Dead space, riddled with thousands of burning points. Distant stars, around which hundreds of thousands of resource-rich planets revolved. And populations so unwise that they needed proper governance. Commercial governance.
For everything in this life was a market.
Relationships between sentient beings are a market, with its own supply and demand. No one ever does anything for free. Every service one sentient provides to another carries certain obligations. Unless, of course, you didn't demand credits for your help.
You can always turn to your debtor and demand reciprocal assistance. And no one will ever refuse you.
"Captain," Wat Tambor addressed the sentient commanding the CIS forces in orbit of Ryloth in a booming voice. "Are you ready?"
Mar Tuuk, leaning back in the command chair of his Lucrehulk-class flagship, allowed himself a smile. The head of the Techno Union had pulled him from the thoughts he'd been immersed in while waiting for the Republic invasion to begin.
"Our blockade is impenetrable," the captain said proudly. "When the Republic forces attack, they will be surprised. And defeated."
"I'm counting on you, Captain!" Wat Tambor said, a note of warning in his voice. "We cannot allow the Republicans to retake the planet!"
The head of the Techno Union, who had already ended the holo-call, didn't see the second smile spread across Mar Tuuk's face. Just as he didn't know the details of Tuuk's plan.
Tambor, in principle, had little interest in details. Results were what mattered to him. How they were achieved was information that could be disregarded. Therefore, his trust in the captain, who had already clashed with Republic ships multiple times and emerged victorious, was immense.
CIS intelligence kept its command thoroughly informed about every upcoming counteroffensive on Ryloth. And this data was always accurate. Which allowed them to achieve maximum results with minimal losses.
Mar Tuuk was born on the planet Neimoidia. Like all the inhabitants of his world, he had been introduced to work for the Trade Federation from an early age. His extraordinary mind and ability to achieve results allowed him to quickly stand out among his competitors. And now, while his envious rivals pored over financial reports, he commanded fleets. And brought death to Republican scum.
He knew the enemy's plan down to the last detail.
The clones' vigilance had been lulled by the apparent insignificance of the blockade fleet. And so they had divided their forces into two groups.
The first consisted of three Venator-class ships. Under the command of Admiral Yularen and General Skywalker, they were to breach the blockade, thereby facilitating the landing of the ground forces that, five hours behind, were rushing to their deaths following their predecessors.
Well, to sober up the Jedi's arrogance, Mar had devised something new and elegant.
He had never disdained using others' developments — if they were useful for his work, why not borrow them?
The destruction of General Grievous's armada had been a demonstration for the Separatists. And while others lamented, counting their losses, he watched the recording of that battle. Again and again. Until he had mastered the tactics the Jedi had used at the time. And the tactic of using reinforcements that suddenly emerged from hyperspace had worked perfectly — two Jedi task forces on Ryloth's orbit had been destroyed out of two.
And the third was next.
Mar devoted a great deal of time to studying his opponents. And Skywalker, Yularen — they were no exception. The impetuousness of the former's tactics and the caution of the latter — these were contradictions that proved fatal when forces under the command of two such commanders were too meager. Three destroyers, even Venators, against his fleet... They didn't stand a chance.
Of course, one couldn't rule out the possibility that Skywalker, the student of Kenobi, who was known for his cunning and guile, would come up with some new trick. But the Neimoidian had no doubt he would see through it.
And once Skywalker and Yularen were defeated, he, Mar Tuuk, would stand alongside the celebrated generals and admirals of the CIS. Which, in turn, after the successful conclusion of the war, would open the door for him to the highest circles of power in the Trade Federation.
"Commander," a B-1 droid appeared in his field of view. "The Republic fleet has emerged from hyperspace."
"Excellent, Commander," a predatory smile spread across the Neimoidian's face. "Launch the assault fighters."
* * *
Admiral Trench couldn't help but smile when the tactical droid informed him of the Republic ships that had emerged from hyperspace.
"Perfect," the Harch clicked. Glancing at the records on his datapad, he flashed his artificial eye — one of many. "Exactly as the spies reported."
Five Republic Venator-class Star Destroyers were re-forming into a battle formation at a respectful distance from Geonosis's orbit. Outside the firing range of the Separatist fleet's shipboard weapons. Furthermore, the distance separating the opposing ships was supposed to protect the Jedi fleet from a lightning attack by CIS fighters.
At least, that's what the Republic warriors themselves thought. However, in the few minutes since their arrival in the system, they should have already realized that Trench knew about their invasion.
"Order the Vultures and Hyenas to begin the attack," the admiral said, examining the holographic terminal displaying the positions of ships in the system, satisfied.
Unfortunately, the current realities of hyperspace transitions didn't allow one to predict with precision exactly which point in the system the invasion ships would appear at. However, knowing the date and time of the Republic's attack, the expected area could be saturated in advance with something so dangerous for large ships.
On one hand, his tactic was more than a gamble — sending most of his small craft into the zone where the Republic ships were expected to appear. To cover the remaining squadron under his command, only six Munificent-class frigates and the flagship Invincible-class dreadnought remained.
A significant portion of the CIS fleet concentrated in the oversector was currently elsewhere. The combined armada — over fifty ships of all modifications — would soon strike at the remnants of Moff Ravik's fleet. Once that operation was complete, the entire territory of the Republic's 14th Sector Army would be open for occupation.
For now, Trench faced a simple task — eliminating the threat to the Confederacy's droid production unfolding on the planet beneath his feet. The crushing defeat at the very beginning of the war had practically removed the Geonosians from the Separatist movement. But thanks to the Harch's own efforts, the planet was once again in the hands of its rightful owners.
And the longer this continued, the heavier the defeats the enemy would suffer.
The horde of droid starfighters, having received their target designation, closed in on the Republic ships at unimaginable speeds. Five Star Destroyers had, of course, already enveloped themselves in deflector shields. But that wouldn't save them.
When numerous nimble small craft are swarming around your ship, no competent officer would risk raising the armor protection of their hangars to launch fighters. This opened up numerous vulnerabilities — compared to the strength of the ships' own hulls, the interiors had far less protection. The Trade Federation's experience from a decade ago demonstrated this in full. A single stray hit from kinetic weaponry would be enough to put a combat starship out of action for the rest of the battle — at best. At worst, a chain of internal explosions would tear the carrier into hundreds of fragments. Thousands of casualties. A disaster for some, and a success for him.
"The Republicans are launching their fighters," came the droid's report.
"Wonderful," the Harch clicked in anticipation.
So the enemy commander was even stupider than he had thought.
Acting according to staff instructions when the enemy knew them inside out was pure suicide.
