Anderson pulled a training lightsaber off the wall rack. It had an aluminum hilt and a polycarbonate blade, meticulously weighted and balanced to replicate the exact feel of a real lightsaber.
"Grip. Stance. Footwork. If you can get the basics down in a month, I'll consider that a win—"
Raphael took the lightsaber. He brought the hilt to his chest, the blade angled upward at exactly forty-five degrees.
The opening stance of Form I: Shii-Cho.
Anderson's pupils contracted.
He knew that stance intimately. It was the very first thing he had taught Mark Hamill back in 1977.
Over the last two decades, the lore and mechanics of the Jedi Order had been endlessly revised and expanded, but that opening stance had never changed.
"You..." Anderson hesitated. "Where did you learn that?"
Raphael looked down at the aluminum hilt in his hands. It felt cold and lifeless, completely lacking the warm, jade-like resonance of the true lightsabers he'd wielded in the dream world.
But when he ignited the blade, the blinding blue light was exactly the same.
"I've watched the tapes," Raphael answered evenly. "The first duel between Obi-Wan and Vader in A New Hope."
Anderson stared at him for five solid seconds.
Then, he pulled another training lightsaber off the rack and ignited it.
The red and blue blades cast harsh, clashing shadows across the dim soundstage.
"Come at me," Anderson said.
Raphael moved.
He controlled his tempo, using only ten percent of his physical strength and relying strictly on the most fundamental strikes stored in his memory.
He didn't tap into the Force—that wasn't a card he needed to play here. He fought purely on muscle memory, drawing on the hundreds of days and nights he'd spent grinding in the Jedi Temple dojo.
The sharp clack of polycarbonate blades echoed through the cavernous training area.
Anderson parried the first three strikes effortlessly.
On the fourth strike, his expression shifted from clinical observation to deep concentration.
On the seventh strike, he was forced to take a step back.
On the eleventh strike—
Raphael deactivated his blade and lowered the hilt.
"Let's call it there. You haven't had breakfast yet."
Anderson looked down at his sword hand.
There was a faint red mark across the webbing of his thumb—the exact spot where Raphael's final strike had nearly blasted the hilt out of his grip.
He slowly lowered his own training blade.
"You're telling me you've never trained before?"
"Never," Raphael said.
Anderson fell silent for a long time.
"George needs to see this," Anderson finally said. "He spends three months agonizing over finding his Skywalker, and the kid beats me on his first day."
"You were holding back," Raphael smiled. "Besides, you were fighting in the Darth Vader style. It's too heavy. Jedi swordplay is much lighter. The center of gravity sits further back."
Anderson just stared at him.
"You don't just know how to fight. You know the theory behind it."
"I read up on it."
"Right." Anderson didn't push it.
He knew that true, generational talent existed.
In his forty years in the business, he'd seen Mark Hamill go from zero to blocking rubber arrows blindfolded. He'd seen Keanu Reeves build an entire martial arts repertoire in four months. He'd watched countless young actors pour oceans of sweat and time into looking like badasses for three seconds on screen.
But this? This was different.
This kid hadn't practiced this. It was baked into his bones.
"Are we training again this afternoon?" Raphael asked.
"Yes," Anderson said, shaking himself out of his stupor. "Afternoon is conditioning and endurance. But you don't need it. You can head back and read the script."
"I'd rather stay," Raphael said. "I'd love to hear some stories about the original films."
Anderson looked at him, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"Alright. But you're buying the coffee."
---
Second floor of the training facility. The observation deck.
George Lucas slowly set his coffee cup back onto its saucer.
He had been standing there for fifteen minutes.
He'd originally just come to see how the new kid was handling his first swordplay lesson. The sudden departure of Hayden Christensen had given him a two-week migraine, and this nineteen-year-old kid was the result of a desperate, eleventh-hour pivot.
He had not expected to see that.
"Is that..." Producer Rick McCallum, standing right behind him, was practically speechless. "Has he trained before?"
"He says he hasn't."
"Do you believe him?"
Lucas didn't answer.
He took off his glasses and slowly wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt. It was his tell when he was deep in thought.
"His last movie was about street racing, right?" Lucas asked.
"The Fast and the Furious. A Universal picture."
"There's no sword fighting in that."
"No, there isn't."
Lucas put his glasses back on.
"Double his training schedule for next week. Actually, no... triple it."
McCallum blinked. "Why? His technique is already—"
"Exactly because his technique is already flawless," Lucas said, turning around, his eyes bright behind his lenses. "I want to see what his absolute limit is."
In the shadows at the far end of the observation deck, someone else had been watching quietly.
Natalie Portman had seen the whole thing.
And standing a few feet away from her was Ewan McGregor.
---
Ewan McGregor had been standing on the observation deck for ten minutes.
He was only there by chance. He wasn't scheduled to shoot today; he'd just come to the lot to confirm next week's schedule with Lucas.
Walking past the training area, he'd heard the rapid, aggressive crack of the practice blades and stopped to look.
That was when he saw the kid.
The thirty-year-old Scottish actor leaned against the railing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, his chin tilted up.
