Chapter VIII Part III

Zeke’s quiet chime stirs me before the sun even crests the edge of the caldera. I blink hard, muscles sore but less rebellious than before. Three weeks in. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and grunt as my weighted vest creaks under the shift. Papa made this for me upon a suggestion offered by Apollo, the lining of the fabric with compressed alloy plates. Apollo called it “augmented endurance wear.” I call it “hell.”

Still, I strap it on, tug the buckles tight across my sports bra, and stretch. Outside, the morning air nips at my skin, crisp and clean. The sky is stained the color of ripe peaches and fading stars. I start my run around the lake, the vest making every step land with more weight, but I don’t stumble. My stride is smoother now. Stronger.

By the time I finish my second lap, Zeke hovers ahead of me, ticking out my time in his clipped accent. “Six minutes, twenty-two seconds. Thirty-eight seconds faster than last luminday.”

“Good,” I breathe, pressing my hands to my knees. “Now let’s ruin the rest of me.”

After a lightning-quick rinse and a shared breakfast where I barely sit long enough to chew, Papa herds the twins into the speeder. Talia balances Erza on her hip as they wave goodbye. She gives me a nod — not quite a smile, but the kind that says she’s proud. I nod back, still chewing.

Then I’m alone. Well, not quite.

Apollo is already in the dojo waiting.

“You’ll begin with balance and deflection,” he says as I enter, towel still around my neck. “Today’s remotes will fire from random directions. Weighted vest stays on. And—”

“Blindfolded,” I finish for him, sighing. “Of course.”

I wrap the cloth over my eyes, heart quickening. I’ve done this before. But now with the vest? And while balancing on one of Papa’s Force plinths?

I step onto the narrow platform, feel the wobble under my boots, and ignite my lightsaber in single-blade form.

The first bolt zips past my ear and I flinch—but I don’t fall.

I reach with the Force. Not through sight. Through air. Vibration. I feel the hum before the second bolt comes and angle my blade—snap-hiss—a crackle of energy bounces away.

Another. Then three at once. I twist my body, keeping my core tight like Apollo taught me. My blade swipes the air and tags two bolts. The third stings my side, but I don’t topple.

“Better,” Apollo says, voice neutral. “Reset.”

I drop to the mat. Sweat beads down my spine. My arms shake, but not from weakness — from focus.

Next is the puzzle. A floating cube of interlocking plates hovers near the dojo wall, suspended in a stasis field. Papa built it when I was twelve, said it was based on ancient Jedi training techniques.

Today, I’m expected to solve it… while sparring.

The IG-100 droid steps forward. It’s quiet. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t warn. Papa’s programming. That’s how he trained.

I ignite one half of my lightsaber — single blade — and lift the Force cube in the air. Its surfaces shimmer faintly, geometric runes shifting in patterns.

The droid lunges.

I pivot, blade intercepting its staff in a clang of metal. As I block, a part of my focus pivots toward the cube. A section rotates. Almost there—

The droid strikes again. Faster. I parry, step back, crouch, jump. My blade hums, the magenta light streaking across the floor like a comet’s tail. But I keep at it.

Piece by piece, I shift the cube’s edges, trying to form a full pattern. I dodge. I deflect. My breath comes faster, sweat dripping down my temple, stinging my eyes.

I don’t complete the puzzle. But I almost do.

The droid halts when I slice its staff in two. Apollo nods once.

“You lasted five minutes longer. Your Force grip on the puzzle remained steady even under pressure.”

“Thanks,” I pant, leaning against the wall. “Can’t wait to do it again.” I mean it.

Later that afternoon, I’m down at the shooting range. The caldera air is warm, dry, carrying a breeze that rustles the canvas above the training canopy. I line up my blaster with the targets.

Apollo’s newest drill: blindfolded quickdraw. Five targets. I have ten seconds.

“You may begin,” Apollo says from somewhere off to the side.