Republic fleet circulars required commanders of carrier ships to immediately launch small craft to counter the enemy's light forces. A truly intelligent being would most likely have come up with something more appropriate to the situation.
But what could you expect from the meat droids the Republic used everywhere? No matter how much they were praised for their initiative on the battlefield, compared to the brains of naturally born beings, they clearly didn't even measure up to an average commander.
That was the basis of Trench's calculation.
His tactics for the upcoming battle had several possible outcomes, which, despite differences in details, shared a single finale — the complete destruction of the Republic invasion force.
If the pre-deployed CIS small craft's position had coincided with the Republic's emergence point from hyperspace, the battle would have ended almost before it began. Hundreds of bombers were ordered to attack the enemy immediately. Taking advantage of the fact that after materializing, starships were blinded and defenseless for a short period — neither scanners, nor deflectors, nor turbolaser weapons worked in hyperspace. And for some time after exiting it. And if so, any concentrated fire on the targets, however minor, would lead to the inevitable destruction of the ship under fire. At best — to heavy damage. Although, after an attack by proton torpedoes, few large ships could continue their mission.
The second attack option was precisely what was being put into action. Numerous fighters and assault craft were now neutralizing the Republicans' artillery batteries, while bombers sought out and attacked the weak points of the Venators. And the exposed depths of the hangars were the best target. Not the most accessible, thanks to anti-aircraft artillery, but vulnerable enough — under a massed assault.
The Republic had done him a great service by acting by the book. Soon, he would put an end to this foolish raid.
"One enemy ship destroyed," and again the report caressed his hearing.
But it was all visible without words.
Like a miniature solar flare, the Separatist admiral's first victim blazed with blinding fire, silently evaporating tons of armor and clone flesh in the cold of the vacuum.
Everything had gone as well as possible. The Venator closest to the attacking small craft had taken several proton torpedoes to the hull, crippling its vital systems. Excellent. Because besides a valuable combat unit, the Republic had lost dozens of fighters and thousands of specialists so valuable to them. A significant blow to the enemy's economy.
Following the first, the CIS's punishing blade would strike the second.
As if to confirm his thoughts, the next ship in formation met the fate of its predecessor. Half an hour after the first.
This was too easy. To be honest, Trench had expected that after the first failure, the Republic ships would begin to retreat, fighting off the pressing fighters with every available means. But apparently, clones couldn't understand what tactical mastery meant.
And yet, the enemy had managed to take advantage of the situation. As soon as the Vultures reached their third victim, a swarm of escort fighters was already swirling around the Republic ships. A fierce battle erupted.
Due to the distance of several hundred million kilometers separating them, Trench couldn't see with his own eyes what was happening on the scene. But at the same time, the tactical equipment on his flagship displayed pictograms of his own and enemy ships circling in a deadly dance.
He had to admit, the battle was now taking on a protracted, and therefore unfavorable, character. For all their shortcomings, the clone pilots, though outnumbered by the droids, were acting extremely effectively.
Not even an hour had passed since the battle with the remaining ships began, and a third of the launched air wing had already ceased to exist. Another third had exhausted their fuel and were about to return for rotation — as prescribed by the algorithm of the intelligence controlling the Separatist ships. But if they did, the remaining clones would tear them apart. And to finish off the survivors, they would have to engage in a line battle, where the advantage in small craft would likely be on the enemy's side. Unless, of course, Trench sent the remaining fighters providing cover for the admiral's own ships.
"Let the droids stay in position," the Harch decided. "The objective remains unchanged."
"This will lead to heavy losses among the air wing," the tactician objected.
"But it will help us win," the only living being on the bridge clicked.
The droids, wisely, remained silent.
Unlike General Grievous, the Harch didn't like working with a living crew — their support required a lot of resources, and the former traders and entrepreneurs from the organizations that made up the CIS themselves possessed neither discipline nor absolute diligence. And although the droids irritated the admiral — after the operation he had survived, especially — he put up with the necessary evil.
Two hours later, the battle finally reached a turning point. The Republic pilots had correctly assessed the threat posed by the bombers, so they paid special attention to eliminating them. It wasn't a quick task, but acting with a pedantry that any droid would envy, the clones carried out their duty. The number of proton torpedo carriers was dwindling before his eyes. And with them, the hopes of winning the battle with minimal losses.
"The third Republic ship is out of action," unlike the previous ones, this one, having taken heavy damage, remained intact. With one bridge wing gone, numerous breaches from which streams of atmosphere and tongues of flame erupted, it was slowly turning on its remaining functional engines, clearly intending to retreat. The other two ships, which looked more presentable, were changing their disposition, trying to position themselves on either side of their damaged comrade and retreat in an organized fashion. Not today.
"Invincible and frigates — 45, 46, 47, 48 — pursuit," the Separatist commanded abruptly. The remaining forces were sufficient to hold the orbital position. And the admiral himself needed to finish off the stragglers. The more he killed and destroyed, the faster Count Dooku's loyalty to the disgraced officer would return. He couldn't miss the opportunity to inflict maximum damage — because the situation on every Republic front was catastrophic. Consequently, the fewer combat-ready ships the Republic had, the weaker its defenses would be in the near future. And that meant the CIS would have the opportunity to strike an even more devastating blow.
The gleaming, pristine CIS ships surged after the enemy, who had already noticed the change in disposition and was trying to accelerate.
You didn't need to be an advanced droid to understand that the Harch's ships would catch the destroyers before they could jump to lightspeed. And the long-range turbolasers of the Munificents would be able to cripple the remaining ships, depriving them of any chance of escape. And once the invasion vanguard was dealt with, Trench would take care of the expeditionary forces following in the second wave.
"Another enemy ship has emerged from hyperspace," the vocoder of the mechanical crew member was starting to get on his nerves. Devoid of emotion, artificial, it quickly burrowed into the brain, becoming more annoying every time he heard it.
"That's unusual," Trench frowned, puzzled. "What class?"
"An Acclamator-class assault cruiser, Admiral," the tactical droid reminded him. "Used by the Republic to deliver ground contingents."
"But the troop ships weren't expected for several hours," the admiral recalled. "Surely they don't intend to die all together?"
Meanwhile, the ship that had arrived at the battle site began maneuvering almost immediately. This drew attention — obviously, there was a truly thinking officer on the bridge of that cruiser.
The Acclamator, taking advantage of the fact that the enemy fighters were occupied with a more "tasty" target, was moving away from the raging battle at maximum acceleration. Notably, it was in no hurry to launch its fighters, which, in the current situation, was the height of stupidity.