Watching the figure swinging the lightsaber below, a strange expression slowly washed over his face—not surprise, not scrutiny, but a distant, almost nostalgic look.
"Do you know him?" Natalie asked softly.
Ewan turned his head, looking like he'd just snapped out of a trance.
"No," he said. "It's just... the way he swings that sword reminds me of someone."
"Who?"
Ewan didn't answer right away.
He looked back down. Raphael was accepting a cup of coffee from Anderson, his profile sharply illuminated by the cold lights of the soundstage.
"My grandfather," Ewan finally explained. "In photos from when he was young. He was a soldier, and after the war, he became a carpenter. There's this one black-and-white picture of him in his overalls, holding a chisel. He's holding it with the exact same grip."
Natalie followed his gaze. "What kind of grip?"
"It's not just the grip," Ewan thought for a second. "It's the intent. It's the look of absolute certainty. He's not trying it out. He's not practicing. It's the way you hold something only after you've used it ten thousand times."
He paused.
"A nineteen-year-old kid shouldn't have that kind of certainty."
Natalie stayed quiet.
She remembered standing in line at the coffee cart two mornings ago. Before the barista could even ask, Raphael had said, "Americano. Black. Thanks."
The barista had looked confused—it was only Raphael's second day on set, but he ordered like a guy who had been drinking there for ten years.
At the time, she figured it was just an actor flexing his observation skills.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
---
After the afternoon session wrapped, Raphael stayed behind in the training area alone.
He sat on a padded mat in the corner, idly spinning the practice lightsaber in his hands.
The aluminum casing on the hilt was scuffed and worn—the physical record of the sweat and time left behind by countless actors before him.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"Mind if I sit?"
Raphael looked over his shoulder. Ewan McGregor was standing a few feet away, holding two cups of coffee.
"...Be my guest."
Ewan sat down next to him and handed over one of the cups.
"Americano. Black," Ewan said. "I asked the girl at the cart. She said this is your poison."
Raphael took the cup. "...Thanks."
A few seconds of silence hung between them.
Ewan took a sip of his latte. He didn't look at Raphael; his eyes were fixed on the empty center of the training floor.
"Bob told me you backed him into a corner on your very first day."
"He was going easy on me."
"He didn't go easy on me," Ewan laughed. "The first time I picked up one of these things, it took him a week just to teach me how to swing it without braining myself."
Raphael hesitated. "That was a long time ago."
"Four years," Ewan corrected. "We shot Phantom Menace in '97. But that's not what I'm talking about."
He turned his head and looked directly at Raphael.
"I'm talking about the second you picked up that sword today. That didn't look like something you picked up four years ago. That looked ancient."
Raphael didn't say anything.
Ewan didn't press him. He just turned back to his coffee.
"You know," he said, his tone casual, "when I got the call that I booked Obi-Wan, my first reaction wasn't excitement. It was pure terror."
"Of what?"
"Qui-Gon Jinn." Ewan smiled faintly. "Not Liam Neeson—he's one of the best actors I've ever worked with. I mean the character. Qui-Gon was Obi-Wan's master. He was the anchor point for his entire life. I was playing a guy who was permanently living in his master's shadow."
He paused.
"There's this scene in the script. After Qui-Gon dies, Obi-Wan is standing alone in the fields on Naboo. He doesn't have any dialogue. He's just standing there. I asked George what he was supposed to be thinking about. George told me he was thinking, 'Am I ready for this?'"
Ewan looked back at Raphael.
"I figured it out later. That scene wasn't about Qui-Gon at all. It was about Obi-Wan facing himself, alone, for the very first time. He spends the rest of his life asking himself that exact same question: Am I ready?"
Raphael stayed silent.
Outside, the sky was growing dark. Inside the soundstage, the overhead floodlights clicked on one by one.
"Do you think Anakin ever has a moment like that?" Ewan asked.
"He does," Raphael answered with absolute certainty. "But not before he becomes Darth Vader."
"When?"
"After he becomes Vader. Right before he dies."
Ewan looked at him. There was no surprise in his eyes, only a quiet sense of confirmation.
"So, you're playing a man who already knows how his story ends."
"I am."
"But you still have to play the journey from the light into the dark."
"I do."
Ewan nodded slowly.
He set his empty coffee cup on the floor and stood up.
"Well, I suppose I can't slack off either," Ewan said. "We've got a scene together next week. One of the few times Obi-Wan and Anakin are actually on the same page."
Raphael looked up. "I know it," he said. "Scene 37. The dialogue in the elevator."
"The script treats it like a transitional scene," Ewan said. "But I don't want to just walk through it."
He looked down at Raphael, a distinctly Scottish, slightly wicked grin spreading across his face.
"Come on then, Skywalker. Let's see if you actually deserve to carry that sword."
That evening, the lights in the training area of Soundstage 7 stayed on late into the night.
Bob Anderson had already packed his bags and was heading to his car when he heard the aggressive, rhythmic cracking of polycarbonate blades echoing from the building. He pushed the door open to check it out, and he didn't leave.
He stood by the door, watching the two blurs of motion clashing in the center of the mat. Without realizing it, his hand drifted down to his belt—resting right on the spot where a lightsaber used to hang.