with .
I blinked. "Seriously?"
Then the rooftop vanished.
One second, I was kneeling on cold plastital, my legs numb from the chill. The next, I was standing in an open courtyard, surrounded by a dozen other figures—kids, maybe, or young adults, all dressed in identical loose robes. My hands weren't mine. Or rather, they were, but thicker, rougher, like they'd seen more work than Ezra's scrawny fingers ever had. The robe sleeves draped over my wrists, coarse fabric scratching against my skin.
What the hell?
I glanced down. The axe-staff was still in my grip, but different—cleaner, sharper, like it had just been forged yesterday. The others around held similar weapons, their faces blurred at the edges, like soone had smudged wet ink over their features. I could tell they were focused, tense, but trying to pick out details was like squinting through fog.
A voice echoed, distant but clear, cutting through the murmurs of the group:
"Through exercise... discover the Force."
"...the Force... tranquility..."
"...vitality..."
The words slipped through my head like smoke, half-ford, before the entire group moved in unison. Staffs rose, then slamd down in perfect sync, the butt ends striking the ground with a single, resonant thud. The impact vibrated up my arms, rattling my teeth.
Before I could process it, a new presence stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with a beard and a stance like he'd been carved out of a mountain. His face was just as indistinct as the others, but the aura around him was anything but vague. Calm. Heavy. The kind of quiet intensity that made the air feel thicker just by him standing there.
He planted his staff into the earth.
The ground shook. Not so symbolic tremor, either—this was a full, physical quake, strong enough to make my knees wobble. Dust kicked up from the impact, swirling around his feet like he'd just commanded the planet itself to pay attention.
Then, without a word, he began to move.
The others followed, mirroring his motions—slow, deliberate sweeps of their weapons, each movent flowing into the next like water. My body moved on its own, falling into the rhythm like muscle mory I'd never learned.
What the kriff was happening?
Was I inside the weapon's mory? Living through so ancient training drill? Or had I just hallucinated myself into a cult of polearm enthusiasts?
The bearded man's voice cut through my panic, low and steady:
"Prepare for trials."
The man turned his head—or at least, I think he did, since his face was still about as detailed as a potato—and called out:
"Varin. Prepare."
I glanced around, half-expecting so jacked warrior to step forward.
Silence.
Then I noticed.
Everyone was staring at .
My brain short-circuited. Oh. Oh no.
"Uh," I said intelligently.
The man tilted his head. "Varin?"
Right. Okay. So either:
I'd accidentally possessed so poor schmuck nad Varin mid-training, which was rude.
The axe-staff had decided that i can't cheat my way to mastery of weaponry, or atleast Force-imbued mory without actually experiencing them
Or This was all a sleep-deprivation hallucination, and any second now, Vasha was going to shake awake while yelling about drooling on her good hydrospanner again.
The man—who was definitely the instructor here, judging by the way everyone else straightened up like he'd just ntioned pop quizzes—repeated, slower this ti:
"Varin. To the center."
I swallowed. Well. If I was gonna get my ass kicked by a ghost gym teacher, I might as well commit.
I stepped forward, gripping the staff like it might save .
Before the instructor could even say anything else, one of the faceless figures stepped out of the circle.
Overexcited huh?
The guy planted his staff into the ground like it was magnetized to the planet's core. Stood straight. No wobble. Showoff. Then ca the fist-to-forehead salute. All very solemn and martial-arts-holo.
Right. Okay. When in creepy ancient Force bootcamp…
I mimicked the gesture – or tried to. Jamd my staff butt-first into the dirt.
Clatter. It faceplanted instantly.
A wave of silent judgnt radiated from the faceless crowd. Oh, bite . It's slippery!
Second try. Wobble… wobble… thud. Seriously? I hissed internally at the uncooperative stick.
Third try. It leaned precariously, held its breath… and collapsed like a drunk gonk droid. Oh, co ON!
Fourth try. Pure desperation. I practically willed it upright. Miraculously, it stayed. I slamd my fists to my forehead in the salute, probably looking like I was trying to knock myself out pre-emptively. My opponent was still frozen mid-bow, radiating secondhand embarrassnt. Awkward.
The instructor's voice bood: "Begin."
Oh, I'm gonna die. Painfully. With an audience.
The rival exploded forward. His staff whistled towards my ribs, a blur of motion I barely registered. I threw up my staff, a desperate block.
THWACK!
A shockwave of agony detonated in my forearms, making my teeth rattle. I gasped, the sound thin and reedy. Okay, vision or not, that HURTS! Is this OSHA compliant?!
Before I could blink, the other end cracked against my temple.
CRACK!
My vision swam, the blurry figures around stretching and twisting. A wave of nausea rolled over . Stars above! Is concussing students standard curriculum?! Yelp review: One star! 'Instructor stood by while Timmy got his brains scrambled!' I staggered, disoriented in this unfamiliar, taller body. My attempt at a swing was wild, off-balance. My rival sidestepped with effortless grace, like I was moving through syrup. The butt-end of his staff jabbed straight into my solar plexus.