The first Republic capital ships didn't have suitable defensive armament, but they did carry a considerable number of fighters. And in conditions where no enemy small craft were circling around it, still carrying out the order to eliminate the most dangerous destroyers, the Republic captain had time to launch his own small ships — and if not to help his comrades, then at least to protect himself.
"The enemy is acting irrationally," the tactician observed.
"It couldn't be otherwise," the Harch chuckled. His ships had already passed the Republic ships' arrival point, leaving the aftermath of the slaughter in their wake. Now he just needed to reach the last ships. Their fighters had retreated in disarray, having suffered monstrous losses at the hands of the Vultures. Well, the small craft had done their job — even if not as they should have. It was time to take the survivors on board and deal with the retreating ships. The Munificents had already trained their main forward cannons — in just about ten minutes, the first volleys of crimson coherent light would rain down on the sterns of the Republic ships. And he, Admiral Trench, would achieve victory. One so glorious that it would eclipse all his past failures.
And the next moment, he regretted his thoughts.
The battle picture changed dramatically.
The sensor display screamed, indicating the arrival of additional Republic forces.
Five markers on the monitor indicated the arrival of Hammerheads — ships that had caused him no small amount of trouble in the 13th Sector Army's area of responsibility. Seemingly hopelessly outdated, they proved time and again that they still didn't belong in the backyards of junk planets where such old scrap was cut up for metal.
Exactly the same number of corvettes that had literally ground up Grievous's armada were also present. They were already launching dozens of concussion missiles, testing the strength of his ships' hulls. And no fewer than five squadrons of small craft were already circling in the vacuum, targeting the CIS starships. Perfect calculation. While Trench was busy recovering the Vultures, fresh droids couldn't launch from the decks. Which meant he either had to abandon those already at the limit of their resources. Or continue what he had started and most likely leave the hangars open for attack. His own tactic, used against its creator. The one commanding those damned ancient Hammerheads.
However, right now, at this very moment, these ships were in the rear of his detachment. And they were already turning their archaic bows toward the nozzles of his ships, ready to begin the beating.
A furious clicking sound came from the Harch's mouth.
He had been outmaneuvered! Again!
The Republic had sacrificed its most valuable ships to lure him away from the planet's orbit and destroy him like a womp rat! What treachery! And from whom? From the Republicans!?
"Admiral," the tactician said monotonously. "Our forces are inferior to the enemy's. I recommend fighting a breakthrough to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet."
"No!" He furiously opened a communication channel with the droid commanders of the remaining ships. "All ships, immediately rendezvous with my flagship! Halt wing rotation — launch the remaining small craft!"
Meanwhile, another participant joined the unfolding battle.
The Acclamator that had arrived earlier was taking a position above the other cruisers. Its hull, shaped like an ancient arrowhead, was pointed toward Trench's flagship. And the Invincible's tactical equipment howled, warning of missiles locked onto it.
"I recommend countermeasures," the tactician offered advice. But it was all clear without him.
Trench had heard of this, but hadn't encountered it personally. Acclamators modified to carry concussion missiles. Extremely dubious modifications, given the low combat value of this class of ship in a line battle. And in a confrontation with Trench's dreadnought, even useless.
"Raise the kinetic shields!" he ordered. And a faint shimmer around the bridge showed that the equipment was active.
Now, despite the enormous energy expenditure and reduced sublight speed, the flagship would remain intact under the enemy's onslaught.
The first salvo of missiles splashed across the Invincible's shields in localized fire flashes, causing it no harm whatsoever. But at the same time, the continuous bombardment deprived Trench of the ability to attack the enemy himself — to do so would require depriving himself of his only chance to escape. He had to endure the bombardment, slowly but surely turning away, breaking out into open space.
The three remaining Venators, seeing that the hunter and prey had swapped places, stopped their retreat and began to turn simultaneously, intending to join the slaughter of the Harch's detachment being carried out by the second wave of Republic ships.
There was no doubt that the current situation was the result of a carefully planned operation. And yet, sacrificing nearly half of one's fleet to win... How unlike the Republicans.
"Incoming transmission from the Acclamator-class cruiser," a B-1 reported.
"Show it," the Harch snapped angrily.
The next second, holographic figures appeared before him. One — a fleet officer with admiral's insignia. The second — also an officer, a commodore. The other two — Jedi. Obi-Wan Kenobi, General Grievous's headache. His comrade in the Order, not as famous as the celebrated Kenobi, Dougan, Windu, and Skywalker. But nevertheless — a significant figure in this part of the Outer Rim.
"Jedi," the Harch clicked. "I should have guessed that such a cunning trap could only be devised by you."
"Hm?" A shadow of surprise appeared on Kenobi's face. Which disappeared almost immediately. "It doesn't matter who the author of this idea is," Trench didn't miss that the admiral shook his head disapprovingly at these words.
"You are in a hopeless position," the Mirialan Jedi cut into the conversation. "Surrender, and you will be spared."
The Harch's facial mandibles twitched with amusement. Naive idiots.
"And to what do I owe such a decision?" As if to justify the Jedi's position, the tactical droid reported the destruction of two escort frigates.
Of course, the Separatist officer hadn't forgotten that the battle was still ongoing. But the Munificents had sufficient protection and armament to hold out against the Venators. Not to mention those archaic tubs.
The battle of the "mosquito" forces was also developing unfavorably for the CIS. The remnants of the air wing were dying en masse under the onslaught of the Republic's fighters. And within half an hour, the ships would be left without cover. No wonder the Jedi were confident of victory.
"As soon as we finish with your escort ships," Kenobi warned, "your flagship won't last long under the concentrated fire of our entire fleet."
"Hmph... we'll see about that," the Harch ended the communication and turned to the tactical droid. "How long until the Venators are in range of our guns?"
"Five seconds," the mechanical officer replied without hesitation.
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place in the admiral's mind.
Undoubtedly, the Jedi were right — no shield would hold out under such prolonged bombardment. But the situation itself was also ambiguous.
In front of the flagship, blocking its transition to hyperspeed, three destroyers were moving. For his dreadnought and a pair of frigates — more than a tempting target. But at the same time, a threat loomed over them in the form of a large squadron that was now trying to knock out his starships' engines in an attempt to board them. And finally, behind all the actors — the remnants of his squadron. With full decks of small craft. But until they arrived — fortunately, the tactician had had the sense to call them immediately — about five minutes.
The Republic's Hammerheads were engaged in a fierce exchange of fire with the pair of Munificents. Both sides had already traded their first losses — one of the Jedi's heavy cruisers was falling out of formation, turning away from the frigates' heavy turbolasers. Its hull was peppered with scorch marks from hits, and its superstructure was ablaze, apparently from a direct hit to the bridge. The remaining four cruisers and the enemy flagship also had battle scars, but there was no question of them being put out of action anytime soon.
