No bow. No flourish.Just presence—carved from quiet.
Kaelen entered like stone sliding into place. His gait was steady, shoulders relaxed but weighted, as though he carried something none of them could see. He wore training armor—charcoal durasteel weave beneath segmented plates across the ribs and shoulders. Streamlined. Reinforced. Nothing ceremonial.
Functional.
His saber hung at his hip. Silent. Waiting.
He did not look to the Knights. He did not seek the gallery. He walked to the edge of the mat, stopped, and stood alone—eyes fixed on the center line as if it were the only truth in the chamber.
A lean Mirialan Knight shifted, scars bright against his knuckles. His voice rose, barely louder than the hum of the arena's lights.
"Are we going to hold back?"
It wasn't fear. It wasn't sarcasm.It was the question of someone unsure what, exactly, they were being asked to face.
Windu turned his head. Not sharply. Not slow. Just enough to answer with the full weight of his presence.
"Don't insult him."
The Mirialan said nothing more.
The others adjusted. A shoulder rolled. A wrist flexed. A saber flickered to life for half a heartbeat before shutting off again. Not readiness. Not tension.
Control.
Kaelen still hadn't moved. He stood at ease, but it was a stillness that held its own breath. A blade in a sheath that refused to rattle.
Windu stepped forward, voice carrying not to Kaelen, but to the room.
"This is not a ranking trial. Not a ceremonial duel. This is a live sparring match—with full allowance for intent."
A pause.
"One against four."
Another.
"Your boundaries are yours. His are already set."
Now he looked at Kaelen. The words didn't soften.
"You begin when ready."
Kaelen stepped onto the mat. Each bootfall landed deliberate—thump, thump—as though measured against some inner rhythm. He reached the center. Turned his back on the Knights. Faced the far wall.
Closed his eyes.
One breath in.One breath out.
He unclipped his saber. But he did not ignite it.
Above them, the light dimmed—not darker, not shadowed. Just colder.
None of the Knights spoke again. Because whatever doubts they had——they knew they'd just stepped into something real.
The First Cut
There was no bell. No signal. No flare of Force energy.Just silence.
And in that silence, Kaelen moved.
Not toward balance. Not toward form.Like a knife drawn across the line between expectation and reality.
The Mirialan barely shifted into a guard before Kaelen crashed into him—shoulder-first, weight driving through durasteel-threaded armor. Not flashy. Effective. The Knight stumbled, balance broken.
The others tried to adjust, but Kaelen was already pivoting. He twisted low beneath a violet blade, letting it whisper inches above his head before rising into its owner. Not with a saber. With an elbow. The impact knocked air from lungs, cough sharp in the arena.
Kaelen rolled with the torque, boots scraping across the mat, then vaulted against the wall. He kicked off like a spring trap, spinning mid-air, saber igniting with a sudden roar—purple fire cutting through haze—descending upon the third Knight.
She raised her blade. Too high.
Kaelen killed his saber mid-swing. Slipped under her guard. Reactivated it at her ankle.
The strike cracked her leg, dropping her to one knee. Controlled. Precise. Intentional.
No cry. But the grimace told the truth.
Now the Knights understood.
This wasn't a warmup.This wasn't safe.
Kaelen landed, rolled, coiled low. Not a Jedi stance. A predator's crouch.
He hadn't attacked their bodies first.He had attacked their formation.
The fourth Knight tried to anchor them, blade sweeping wide to retake center. Kaelen denied him.
From his belt came a small, gray cylinder. Old Mandalorian tech. Not sanctioned. Not legal.
Kaelen cracked it against the mat.
Smoke burst. Thick gray haze curled low across the floor, cutting visibility by eighty percent.
The Knights flinched.
Kaelen did not. He moved within it.
A grunt. A spark. A body hitting the floor.
The smoke thinned. Kaelen stood, breath controlled, backlit by pale white light. One Knight knelt. Another clutched his ribs. Two more hovered at the edges—no longer formation, only survivors of a first wave.
They had entered expecting control.Kaelen gave them consequences.