THUD!
"OOF—!" The air exploded from my lungs in a ragged gasp. I hit the dirt, gasping like a landed fish, unable to draw breath. My chest burned. Internal organs… reporting severe dissatisfaction… union forming…
WHACK! Across the shoulders. Pain blood. OW! HEY! Personal space, pal!
THUMP! To the thigh. My leg buckled. MY LEG! Is this a spar or a tenderizing session?!
SMACK! Behind the knee. I crumpled again, a jumble of limbs and throbbing pain. Okay, seriously! Is beating the kriff out of people allowed here? Where's the HR departnt?!
I scrambled up, vision still hazy, trying to swing back. This body felt like piloting a drunk AT-AT—too long, too heavy, all wrong proportions. My staff wobbled pathetically through the air. My opponent stepped back, tapped on the forehead with his staff like I was a misbehaving pet.
BONK.
Really? REALLY?! That's just insulting!
Another flailing swing. Another easy miss. Another casual tap to my skull.
BONK.
Stop patronizing , you faceless—OW!
He wasn't even trying anymore. Just letting flail around like an idiot before casually bopping on the head. The crowd's silent judgnt was deafening.
Finally, rcifully, the instructor's voice cut through my humiliation: "Halt."
Oh thank the Force. FINALLY. I doubled over, wheezing, probably looking like I'd been put through a food processor. My opponent stepped back and gave that stupid formal salute again. Show-off.
I limped back to the circle's edge, thinking my torture was over. Ti to blend into the crowd and pretend this never happened.
"Varin."
No. No no no.
"Return to center."
I turned around slowly. Excuse ? I thought we were done with the public humiliation segnt?
A different figure stepped forward. Bigger. aner looking—or at least, as an as a faceless blob could look. This one moved with a predatory grace that made my first opponent seem like a gentle massage therapist.
Oh, co ON! What is this, a conveyor belt of pain? Do I get a punch card? Buy nine beatings, get the tenth free?
But I trudged back to center anyway. What choice did I have? The new guy planted his staff, gave his salute. I did the sa—only took two tries this ti. Progress!
"Begin."
This guy didn't explode forward. He stalked. Like a nexu circling wounded prey. I tried to keep my guard up, but my arms were already shaking from the first beating, the phantom aches almost as real as the blows I'd just taken.
He feinted left. I fell for it completely, stumbling right into his real attack. The staff cracked across my ribs with a sickening crack.
CRACK!
I gasped, the pain fresh and sharp. Agh! Different technique, sa result!
But then he did sothing my first opponent hadn't. He aid low. Really low.
My balls! NOOOOO-
CRACK
I whimpered, eyes squeezed shut against the agony as I felt every single second of my life pass by in an instant and the pearly gates opening up. I was brought back to not-so-real-reality, not by so enlightennt or realization, but by snickering ...SNICKERING. These ancient more ghost than alive warrior-monks were laughing at my testicular trauma!
No honor!No dignity! If any one of you guys were left in the galaxy, let it be known that I will personally hunt you down, you motherfucking ball shattering bastards...
The second I tried to stand, he did it again.
THUMP!
"GODS DAMN IT! STOP TARGETING MY REPRODUCTIVE FUTURE!" My voice cracked but the need of the hour made scream that aloud.
This beca the the of the fight. Every ti I managed to get vertical, WHAM—right in the family jewels. It was like he had a personal vendetta against my genetic legacy.
THIS MOTHERFUCKER!! I WILL FUCKING SKIN HIM ALIVE AND FEED THIS BASTARD HIS OWN BALLS ARGHHHH....
But slowly—painfully, literally—I started adapting. Not consciously, not skillfully, but my body rembered the first few blows, twitched away. Started reading his movents. When he went for his signature low blow, my staff, almost by instinct, dropped and blocked it.
Of course that was just my delusions of having plot armour. I was still getting roflstomped...
I managed to parry so attacks, just pure chance playing their ga, the staff clattering against mine.
Look at go! I panted, managing to deflect a strike toward my head. I'm almost competent! This is character developnt!
THUMP.
Right in the crotch again.
Never mind. Character regression.
But even as I got pumled, I could feel myself improving. My blocks were getting cleaner, less panicked. My footing, though still shaky, was more stable. By so miracle, I even landed a hit—a clumsy, flailing swing that caught him in the shoulder.
YES! Point to Varin! The crowd goes wild!
The crowd did not go wild. The crowd remained ominously silent.
"Halt."
Thank the Force. I was getting good at this! Well, "good" being relative. I'd graduated from "completely helpless" to "mildly pathetic." But hey, growth is growth!
I limped back to the edge, actually feeling a strange, battered pride. Maybe I'd earned my place now. Maybe—
"Varin."