The enemy's corvettes and small craft were already "finishing off" the remnants of Trench's air wing — at most, they would need ten to twenty minutes to tear apart the last five squadrons of Vultures. The Jedi were in a hurry — they too had noticed that reinforcements would reach Trench before they could realize their numerical advantage. And as soon as that happened, the scales would tip in his favor.
For the time being, until the air wing from the Venators' decks could join the slaughter. And after that, only the gods could guarantee the Harch's victory. A trap executed perfectly. The Jedi had suffered considerable losses, and, by all appearances, were ready for more — just to finish him off. They would succeed, unless he shuffled all the cards in this game of sabacc.
"Order the remaining ships to close with the Republic's Hammerhead fleet," Trench said, his artificial eye flashing. "The Invincible must set a course for the enemy Venators. As soon as the fire on us weakens — drop the kinetic shield and move toward them."
"This will result in the loss of our support frigates," the tactician noted. "With a probability of 70 percent..."
"I know," the Harch clicked. "However, the Republic will suffer far greater losses."
* * *
There was something nostalgic about watching another clan of younglings sitting around Master Drallig, mouths agape, listening to his briefing. Oli could barely suppress a smile as she watched one of the younger Jedi, a blond boy, struggling with sleep for the past half hour. Apparently, the youngling, like many others his age, had gone to bed later than usual. And now he was making the biggest mistake in the fencing master's lessons.
He was allowing himself not to listen to the instructor.
It seems the Troll won't notice you secretly exchanging glances with your neighbor or whispering about some nonsense. But that's just an illusion meant to lull the restless one into complacency. Soon enough, he'll learn the hard way that lessons with this instructor shouldn't be taken lightly.
Ah, and here comes sweet revenge.
It seemed like Drallig pulled this trick on every inattentive youngling during one of the first lessons. But every time, there were those who didn't heed the warnings of their predecessors.
The boy had dozed off anyway. Relaxed, sitting in a meditation pose, he seemed not to hear the shushing from his comrades, his head drooping onto his chest. Oli could swear she could hear his soft snoring even from the doorway.
Naturally, the Troll couldn't be unaware of everything happening. The instructor, famous for his sophisticated teaching methods, merely pretended not to notice such behavior. And when the boy finally fell asleep, the Jedi proceeded with what he often called a "practical lesson."
The mockery and jabs the Troll used in his teaching sometimes went too far. Some younglings stayed silent for weeks after such "lessons." But in Oli's memory, Drallig had never once had a conversation with anyone from the Council about his teaching methods.
So, the victim fell asleep, and none of his comrades dared to interrupt his slumber, not wanting to experience the master's wrath themselves. The master, meanwhile, unhooked his lightsaber from his belt, activated the blade, and approached the boy so closely that one could feel the heat radiating from the weapon — if there were any.
Two short movements of the blade — and the youngling's lush mop of light-brown hair underwent a transformation, turning into something resembling the infantry helmets used by the volunteers from Christophsis. It was done so masterfully that the future Jedi not only didn't wake up — he didn't even twitch. Only after the lesson ended and the master allowed his comrades to wake the sleepyhead would he flinch for a long time, imagining how he could have lost his ears if the Force had failed Drallig.
Oli felt goosebumps run down her spine. About five years ago, she had been in that boy's place. Oh, how many tears she shed examining her "hairstyle." Her once long, straight hair had been cut practically to the roots — and over the years, as it grew back, it started to curl. At first, it annoyed her, and she diligently tried to straighten it. But one day she left a strand in the "straightening iron" too long — a device for straightening hair, obtained through entirely illegal means via the Temple staff. And she spent another year growing out the entire left side, whose hair had been burned by the device. So, at ten years old, she learned that fighting nature was pointless — since it had happened, she should just take care of her curls. She couldn't endure the mockery again about part of her hair being much shorter than the rest if such a misfortune were repeated.
"Can't your religion let you pick an opponent your own age?" A familiar voice from behind made her jump in surprise. The girl stepped aside and looked at the speaker.
Probably no one in this galaxy could make the teacher give up wearing this particular type of armor. Despite the set having sustained quite serious damage and every piece having numerous scratches, chips, and burn marks, Master Dougan still continued to wear his ancient gray armor. And the unchanging black cloak with a silver trim.
Oli remembered with shame that as soon as the teacher ended up in the Halls of Healing, Master Windu, meeting her near Dougan's room, uncompromisingly sent her to her own quarters, ordering her not to show her face again. And on top of that, he forbade her to wear armor while she was in the Temple. "Something you don't like? You know where the exit is. You can take your master with you too." Such were the cruel, in her opinion, and angry words of the second-in-command in the Order.
Without her teacher, the girl was left to her own devices. She couldn't defend her right to wear the armor on her own — tradition forced her to unquestioningly obey the orders of the Council members. If the master were conscious, he might have stood up for her. But he was lying in a coma. And following the master, Vokara Che also forbade her from loitering in her domain.
For a while, Ahsoka brightened the girl's loneliness — her teacher had also suffered during the attack on the Chancellor. But he was recovering quickly. The girls, like stray banthas, spent time together, chatting in Oli's room during the day and sparring in the evenings. Well, that activity ended pretty quickly too — Skywalker recovered and left for the front with his apprentice.
Oli was alone again. Aayla Secura, with whom she could have spent time, had also flown off somewhere. The Twi'lek had been a great support, sending news about the teacher's condition through a healer friend of hers. But about a week ago, right on the day Dougan regained consciousness, Aayla left on a mission. And Oli was still wandering around with nothing to do, unable to bypass the ban on visiting her master.
Restoring the teacher's armor kept her busy for a bit. In the Order's workshops, there were skilled Jedi who, using Force Forging, managed to fix the main defects — cracks and dents. But the armor was still very, very far from looking presentable.
"Strange, I thought I left the armor in my room," the girl thought. Had the master taken it from there? But how could he have gotten into her cell?
At the thought that the teacher had seen the mess there and the scattered things — including those that decent girls never let any strange man see — she began to blush.
"Well, well, if it isn't Master Dougan himself! Thrice cheated death," the Troll said with mockery in his voice. "And what brings you here, esteemed Moff?" The Jedi put as much venom and sarcasm into the last word as he could muster.
Oli distinctly heard a quiet chuckle from under the mask — the only piece of armor that hadn't been damaged.
