Chapter VIII Part I

Zeke wakes me before the first ray of sunlight even touches the treetops. His optic flickers on with a soft chime, and he lets out a low-pitched beep beside my bed.

I groan and sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Alright, alright… I’m up,” I mutter.

The air in my room is cool, tinged with that crisp autumn bite. I slip into my training shorts and sports bra, stretch for a few minutes, then tie my hair up in a tight ponytail. My muscles are still sore from yesterday’s warm-up drills — and yesterday was just preparation.

I step out into the brisk morning air and begin my jog around the lake.

The caldera is still half-asleep. Mist clings to the water’s surface, curling over like breath from a dragon’s snout. My feet crunch against the pebbled path that loops around the shoreline. Every breath clouds before me. Every stride sends a little jolt through my calves. I keep going — past the grove of trees where the wind likes to whisper, past the steep hill where Papa once demonstrated how to safely tumble with Force-enhanced momentum.

A few laps later, soaked in sweat and panting hard, I slow to a walk and catch my breath at the lakeside dock. My reflection ripples beneath me. The girl staring back has changed and not just physically.

After a quick shower and a fresh change of clothes, I head to the kitchen.

Talia is preparing the twins’ lunches, Erza already munching on a sliced pear in her highchair. Papa stands near the counter already in his armor and robes, sipping tea, while the twins squabble over which pastries to pack for morning break. His mask is resting on the table IG-22 and Rebecca left earlier in the week.

“Morning,” I mumble, grabbing a piece of buttered toast and a hard-boiled egg.

“You’re up early,” Papa says with a small smile.

I nod and glance at the time. “Training,” I say through a mouthful of toast.

“You’ve really thrown yourself into this, haven’t you?” Talia comments gently, tucking a curl of platinum hair behind her ear.

I shrug. “Of course.”

Papa steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder — solid, grounding. “Pace yourself. Mastery doesn’t come in a day.”

“Neither did you,” I tease lightly, and he smirks.

Ten minutes later, they’re off. Papa takes the twins to school in Arroyo. Talia joins him with Erza to meet with the other mothers. I wave them off as the Crucible lifts off in a low hum, Zeke chirping beside me as I shield my eyes from the dust kicked up by the engines.

Apollo stands waiting at the manor’s front door, and once the Crucible disappears past the horizon, I’m alone — well, almost. Just me, Apollo, and Zeke.

I rush through my chores like muscle memory: gathering the last of the fallen leaves from the garden beds, vacuuming the lower halls, checking on the beehives, and scooping the fruit that dropped overnight from the backyard trees. The scent of overripe pears clings to my gloves. I deposit everything into the mulch bin, rinse off, and finally — finally — head to the dojo.

The air inside is still and quiet, but I can feel the history in these walls. The training mats. The old burn marks from stray saber strikes. Papa’s presence lingers here in subtle ways — in the discipline, the weight of the air, the pressure to be better.

Today is for the Force.

I kneel in the center of the dojo, close my eyes, and breathe.

In… out. In… out.

I try to still my thoughts — to feel that quiet current of energy that Papa always spoke about. The living Force. The gentle tide that connects all things.

But my mind keeps wandering. To the lightsaber duel I haven’t had yet. To the magenta blade and what it might mean. To the villagers in Arroyo who still barely look at me.

Stop.

I draw in a sharper breath, then slowly exhale.

Focus.

Time slips by. Eventually, I feel the faintest ripple — like a whisper on the edge of my senses. I reach for it, try to lift one of the wooden training blocks in front of me. It wobbles. Shudders. Then drops with a dull thud.

An hour passes.

I try again, this time by the lake. I move to larger things — lifting flat stones, then trying to stack them with precision. I manage one. Then two. The third topples the whole stack. The fourth cracks against the base of a tree.

Zeke lets out a sympathetic beep beside me.

“Yeah,” I mutter, “I know.”

Back inside the dojo, I switch to reflex training. The seeker remote hovers to life, floating in lazy circles around me. I drop the black cloth over my eyes, centering myself, just like Papa taught me years ago.

The hiss of a bolt fires — I miss.

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Another — I swing wide.

A third — I block it, barely. The sting against my arm still gets through.

The remotes aren’t forgiving today. I’m too slow, too unfocused. Sweat drips down my neck. My braid clings to my back.

I grit my teeth, reset the remote, and go again.

Then again.

Then again.

By the time the sun begins to dip behind the trees, my arms ache, my legs tremble, and I’ve got three fresh bruises where the bolts hit home. I sink into the tub filled with ice-cold water, hissing through my teeth as the chill sinks in.

Later, as I sit wrapped in a towel, Talia checks over the red welts on my shoulders. “Overdid it again?” she asks with a knowing smile.

“Just a bit,” I mutter.

She hums and places her hand over one bruise. Her healing magic is warm, soft — like sunlight through gauze. The ache fades a little.

I don’t let the soreness stop me.

After breakfast with my family, I hug Erza goodbye, wave to my sisters, and watch Papa and Talia load into the Crucible. The wind picks up as the engines hum to life, kicking up a few loose leaves as the ship lifts into the morning sky, angling southeast toward Arroyo. The moment they vanish over the lake, I turn on my heel and march back inside. Time to train.

Chores are done quickly, just the minimum. I vacuum the halls and mop the kitchen floor, but I don’t linger.

Today, I’m focusing on lightsaber training. I start with the basics—stance, grip, motion. In the dojo, the sunlight slants through the high windows, cutting across the polished wood floor in golden bands. I stretch my arms, roll my shoulders, and ignite my saber.

