Chapter IX Part I

The air in the dojo feels different today. Charged. Still.

Like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for me to step onto the floor.

My heart hammers like a war drum beneath my ribs as I enter the training chamber. Every sound seems sharpened—the faint creak of the polished wood beneath my boots, the whisper of leaves outside carried faintly through the papered walls, the electric hum of the Force thrumming in my ears.

They’re all here.

Zeke chirps softly from one corner, his round frame humming with nervous static. Apollo stands beside him, arms folded, silent as a sentinel, unreadable as ever. DP-8 leans against a column, optical sensors whirring faintly as if analyzing every shift in my posture. Up above, perched on the balcony rail, my sisters kick their legs and grin at me like it’s a festival show. Mira is practically vibrating with excitement. Lisanna’s smile glitters in the lantern light.

And there’s Talia behind the twins. She holds Erza against her shoulder, her shawl gathered tight around her, brows furrowed in worry. Even from across the dojo I can feel the tension in her stance. She’s afraid. Afraid of what’s about to happen. Afraid of what Papa and I are about to do to each other.

And at the center of it all…

Papa.

He’s waiting for me, standing tall in the middle of the chamber.

The golden and ivory plates of his temple guard armor gleam under the lantern light, ceremonial yet battle-ready, wrapped in the deep folds of black robes that shift like smoke when he moves. His helmet conceals his face, but I don’t need to see it—I can feel his presence pressing against mine. Calm. Steady. Immovable, like the roots of an ancient mountain.

In his hand, his yellow lightsaber ignites, a steady thrum that vibrates against the wooden beams. The glow cuts shadows across his armor, painting the walls with flickering gold. It’s not just a weapon in his grip—it’s a warning.

I ignite mine.

The snap-hiss cracks through the silence like thunder, and the magenta blade flares into being. The hum answers his, bright and alive, filling the chamber with a second pulse.

The twins gasp above me.

“Ooooh! So pretty!” Mira squeals, practically falling over the railing.

“She looks so cool,” Lisanna adds breathlessly, leaning forward on her elbows.

The heat of the blade tingles against my skin. The weight feels perfect in my hand—balanced, steady. Alive.

Papa inclines his head ever so slightly. “Are you ready?”

My throat feels dry. I inhale slowly, pulling air deep into my chest, then let it out.

“I am.”

He nods.

I barely get into a stance before he moves.

He strikes like a thunderbolt.

The yellow blade crashes toward me with enough force to split stone. Instinct screams—I raise my saber just in time. The impact shudders down my arms, rattling every bone in my wrists. Sparks burst between us in a shower of gold and magenta.

I stagger but catch my footing. He’s already spinning, low and fast, his blade sweeping for my side. I pivot hard, dropping into a roll as his saber hisses just above me. Heat skims my cheek.

He doesn’t stop.

He never stops.

Another strike. Then another. The dojo becomes a storm of light and movement—magenta against yellow, the hum of plasma, the ring of sparks scattering like fireworks on festival night. His blade presses down from every angle, relentless, precise. He’s testing me. Driving me. Not letting me breathe.

I duck. Parry. Pivot. My braid whips against my back as I flip backwards, calling the wind to my feet.

I concentrate and use Linta Gwaew. A rush of air cushions my leap, carrying me higher, faster, letting me land lightly a few paces away. My chest heaves. My muscles already burn.

He closes the distance in a single stride, saber flashing downward. I block, sparks erupting again. The impact pushes me back, my boots skidding across polished wood.

“You’ve improved,” Papa says, calm as stone. His voice almost doesn’t match the storm he’s bringing down on me. His saber loops overhead, cutting for my shoulder.

I twist, sliding low beneath it, the hum grazing past my ear. I spin out, my blade sweeping in reply. He pivots and blocks with the ease of a man swatting aside a branch.

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“You’re still holding back,” I pant. My lungs burn, but there’s a grin tugging at my lips. I can feel it. The rhythm. The rush.

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he raises one hand.

The floor rumbles.

I leap instinctively just as a jagged spike of stone erupts beneath me, tearing through the polished wood like a dragon’s tooth. Another burst of wind carries me higher, sailing me over his head. My braid streams like a comet’s tail.

Gasps echo from the balcony. Talia’s sharp intake of breath cuts through them all. I shove the sound from my mind. I can’t think about her right now. Can’t think about anyone but him.