"Shot," the answer seemed meaningless to the girl. But knowing her master, she guessed there was some elusive subtext to it.
"Tired of picking on the younger ones, Master Drallig?" The new cloak billowed slightly in time with the teacher's steps as he headed straight for the group of students. "Or is old age catching up — and all you're capable of is showing off your 'coolness' to impressionable minds?"
Oli followed the master like a silent shadow, but he turned and pointed to a bench. So, this was getting interesting. The teacher was clearly up to something and wanted her out from underfoot.
Dougan had already clashed with Drallig once before. Right here, in the training halls. And the rumor of that sparring still circulated among the younglings. They vied with each other to tell how they'd seen for the first time someone who could go toe-to-toe with the fencing master himself.
"So, you've decided to restore justice?" Cin smirked. "Is the platform even worth the Hutt?"
Dougan ignored the barb directed at him.
Instead, he crouched down in front of the boy who had been the object of the Troll's mockery. The kid was already awake — someone had nudged him in the side during the commotion of the argument, and now he was feeling his head in horror, covered in hair so short that in places you could touch the skin. From her spot, Oli could see tears welling up in the boy's eyes — while the remaining younglings quietly snickered and pointed at him.
"You okay, kid?" Dougan asked the boy. He sniffled, still staring at his feet. Oh, the first sign that he'd start crying soon. Which would bring even more amusement to his friends.
"Hey," the teacher gently lifted the kid's chin so he was looking him straight in the face. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. This," he stroked the boy's head, "is your battle scars. That you got in a fight with a more experienced and cunning opponent."
"Oh, you're our expert on uneven fights," Drallig snorted. A few sycophants in the group immediately grinned. Well, that was understandable. Every group has its ass-kissers who dance to the teacher's tune. Only, these ones hadn't realized yet that Drallig didn't care about their fawning. He was equally harsh with everyone.
"Shut your mouth," Dougan said, turning his head slightly toward the teacher. Dead silence fell over the room. Such an attitude toward an instructor wasn't just unacceptable. It was practically an insult.
But Dougan seemed not to notice how the fencing master's face was turning red. He was busy with the boy, showing him an unprecedented tenderness for some reason. Taking him by the hand, the teacher led the kid to the bench where Oli was sitting.
"I have something for you, Sors," Dougan hid his hand behind his back for a moment, then extended it in front of the boy's face. On his open palm lay a small transparent container. And inside it...
"It's so beautiful," the boy breathed. Oli couldn't disagree. Indeed — the crystal was striking with its rich dark blue color and the sharpness of its facets, which seemed like they could cut through durasteel. The new toy captivated the youngling so much that he'd already forgotten he'd been the object of mockery just moments ago.
The rest of the children, like a flock of birds attracted by the play of colors, immediately crowded around their comrade, mesmerized by the object.
"This is a Hurrikhan crystal," Dougan explained the unspoken question hanging in the air. "Also known as 'Windu's Guile.' In the past, the master received similar ones as a reward for helping a suffering people. And let me tell you, kids, once youngling Bandam builds his first lightsaber and puts this crystal in it, there won't be a sentient in the entire galaxy who can withstand his onslaught. And it's yours, youngling Bandam. My gift to you for your courage. Few would dare to fall asleep in the Troll's lessons."
The little ones buzzed with excitement, discussing the master's generous gesture. Drallig himself just snorted pompously. Full of sarcasm, he had one remarkable quality — he was completely unaffected by others' opinions of him.
But for the boy, the gift was truly momentous. The youngling, who had the honor of holding such a treasure in his hands, stood before the armored Jedi, silently blinking. He would undoubtedly be the hero of all the nightly gatherings for the next few months in the clans nearest to his dormitory.
Since ancient times, younglings had obtained crystals for their lightsabers on their own, during the traditional journey to Ilum. Oli had already accompanied such a procession, and from her own childhood, she remembered how difficult and responsible that path was. And sometimes — dangerous.
The tradition was so firmly ingrained in the lives of the Temple's inhabitants that few could boast of a rare crystal in their saber — only through a long life's journey could a Jedi acquire a new crystal. Until then, everyone made do with what they found on Ilum.
Studying the Archives, Oli knew there were nearly a thousand types of crystals or objects in the galaxy that could be used in lightsabers. But obtaining them was getting harder every year. And finding a special crystal in the caves of the ice planet... It would be easier to fight a rancor bare-handed and win.
The teacher had given the boy a true gift. It would not only boost his self-esteem and authority in the eyes of his peers but also allow him to create a lightsaber in the future that was vastly different from those of other Jedi.
And the best part — it didn't contradict the Order's traditions, according to which Jedi should not own property. A crystal is a gift, meaning no self-respecting member of the Order would dare take it from a younger one. But they also wouldn't allow him to play with it during lessons. The crystal would wait its time in the nightstand by the youngling's bed. Probably for another ten years — the kid was that small.
"So, you didn't have crystals for all the younglings?" The Troll's caustic irony was like a whip cracking in the air. Still standing in the center of the hall, the fencing master was passing the time by tossing the hilt of his lightsaber in his palm.
Oli sensed with some sixth sense that the Jedi's behavior was deliberately provocative. He was clearly trying to get under Dougan's skin, and judging by how the master cracked his knuckles — he was succeeding.
Dougan didn't turn around. There was no need. And it wasn't even about the vibes of an impending duel already hanging in the air. Not a deadly one, of course. But Oli, as someone who had spent so much time side by side with her teacher, could perfectly understand that now it was inevitable. Like death itself.
The Force gathered in her teacher and around him, like the suddenly clenched fists of a frightened person. The aura of calm that always surrounded him trembled, like the surface of a puddle into which a stone had been thrown.
"Do you really want this, Drallig?" The teacher turned to face the Jedi, simultaneously gesturing to Oli not to let the kids get into the danger zone. Which might turn out to be larger than the confines of this hall.
The girl, shoving the gawkers, unceremoniously pushed every last youngling out the door, standing in front of them as a precaution. This way, she could watch the duel and grab anyone who dared to get too close by the scruff of the neck at the right moment.
"What, afraid I'll rub your nose in the floor?" Drallig chuckled. "Then you can just hand me your lightsaber right now and go to the Padawan class. I'll be sure to teach you how to fight properly so you don't end up in the Halls of Healing afterward."
"What advice can someone give who never sticks his nose outside the Temple?" Dougan parried. He slowly approached his opponent, holding his lightsaber in his right hand. Oli hadn't even noticed when he'd activated it. But the golden blade hummed tensely, as if thirsting for battle.