The magenta blade hums to life with its usual snap-hiss. I start with the single blade, using slow deliberate movements. Overhead strikes. Sweeping arcs. A quick lunge forward, followed by a sidestep and pivot. My feet slip once, nearly sending me off balance.

“Again,” I whisper to myself.

Over and over, I repeat the same combinations until my arms ache. Then I twist the hilt, separating the saber into twin blades. The weight changes slightly—lighter in each hand, more agile, but harder to control. My coordination isn’t there yet. A spin nearly causes the right hilt to slip from my fingers.

I grimace. “Come on, Nikko. Focus.”

Zeke hovers nearby, his optical sensors glowing a soft blue. He doesn’t speak, just watches with a quiet hum of repulsors. Apollo, from the corner of the room, says nothing but logs my movements.

After twenty more minutes, I shut off my saber and step outside.

The air is crisp, the leaves rustling overhead as I make my way around the lake to the far caldera. There, beneath the canopy Papa built, I start blaster drills. The moving targets rise on metal arms, whirring into position. Others blink into existence, hard-light projections meant to simulate unpredictable enemies.

I holster my sidearm—standard grip, single action—and stand at the ready.

Beep.

A blue target appears five meters away. I draw and fire.

Miss.

Another appears, this time red. I manage to hit the edge.

Again. Again. I keep going until my arms start to tremble and my breaths come in shorter gasps. I reload and holster between drills, sweat dampening my undershirt.

By mid-afternoon, the sun begins its slow descent. The light turns golden again, longer shadows stretching across the grass. I head back to the manor, trying to shake the exhaustion from my limbs.

But the moment I return to the dojo for another round, I hear them.

“Whoa! Nikko’s training again!” Mirajane’s voice carries through the open window. I glance up and see both my sisters—still in their school uniforms—sitting cross-legged just beyond the doors.

“You’ve been out here all day?” Lisanna asks, wide-eyed.

I sigh but can’t help smiling. “Yes.”

“Cool,” they say in unison, grinning as they nudge each other.

Their presence is both a distraction and motivation. I switch back to staff mode—my double-bladed configuration—and start running through the kata again. This time, I’m faster. Cleaner. Not perfect, but getting there.

When I trip over my own foot mid-spin, both twins gasp, then break into laughter.

“I meant to do that,” I mutter.

“Sure you did,” Lisanna teases.

By sundown, I can barely lift my arms. My shirt clings to me, soaked through, and even my tail is sore. I shut down the lightsaber and head inside without a word.

Upstairs, I collapse into the bath. Talia left fresh towels and an herbal soak, but I swap it out for ice water. It bites into my skin, shocking, but gods does it help. I sink in, teeth gritted.

Later, Talia comes in and heals the fresh bruises—one on my shoulder, one on my calf. Her hands glow softly with magic as she hums something under her breath. She doesn’t scold. She never does. Just gently pats my cheek when she’s done.

“You’re working too hard, sweetie. Just remember, strength comes slowly.”

I nod, too tired to speak.

As night falls, I wrap myself in warm clothes and crawl into bed, sore and spent, but determined. Tomorrow, I’ll train harder.

The dojo smells like sweat and old wood.

I toss the sweaty rag onto the bench and ignite my lightsaber in single-blade mode, the magenta glow casting soft hues on the polished floor. Zeke hovers at the edge of the room, chirping quietly as if taking notes. Across from me stands the IG-100 droid—silent, still, waiting for my move.

I exhale through my nose, feet shoulder-width apart. Then I charge.

The droid blocks my strike easily, parries with a clean twist of its practice saber, and sweeps low. I jump—barely. My foot scrapes the mat. I stumble.

“Again,” I mutter and reset my stance.

It’s the fifth round today, maybe sixth. I’ve lost count. Sweat clings to my back, dripping down my spine. My grip’s starting to slip, but I hold on.

I switch to double-blade mode.

The hiss of the second blade extending makes the droid pause—but only for a moment. I swing wide, trying to control the weight of the extended staff. My form’s off—my left hand slips slightly out of alignment, and I over-rotate. The droid capitalizes on it and knocks me off balance with a hard shoulder bash.

I land hard on my side, my towel-skirt from earlier replaced now with thick cotton training pants that offer little cushion. I grunt and sit up, rubbing my ribs.

Then I hear it. A faint knock against the wood by the door.

Talia leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, her long platinum braid draped over one shoulder. She’s wearing a simple green blouse and skirt, still dotted with flour near the sleeves. She must’ve just gotten back from Arroyo. I didn’t even pick up the Crucible landing.

“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, panting.

“Long enough,” she says, smiling softly. “You’re overcompensating on your spin transitions. Too much force in the pivot. You’re pushing instead of flowing.”

I blink, caught between surprise and annoyance.

“I thought you didn’t fight with sabers.”

“I don’t,” she says, stepping inside. “But I trained to read movement, remember?”

Right. Lindor'Thar. The dance-like combat style she taught me. Movement and momentum. Designed to redirect an opponents energy, or momentum, against them.

Talia walks over and brushes a stray bang out of my face. “Take a break, Nikko. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“I need to,” I mutter. “I have to get better.”

“You will. But not all at once.” She crouches beside me, her elven eyes soft. “Your body needs time to learn. You’ve always been determined—but stubbornness and strain aren’t the same thing as progress.”

I sigh, letting my shoulders drop. The droid stands motionless, saber still raised.

Talia stands and brushes her hands on her skirt. “I’ll make some tea. When you’re done, come sit with me. Just for a bit.”

She heads out, leaving me with my failure and the quiet hum of the dojo’s ambient lights. I pick up my saber again and look at the grip. My grip. My weapon.

I stand.

Just one more round.