Survival
The arena floor was no longer polished. It was smudged with dust, sweat, and burned streaks where sabers kissed too close to skin.
Kaelen bled now—shoulder seared, tunic burned through at the ribs, knee buckled and trembling.
But that made him dangerous.
The Knights spread. Not formation. Instinct.
The Mirialan came first, strike sharp and clean. Kaelen blocked weakly, dropped to one knee, staggered—looked beaten.
The Knight surged.
Kaelen dropped his saber. Let it clatter extinguished across the mat.
Hesitation. Fatal.
Kaelen seized the Knight's arm, twisted, slammed him chest-first into the floor.
Before the next attack landed, Kaelen kicked his saber into the air with his heel. It spun. He caught it backhand, reigniting it mid-motion.
This time he didn't play. He sidestepped a strike, let it graze armor, closed the gap, hooked his opponent's ankle with the blade, and spun him into the wall.
The Knight didn't rise.
Now two left.
One circled wide, breath ragged. The senior Knight waited, eyes sharp, reassessing everything.
Kaelen limped, bloodied, chest heaving. Weakness in every step.
Except it wasn't weakness. It was the mask he had chosen.
The younger Knight lunged. Kaelen saw it three heartbeats before it began. He let it pass, redirected him—into his partner's blade.
The senior pulled short. Too late.
Kaelen slashed the floor, cracked the mat beneath him, and shoved forearm to throat. The Knight dropped his saber.
Kaelen limped back, giving space. Four Knights lay broken. Not defeated, not disgraced—just outpaced.
He hadn't overwhelmed them.He had dictated the fight from the first breath.
The Last Knight
Only one remained. Composed. Bruised. Respect in his stance now—real, not ceremonial.
They circled. Slow. Wide.
No Jedi forms.No names.Just pressure. Just pain.
Kaelen's saber dipped low. The Knight raised his guard, textbook perfect.
Kaelen broke the silence—not with words. With a sudden step. Collision.
Their blades tangled, sparks spitting. Foreheads nearly touching, breath ragged, muscles locked.
Kaelen let the pressure mount. Then—killed his saber.
The Knight blinked, off-balance.
Kaelen ducked under, rose with a surge of pain-driven adrenaline, and drove his shoulder into the Knight's chest. Force, not technique. He shoved. Hard.
The Knight stumbled across the mat. Boots slipped. Back hit the outer wall.
The arena's sensors flared red.
SIMULATION END.
No fanfare. No applause. Just silence reclaiming the space.
Kaelen stood a moment, every muscle screaming. Then collapsed to one knee. Saber rolled free. Blood dripped onto the mat.
He stayed there. Not because he couldn't rise——but because the moment demanded stillness.
Finally, he stood. Wavering. Bleeding. Alive.
The lights above softened from surgical white to quiet gold.
Kaelen did not look to the gallery. Did not seek approval. Did not bow.
He walked from the arena, shoulders square, blood trailing down his collar.
The doors hissed shut.
Observation Booth
From above, the arena looked raw. Not bloody. Not broken. But raw in a way that didn't fade overnight.
Windu watched from behind the glass, hands folded. Below, the Knights moved slow, carrying bruises and recalibration.
The Mirialan rubbed his ribs, paused, and gave Kaelen the faintest nod. Real.
Another saluted him, soldier to soldier. Words unsaid.
One passed in silence, jaw tight, hands flexing. Anger in every step.
The youngest lingered, eyes fixed on Kaelen's back. He exhaled. Soft. Certain.
"That wasn't sparring," he whispered."That was survival."
No one disagreed.
Windu's voice carried low. Two words.
"Good."
Not praise. Not approval.
Necessary.
Below, Kaelen never looked up. He clipped his saber to his belt. Limped to the exit. And left.
The Knights remained behind, caught between memory and meaning.
Because Kaelen hadn't just won.He hadn't just endured.
He had rewritten what victory meant.
And once you saw it, you couldn't go back.
Windu stayed silent in the booth. Discomfort was a teacher.
And Kaelen had just become one.