"Oh, there's a lot you don't know yet," a nasty grin appeared on the long-haired Jedi's face. He assumed a defensive stance, greeting his sparring partner with the typical Makashi salute.
"Since our last meeting, Troll, my strength has grown," Rick stated. And Oli could confirm that. She had no doubt about Master Drallig's skills, but what she'd seen in her master's training... Well, only the need to maintain the image of a demure student kept her from joining the younglings' argument about who would kick whose ass in this fight.
"Funny," the younglings' instructor snorted. "The higher you hold your nose, the harder you fall."
Oli watched with bated breath as her teacher raised his weapon horizontally to the floor at shoulder level.
Now the master had no problems left.
* * *
Like all true farces, the upcoming spectacle would unfold according to the laws of ruthless logic, which were based on the absurd assumption that Dougan could defeat the fencing master. What a pity his old friend Mace Windu couldn't be present; Cin had no doubt the master from Haruun Kal would have appreciated the show. Especially this foolish imitation of Vaapad his opponent was demonstrating.
Drallig had always preferred an understanding audience. And a group of younglings was perfect for teaching an overreaching Jedi a lesson.
The Jedi in armor stood facing him, his blade ready for battle; the tall, arrogant young man froze in anticipation: so still that he seemed about to tremble with tension. A pathetic sight. It was insulting to call the boy a Jedi.
Doubly a pity he wouldn't be able to see the expression on his defeated opponent's face.
The instructor felt a melancholic satisfaction — the pleasurable awareness of his own greatness — at the thought that Dougan would never understand how much thought and effort, how much labor he had put into this battle. Which would mark the sunset of the "Moff's" career as an unparalleled duelist.
But such is life. The altar of good always demands a sacrifice.
After all, there was a war on. And the man before him was just one of many soldiers, groundlessly believing in their own superiority. Such people needed to be put in their place. In a battle between experience and random victories, the former ALWAYS wins.
Drallig called upon the Force, gathering it, wrapping himself in it like a cloak. He breathed it in, let it pass through his heart, until the Galaxy began to revolve around him.
Until he became the axis of the universe.
There it was — the real power of the Force, the power whose existence the Ton had suspected since childhood, sought all his long life, until the Jedi showed him the truth. It made him the center.
The Jedi soaked up energy until the Force existed only to serve his purpose. An approach somewhat different from what the Order preached, but after all — every Jedi uses the Force's resources in their own way.
Now the unfolding picture changed slightly, though to an outsider's eye there was nothing to change. Perception enhanced by the Light Side gave a different picture.
Drallig was a luminous, transparent being, a window thrown open onto a sunlit meadow of the Force. The only beacon among those present.
Of course, there was also Dougan — but outside the Force. He showed nothing. He seemed like a flat horizon. Beneath an ordinary, unremarkable exterior hid absolute, perfect nothingness. A black hole in the Force.
Well, he'd heard about this peculiarity of his opponent — hiding himself. But now, when the figures of the Jedi were visible to everyone in this room, there was no need to search for the opponent. It was enough to simply open one's eyes.
Well, fine. Time to play a little comedy.
"Not afraid to embarrass yourself in front of your apprentice?"
Dougan held his blade with both hands. And slowly walked around the invisible center of the battlefield, mirroring Drallig's own movements.
"Don't count on any leniency."
"Leniency? From you? Please," Cin smiled gently. Did he think I was putting on this show to lose? But I have more interesting ideas about what to do with my life. And it's not about babysitting a pompous upstart. "You'll lose before any of the younglings' stomachs start growling."
Dougan stepped toward him with a slow, hypnotic grace, as if gliding on an invisible repulsor sled.
"Why is it so hard for me to believe that?"
Drallig, as if in a mirror, repeated the opponent's movement.
"Oh, by the way! How's your Padawan feeling? Haven't broken the Code yet?"
"Don't..."
The black hole that was Dougan boiled with unexpected power. Impressive, perhaps, for someone less experienced in fencing.
"Don't you dare say her name. There's only you and me here."
The master waved it off. So tiresome to deal with this guy's personal affairs; in the Temple, only the lazy hadn't whispered about how the girl followed him around like a pet on a leash. And the older ladies too. Kit Fisto could attest to that.
"I bear her no ill will, foolish boy. But she will always be your weak spot."
"It's naive to think you know me and my apprentice."
"On the contrary, I know enough. About you and about those like you. Believe me," he added a little more quietly. "In a couple of years, when she blossoms like a flower, you'll no longer be just a teacher to her."
"What, do you watch a lot of strawberry stuff on the HoloNet? What twisted thoughts are those?"
Cin was sorely tempted to wink at the girl standing in the doorway, but of course, he didn't give in to the impulse.
"We'll live and see."
"Sure you'll live to see that moment?" The Jedi's question was laced with confidence. For a minute, Cin could have sworn his opponent had somehow looked into the future. "There's an opinion that your fate will end sooner than you expect. Well, for now, I'm going to beat you so badly you'll think twice about spouting such nonsense."
Drallig raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"Unless you happen to have Master Yoda in your pocket, I don't think that's going to happen."
The air crackled from the Force, as if supersaturated with electricity, and Cin decided the time had come.
* * *
Dougan simply couldn't stay still. He couldn't wait any longer.
He jumped, spinning around an invisible axis, thrusting his blade forward.
But when he landed, intending to engage, the instructor was no longer there.
He looked up too late — to see the sole of a boot made of rancor leather. Drallig slammed his heel into his head, and the opponent crashed to his knees.
Drallig tried to strike downward, intending to leave a long "scar" on the chest plate. But he immediately met a block. Which resulted in a small fireworks display: crossed sabers struck sparks. Drallig couldn't break through the defense, but Dougan couldn't effectively counterattack either. A stalemate.
Which resolved instantly.
Like a rising whirlwind, the Jedi in armor spun around himself again, forcing Drallig to retreat a considerable distance. And as soon as he did, the opponent was already back on his feet.
They exchanged an endless series of feints, lightning-fast thrusts, and strikes, the tip of the saber tracing figure eights near the Jedi's very heart. But Drallig's actions couldn't create more than simple danger — Dougan blocked every breach in his defense, preventing a decisive thrust.
Cin parried the hail of Rick's sword strikes without any strain. Standard Niman combinations — simple as two credits, uncomplicated, easy to read. Last time, he'd shown much more impressive swordsmanship. Though, this could be a consequence of the recent injury — the opponent hadn't fully recovered. Well, that was exactly what he'd been counting on.
Suddenly, the instructor felt that the seeming ease of the fight was nothing more than a fiction. That was exactly what saved him from an unexpectedly deft counterattack in the Ataru style that his opponent delivered.