I land on one knee, blade raised. My chest thrums with adrenaline. My arms ache from the weight of every clash. And Papa is still there, calm and unshaken, waiting for me to come again.

Papa doesn’t give me time to recover. His hand rises, fingers sparking.

Blue-white lightning lashes across the dojo.

I jerk my saber vertical just in time. The bolt slams into the magenta blade with a crack like the sky itself splitting. Arcs explode outward, crawling over the ceiling beams, scorching the floorboards. My arms shake violently under the pressure, every nerve screaming with heat and static. My teeth clench, my breath stuck halfway in my chest—

But I hold.

I. Hold.

The lightning splits and dances around me, blue fire against violet light, until I shove upward with a roar. A blast of the Force bursts from my chest, breaking the lock. Papa skids back a few paces, boots gouging shallow trails in the wood.

I don’t hesitate. I press forward.

My thumb flicks the secondary switch. With a satisfying hiss, the hilt in my hand separates. The magenta blade splits in two—twin sabers humming, one in each fist. The balance shifts instantly, my stance lowering, weight distributing evenly. The rhythm changes.

Papa tilts his head slightly, yellow blade steady.

“Dual wielding,” he observes, calm even now. “Very good.”

A grin splits my face despite the burn in my lungs.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

I surge forward, sabers blurring in alternating arcs—right slash, left spin, downward cut, upward thrust. A storm of violet fire. Sparks rain as our blades collide, the clash of energy filling the chamber with a furious song.

He blocks. Every attack. But I can feel it—he’s giving ground now, just an inch at a time. My speed is climbing. His cloak shifts as he pivots to intercept a low slash; I twist and nearly catch his side. Almost.

Then his foot sweeps low.

I leap, clearing it, but his palm snaps out as I hang in the air.

Fire explodes from his hand.

Too close. Too fast.

Heat sears my hip as the fireball screams past, licking the edge of my robe. The fabric sizzles, a black scar burning across the hem. My heart lurches. If I’d been a fraction slower—

I hit the ground in a roll, coming up with both sabers flashing in an X. His blade meets them with a thunderous crash, sparks spraying across my cheek.

He leans into the lock, his strength immense. My arms tremble, my knees digging into the floor. The yellow blade presses closer, humming loud enough to drown out thought.

I snarl and shove upward with a burst of wind magic, forcing him back. He slides a pace, cloak fluttering with the rush.

My chest heaves. Sweat drips down my temple, stinging my eyes. The heat of the lightning still buzzes across my skin, and the scent of scorched fabric lingers in the air.

But my mind is clear.

Sharper than it’s ever been.

I slam my sabers together, the hilts rejoining into one. The double-blade ignites with a snap-hiss, magenta plasma stretching from both ends. The hum deepens, vibrating through my arms, the sheer weight of power intoxicating.

Papa’s helmet tilts slightly. “Ah.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Adapting. Good.”

The next exchange is chaos.

I spin, the double-blade a whirlwind of violet light, sweeping low then high, cutting arcs in rapid succession. He deflects each strike with minimal movement, but I hear the strain in his saber as it screeches against mine. Sparks pepper the floor in golden showers.

He sidesteps a thrust, cloak snapping, and I follow with a spinning kick laced in fire. He ducks back just in time, but the flames lick his shoulder. A faint scorch mark smolders against his robe.

The twins gasp from above.

“She burned him!” Mira squeals.

“Papa’s cloak is on fire!” Lisanna adds, equal parts horror and glee.

Papa extinguishes the scorch with a flick of his wrist, calm as ever. But his stance lowers. His blade hums louder, vibrating with restrained intensity.

I roll my shoulders, breath ragged, double-blade humming between us.

“Still holding back?” I taunt, though my arms ache from the weight of every strike.

For the first time, I feel it—his presence tightening, pressing harder against mine. The mountain is shifting. Crap. He was holding back still.

Then he moves.

Faster. Sharper. His saber lashes in precise, merciless arcs, high to low, right to left, unrelenting. I catch the first. Block the second. Spin to meet the third. But he’s everywhere at once, forcing me back with each blow. The air around us trembles from the sheer force of our strikes.

I parry a thrust aimed for my ribs, but he twists, nearly catching my chin with the hilt. I duck, heart hammering, my tail lashing in reflex. I spin out, double-blade sweeping in a wide arc. He leaps over it, flipping behind me.

I whirl, just in time, sabers meeting once more in a crackling storm.

This is different now.

He’s not testing anymore.