Son of a bantha.
"Return to center."
A third figure stepped forward. This one moved differently—not just predatory, but surgical. Precise. Every step calculated, every breath controlled. When he planted his staff, it didn't wobble even slightly, sinking into the earth with a quiet thud.
Okay, what's the deal here? Is this like video ga leveling? Easy, dium, hard, then 'Oh God Why'?
The salute. The stance. "Begin."
This one didn't stalk or rush. He simply attacked. Clean, economical movents that flowed like water. No wasted motion. I tried to parry—actually succeeded a few tis, thanks to my previous beatings, my body responding with a desperate mory—but it was like trying to stop a river with a fork. Each parry rely deflected the inevitable, buying a fraction of a second.
His staff work was beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful. Every strike built on the last, creating openings, exploiting weaknesses I didn't even know I had. He moved around , a silent, deadly whirlwind, the air whistling with each precise pass of his weapon.
But I was holding my own! Sort of! I an, I was still getting hit constantly, sharp jabs to my arms, dull thuds to my legs, but I was hitting back occasionally! This was practically a miracle!
I managed to land another solid blow to his ribs, a desperate, clumsy lunge. HAH! Take that, you faceless—
Sothing changed.
The air grew colder. Sharper. My opponent's movents shifted from precise to lethal. The quality of the vision itself seed to sharpen, edges becoming clearer.
His staff spun, and suddenly the blunt training end was gone. In its place, the gleaming axe blade caught the light, reflecting the ghostly courtyard in its polished surface like a predator's smile.
"Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" I backpedaled frantically, my voice a panicked squeak. Ti out! Weapons check! We've got live steel here!
The blade whistled past my face, a chill against my skin, close enough to part my hair.
"INSTRUCTOR!" I scread, a raw, desperate sound, dodging another swing that would have taken my ear off. "Your student's gone rogue! He's trying to actually murder ! Is this normal?! Is this part of the curriculum?!"
The instructor stood motionless. Silent. Uncaring.
The axe blade carved through the air again, faster this ti, impossible to avoid.
SLICE!
Fire erupted across my chest. I looked down, disbelieving, to see my robes parting, a dark, wet red spreading rapidly across the fabric. A fresh, blinding agony tore through .
"ARE YOU SEEING THIS?!" I stumbled backward, pressing my hand to the wound, feeling the hot stickiness of blood against my palm. "He's literally trying to kill ! With actual murder-weapons! This is not a training exercise!"
Another swing. Another line of agony across my arm. The vision intensified, the pain searingly real.
SLICE!
"This is INSANE!" Blood ran down my fingers, dripping onto the coarse robe.
I want my money back! I want a different instructor! I want my mommy!!
I tried to run, tried to scramble out of the circle, but my legs were heavy, sluggish. The blade caught across the back.
SLICE!
I hit the ground hard, vision blurring, the taste of dust and blood in my mouth. My body convulsed, every nerve screaming. The faceless crowd watched in perfect silence as my opponent raised his staff one final ti.
The axe blade glead, poised above my skull, cold and sharp.
"Wait," I gasped, my voice choked. "Wait, please, I—"
CHUNK.
A pain that ca and went in instant, combined with the embrace of darkness so dark that I forgot which world I was in, took my senses on a mushroom filled trip across space and ti in the instance of a mont.
—
GASP.
I was hunched over the axe-staff, real air burning my lungs, and my whole body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
A very weak lead. A Very strong hurricane.
Every phantom wound throbbed with rembered pain, a deep, bone-aching ache that resonated through my limbs. My chest felt tight and my breath ragged.
I frantically checked myself over, tearing at my shirt. No cuts. No blood. Just sweat and the lingering, visceral sensation of being filleted like a fish. The cold mist on my skin felt like a ghost of the blade.
"What the actual HELL was that?!" I wheezed at the weapon, my voice trembling. "So kind of sadistic training simulator?!"
The axe-staff humd with serene, peaceful energy in my trembling hands.
I wanted to throw it off the roof.
Instead, I just sat there shaking, trying to drag in enough oxygen, wondering what kind of insane warrior culture had thought death-by-training was a reasonable educational strategy.
I still threw it through, just on the roof-floor. A bit delicately too. Pricy it was, an single trauma was not enough for to gutter down the credits.
"These people were psychopaths," I muttered, teeth chattering, partly from the cold, partly from the lingering terror. "Absolutely kriffing psychopaths."
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Sorry for the delay in posting chapter here, ngl I had forgotten about updating it here...I deserve to be stoned, especially after saying all that about proper ti updates and all (T-T)
A/N: How was the first combat of the story? Good, bad, needs improvent ? Gim feedback.
And was anyone able to guess who are these people? Whoever does it first gets an 1 month patreon sub for free.
If you want to support or read advanced chapters, you can do so at Patreon. I would be highly appreciative of that and it would support very much in my writing endeavors.
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