"Whoa," he said with a short laugh. The boy did have some strength after all.
He needed to break the distance to assess the situation. He came out of a roll, landing on his feet right in front of the young man, who immediately charged headlong into an attack. Drallig deftly sidestepped and aimed his saber at the young man's legs, but the golden blade parried the strike.
"A truly pathetic sight," Drallig said. And this time, it wasn't mockery — he really had expected more.
Oh yes, he was very energetic: jumping and spinning, raining down strikes almost at random. Meanwhile, the instructor, in his gracefully consistent style, continued to overpower his opponent. He could barely keep from laughing.
All he had to do was respond to his tactics — incredibly, oppressively straightforward. He relied on speed, dashing back and forth like a stupid nuna — always trying to execute the Jedi version of the "enemy in the center" attack, as if he didn't know that maneuver was only effective with numerical superiority. And while parrying attacks, he attacked in the measured rhythm of Niman, methodically, like a clumsy droid, step by step, cutting corners, clumsy but relentless in his attempts to force the opponent to move faster than necessary.
Drallig only needed to slide from side to side and occasionally do a somersault to fight each technique individually instead of opposing the entire strategy at once. Probably, in a fight against similar opponents, Dougan's actions would be effective enough; it was also clear that he was demonstrating a style developed for team fights — him and his Padawan against a large number of opponents. He wasn't ready to fight alone against a single Force-user with Drallig's capabilities. The latter, on the contrary, had always fought alone. It was laughably easy to make arrogant Jedi make mistakes. The very ones he would later analyze with his charges.
Whatever anyone said — Dougan's victories were a fluke. There was no logic in his tactics capable of leading to victory.
He had no idea how subtly Drallig was controlling the unfolding battle. He hadn't learned anything since their last meeting. Just a couple of tricks to intimidate unprepared opponents. Truly weak. This wasn't even worth the time spent.
A kick to the stomach sent Drallig back several meters. Oh, something new.
"Your movements are too slow, 'Moff.' Too predictable. You'll have to try harder."
In response to these friendly words, a spark of slight surprise flared in Dougan's aura.
"Well then," the Jedi said and jumped over the opponent's head so swiftly that it seemed he had vanished. What a foolish boy!
Cin easily parried the clumsy thrust, forcing the opponent to break the distance. He hastened to use the opportunity to step back...
Such a furious onslaught, Cin could have expected from Windu or Yoda, but from a former Padawan!?
Meanwhile, the battle had fundamentally changed course.
Now Dougan had seized the initiative.
Only by desperately spinning aside did Drallig avoid a smoking hole appearing in his chest; the saber burned a streak where he had just been standing.
What?!
Cin Drallig jumped up and away from the Jedi, landing at the opposite end of the training room, stepping out of the fight for a moment. The strike had come too close. But by the time his feet touched the floor, the armored Jedi was already there, guiding his blade in a defensive maneuver, spinning so fast that Cin didn't even dare to strike. He made a feint toward Rick's face, dropped to the floor for a leg sweep... But his opponent easily leaped over it and nearly cut off his leg with a virtuosic feint.
This wasn't in the plan.
Dougan delivered the next blow with such force that the shock of the clashing blades rippled through Cin Drallig's arms like a wave. He sprang to his feet — and a golden blade shot toward his throat. Only by executing a desperate spinning parry and kicking his opponent in the thigh with a roundhouse did Cin Drallig buy enough time to leap back again. And when he landed...
Dougan was already there.
The instructor instinctively blocked the first overhead strike of his blade. The second strike bent the Jedi's wrist. The third flash of golden flame drove Cin Drallig's weapon so low that his own lightsaber scorched his shoulder, forcing the man to retreat.
The instructor went pale. How could this have happened?
Dougan advanced, inhumanly unyielding, impossibly powerful — a destroyer droid with a lightsaber: every step a strike, every strike a step. Cin Drallig retreated as fast as he could; Dougan kept pace. The instructor's breathing grew shallow and heavy. He no longer tried to block the Jedi's blows, only deflecting them aside. It was not for him to match the young master in strength: the youth possessed immense physical power. And undoubtedly, his skill with the Force was far greater than anticipated.
And only then did Cin Drallig realize he had been played for a fool. Dougan's stance from the Vaapad arsenal had never been a trick, nor had the gymnastic exercises of Ataru. The youth had genuinely grown since their last sparring match. And the Makashi style, chosen as if in mockery, simply lacked the kinetic power to counter the set of skills the opponent had skillfully woven into his Niman.
Yes, whatever Dougan tried to strike the fencing master with, the foundation of his undoubtedly interesting and effective style was still the Sixth Form.
Time to change tactics.
Cin Drallig crouched again, executing a leg sweep — Niman's weak point had always been its lack of mobility. The blow was strong enough to throw his opponent off balance, giving the Jedi teacher a chance to leap back...
Only to find himself once again facing the glowing golden circle traced by Dougan's blade.
Cin Drallig decided the comedy was over.
It was time to show true mastery.
Master Drallig was proficient in all six known forms of lightsaber combat. He had sparred hundreds of times with the strongest fighters of each style and knew every strength and weakness of all forms perfectly.
He unleashed a series of lightning-fast thrusts at Dougan's legs to force the Jedi Master into a somersault and give himself an opening to burn through his robe from the kidneys to the shoulder blades — a clear victory... and that image, that plan, stood so vividly before Cin's eyes that he nearly lost track of the actual pattern of the fight: Dougan was deflecting the strikes without shifting his feet, maintaining perfect balance. His blade never moved a millimeter more than necessary, parrying the thrusts with no effort at all, delivering lightning-fast cuts and stabs faster than the tongue of a Garollian ghost viper.
And when Cin Drallig felt his opponent increasing the pressure with every second, forcing him more and more into the defensive Soresu style, he finally understood where that blinding defense Dougan had used a minute ago came from. And only then, belatedly, did he realize that Dougan's new style was something new — something he himself had never seen before.
The Jedi Master parried attacks, counterattacked, used strength and acrobatics without effort or strain, disrupting the planned concept of the fight exactly when needed to come out stronger than his opponent.
This was no longer Niman. Yes, the foundation remained partly the same — an experienced eye could see that — but now the style incorporated the powerful strikes of Djem So, the lightning-fast feints of Ataru, the impenetrable defense of Soresu, the elegance of Makashi. And, most incredibly, the controlled fury of Vaapad.
It seemed Dougan had absorbed all the balanced qualities of the other fencing schools into his style. A careful selection — strengths without weaknesses. Though no. Weaknesses, naturally, existed — he had shown them at the very beginning, trying to confuse his opponent. Not without success, of course.