I exhale. Let the Force guide me. Feel the pulse of each pop-up target before they rise. Then I draw.

Zzt-zzt-zzt-zzt-zzt.

I hit three.

“Improved,” he notes. “But not consistent. Try again.”

And I do. Over and over.

By the sixth round, I hit four. On the eighth, all five.

My fingers are raw by the time I holster the blaster. My arms throb from the recoil and weight of my vest. But something inside me—some core of light, or will, or stubbornness—burns brighter.

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That evening, the twins return. They rush toward the dojo as I’m finishing my cooldown stretches near the bench outside. My vest is on the ground. I’m drenched in sweat, arms wrapped in bandages from the droid spar.

Mirajane’s eyes go wide. “Was that you fighting in there?”

“You sounded like a whole squad,” Lisanna adds, half teasing, half amazed.

I grin weakly. “One squad. One sore squad.”

“Your swing was way cleaner than last week,” Mira says. “And you actually hit the remotes.”

“We saw it,” Lisanna chimes. “From the hall!”

I nod, too exhausted to beam properly, but inside—I’m glowing.

The next day, Talia hands me a book wrapped in green linen.

“Found this,” she says, “when I was organizing the bottom shelves. Thought it might help.”

The script is in Elvish. A form of air magic called Linta Gwaew or ‘Swift Wind’ where air magic is utilized to improve movement in combat.

I spend the next two afternoons poring over its pages, cross-legged on the dojo mat. The diagrams show stances, breathing control, and how to guide wind through motion.

When I try the forms, it’s clumsy. My hands catch the current, but my feet don’t follow. I trip. The wind slips past my fingers like a fish through water.

Still, it’s something.

Apollo adds it to my reflex training.

Striking Sun has also shifted. I still struggle with kicks—my balance with the vest throws me off—but they’re sharper now. Fire moves with my kicks, my punches. My sisters gasp now as I practice Striking Sun.

Papa watches from afar one morning while pretending to repair the garden spigot.

I notice him. He knows I notice him. But neither of us says anything.

I keep practicing. He keeps watching.

And I’m finally okay with that.

As the third week comes to an end, my body feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone faster. Stronger. Smarter.

The dojo lights flicker on as I step barefoot onto the polished floor, each step weighted with purpose—and literal weight. The vest strapped to my torso pulls heavy against my shoulders, bands cinched around my wrists and ankles tighten with every breath. Papa's latest invention, weighted clothing tuned to match my progress. I roll my neck, feeling the ache of a month of effort settle into my muscles.

Apollo stands near the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. "Final test is set. Ready?"

I nod. "Let’s do this."

The far wall slides open, and four IG-100 droids step forward in perfect synchronization, their gleaming forms catching the dojo’s overhead light. Training remotes drift into place above them, ten in total, each humming with quiet menace. Their emitters glow faint red. This isn’t a drill. These are real bolts.

In the center of the room, a black pedestal rises. A small cube rests on it: my Force puzzle. I can already feel its energy thrumming.

"Begin," Apollo says.

The first bolt fires.

I drop into a crouch, drawing my lightsaber with a single motion. The magenta blade flares to life, catching the bolt mid-arc and deflecting it into the floor. Another follows, then three more. I twist, pivot, and knock each away, the hum of my blade blending with the sharp sizzle of deflected energy.

The droids charge.

I spring forward, the floor groaning beneath my weighted boots. My limbs burn with the effort, but I call on Linta Gwaew—the air magic Talia taught me. It dances at the edge of my senses, like wind over water. I reach for it, bending the flow around my legs, and vault over the nearest droid's blade. My foot plants against its shoulder. I twist midair and slice clean through its back as I land.

One down.

The next swings low. I drop to the ground and roll, coming up with Striking Sun burning in my arms. My palm thrusts forward, and fire surges from my elbow down through my fingers. It strikes the droid's chest plate, staggering it. I don’t hesitate. I follow with a leaping spin and bring my saber down through its head. The shell sparks and falls.