Cin Drallig suddenly felt a sudden, unexpected, overwhelming, and utterly crushing sense of dread...
The farce he had been playing had unexpectedly, inexplicably turned from amusing into deadly serious, and was rapidly becoming terrifying. In the Jedi's mind, like fiery blossoms of dying ships, understanding bloomed: the fool-Jedi had become absolutely and supremely dangerous.
There was a chance that this clown, unimaginable as it seemed, could defeat him.
The gleaming golden lightsaber spun and hissed, and every slashing blow was like the unstoppable fall of a meteor. The instructor had to wastefully use his available reserves of the Force just to meet these attacks without being cut to pieces, and Dougan...
Dougan only grew stronger.
With every new feint, thrust, and counterattack, he gained power that far exceeded anything Cin Drallig had ever seen before.
Every defense cost him more strength than planned; every block seemed to age him by a decade. And he decided to change strategy again. He stopped even trying to attack. Force exhaustion clouded his senses like a weight, dragging his consciousness down to his physical form, locking his mind inside his own skull. Now he could barely sense the outline of the room: he could barely feel the doorway behind him, the younglings standing in the passage. He retreated toward them, using the advantage of the retreating fighter, which caused many of his opponent's feints to fail, but the Jedi Master kept attacking, tirelessly, mercilessly.
The golden blade was literally everywhere, flashing, spinning faster and faster, and soon Cin Drallig saw the room through a blurred, electrified glow. On top of everything else, the fury of Vaapad — which Dougan had used only to break through the opponent's strongest defenses — had returned to the stage.
Cin Drallig decided that under such extreme circumstances, he could be forgiven for cheating.
He didn't have time to think anything else, because when his attention returned to the young Jedi, a boot sole was looming in his field of vision, approaching his face at high speed.
The impact was like an explosion of white fire, then his back slammed painfully against the permacrete wall, the room turned upside down, and he fell onto the ceiling. Of course, that was just how it seemed — Cin Drallig tumbled sideways and rolled out of the attack line.
Rising to his full height, he felt that his arms and legs had completely stopped obeying him. The Force seemed to have left him, drained away. This was all so humiliating!
He barely managed to gather enough of the Light Side to avoid a fatal collision. The Force caught him like a caring nanny and helped him lunge out from under another barrage of strikes. He shook himself off, looked contemptuously at Dougan, who was watching him from the entrance to the hall.
And Cin Drallig couldn't hold that gaze; now their positions had swapped, and it troubled him greatly.
There was something disturbingly fated about it.
He tried not to think about it, called to mind a certain knowledge of his own invincibility to open himself to the Force. Energy flowed into him, and the weight of years, the burden of the battle, vanished.
His tense muscles received a surge of energy, and for a moment, the master felt ready to continue the fight.
Raising his blade, he gestured for Dougan to come.
"I hope you're not tired, boy?" he asked with a smirk.
"Fresh as the morning dew," the armored warrior grinned.
The young Jedi launched himself into the air with a powerful leap. And as the youth flew downward, Cin Drallig felt a new vortex in the currents of the Force between them and finally understood.
Understood how Dougan managed to grow stronger. Why he had stopped talking. How he had become a war machine. Understood why Mace Windu had taken such a long interest in him.
Dougan was born to use the Force.
His heart was like a thermonuclear furnace, its heat breaking through all the barriers of Jedi discipline. He held the Force in a white-hot fist. He commanded it, balancing on the edge of Light and Dark, drawing energy from both sides.
That very borderline and immensely dangerous state that Windu had described when developing his own style from fragmentary records in the Archives. But Vaapad had a predecessor. One that the Jedi had never managed to reconstruct from the chronicles of the past.
It was precisely because no complete description of that school of combat existed that Cin Drallig didn't know about it. And, apparently, he was now facing someone who had dared to follow Mace's path — to use his own inner darkness.
This youth had the gift of rage. Forbidden to any Jedi.
And even now he was restraining himself; even now, landing beside Cin Drallig, directing a furious cascade of strikes at him, forcing the Jedi back step by step, he held the rage behind walls built by will — walls cemented by uncontrollable terror.
Terror of himself, the instructor realized. Terror of what might happen if he allowed that furnace, which replaced his heart, to reach critical temperature. Cin slipped away from an overhead strike and leaped back.
"I sense great fear in you. It has consumed you. Truly a Fearless Hero. You are a pretender, Dougan. Nothing but a milk-sop striking a pose."
He pointed his blade at the young Jedi as if accusing him.
"Have you not yet outgrown the age of being afraid of yourself?"
Dougan surged into attack again, but this time Cin Drallig parried with ease. They froze almost nose to nose, blades flashing so fast they couldn't be followed, but the opponent had lost his advantage: a single well-aimed taunt had been enough to shift his focus from the battle against the master to the struggle with his own emotions. The more his anger flared, the more he feared, and the fear, in turn, fed the anger. Like the Corellian centipede from the proverb that started thinking about what it was doing and could no longer walk.
The fencing master allowed himself to relax; a playful mood descended on him again as he and Dougan spun in their deadly dance. However the fun ended, he should enjoy it while he could.
For one brief, decisive moment, he and Dougan froze, blades crossed, enemies staring into each other's faces through the hissing energy cross, and in that moment Cin Drallig realized he was dazedly asking himself whether his opponent had lost his mind.
The Code teaches: "There is no emotion, there is peace." It had taken Mace years to learn to keep his inner darkness under control. And this boy? What could he do compared to the renowned master?
At one point, using a deceptive feint, Cin Drallig managed to land a kick to his opponent's face mask. Simultaneously, a powerful, furious blow to the hand holding the lightsaber.
A short, fierce attack meant to end the prolonged confrontation.
Tossing his opponent's lightsaber hilt in his palm, Cin Drallig, carefully hiding his labored breathing and deadly exhaustion, stretched a victorious smile across his face.
"A lightsaber is a Jedi's weapon. His protection and support," he intoned didactically, looking toward the students. A dramatic move — ignoring the defeated opponent. It humiliates and makes one feel crushed. Paying no attention to his opponent, he slowly walked past him toward the younglings. "Losing your blade in battle means certain death."
The sound of an activated lightsaber behind him made Cin Drallig look in bewilderment at the opponent he had considered completely broken.
Meanwhile, Dougan, holding a lightsaber in both hands that was the spitting image of the one in Cin Drallig's hands, assumed the same stance with which their battle had begun.
"That's exactly why I always carry a spare," his opponent said with a smirk, his entire demeanor inviting continuation.