Two.

Blaster bolts rain around me. I kick off the ground and spin sideways, using Linta Gwaew to lighten my movement. The added weight fights me, but the wind answers, cushioning my step. I twist behind the Force pedestal, letting the puzzle steady me.

Meanwhile, the puzzle shifts.

It rearranges itself. A triangle becomes a square. Symbols glow faintly. I stretch out my senses, trying to feel its rhythm, even as a bolt slams into the floor inches from my knee.

I leap again, kicking off the pedestal to regain height. I slash a remote in half as I twist midair, its sparking shell tumbling. Another bolt fires, grazing the side of my arm wrap. No contact. Close.

An IG-100 droid charges, blade whirling. I meet it head-on, clashing in a burst of purple and blue. Sparks fly as we lock sabers. I press forward, muscle burning, then twist my blade and wrench its weapon out of position. I sweep my leg low—Linta Gwaew softens my step just enough to stay nimble despite the weight. The droid stumbles, and I jam my saber up through its torso.

Three.

A remote tries to flank me. I feel it. Not see, feel. The Force ripples like a stone in water. I spin and slash upward without looking. The bolt never lands. The remote explodes in a flash of sparks.

I drop to one knee beside the puzzle. My hands hover over it. I close my eyes. Let go. Trust the Force. A faint wind tugs at my hair, even though the air is still. Symbols shift. I push gently.

Click.

A soft hum vibrates through the puzzle.

But there's no time to celebrate. The last droid lunges. I backpedal, drawing both halves of my lightsaber and splitting the hilt. Twin blades ignite in tandem. I fall into the rhythm Papa drilled into me. Dual stance. Close quarters. Control.

The droid swings low. I catch it with my right saber, redirecting. The left cuts across its side. It spins to retaliate—I duck, bring both blades together, and drive them into its chest.

Four.

But I’m not done.

Six remotes remain.

Bolts zip through the air. I close my eyes and let the wind guide me. Linta Gwaew swirls around my ankles, lifting me lightly off the floor. The Force pulses through my core. I weave between shots, turning my body into motion incarnate.

Slash. One remote down.

Duck. Roll. Bolt deflected.

Jump. Midair spin. I slice through another.

I land hard, knees buckling slightly under the weight. A pulse of pain shoots up my calves but I push through. My tail whips behind me for balance. Two more bolts fly in. I redirect one into the ceiling. The other clips my hair as I bend low and surge forward.

A remote explodes behind me.

Another veers to my left. I hurl one of my sabers—magenta light spinning like a comet—and it severs the emitter. The saber returns to my hand with a hiss of energy.

Only one remote left.

It hovers high, bobbing. Waiting. I stare it down.

Then I bolt.

The wind carries me. Just enough. I run up the wall, flipping backward at the peak of my momentum. I twist in the air, eyes on the glowing sphere. For a moment, everything slows.

My blade arcs.

The remote splits in half.

I land on both feet, sliding slightly. My breaths are ragged, sweat dripping down my back. But I’m still standing. No hits. No hesitation. Not anymore.

The dojo is quiet.

Apollo walks forward, arms crossed. "You didn’t just pass," he says, his voice soft with pride. "You surpassed every metric."

The pedestal glows faintly. The Force puzzle is solved. The droids are scrap. The air smells of ozone and scorched metal.

I shut off my lightsaber and clip it to my belt. My chest rises and falls. My tail twitches with tension, then slowly settles. I can't help but smile. I thank Apollo.

Zeke, who had been watching from the ceiling beam, lets out a proud beep and flutters down beside me. I rub his side affectionately.

"Zeke," I whisper, smiling. "We did it."

Apollo steps forward, placing a towel over my shoulders. "The four weeks are over, Nikko. You’ve become something else entirely."

I exhale, staring at the remains around me. Then I look toward the manor beyond the dojo walls.

No more shadows. I’m ready to walk my own path now.