I thought. And thought. And thought.
Power. I needed more of it. I had been repeating the same thing to myself again and again, to keep reminding myself that what I had was not suffice. Life was a breeze right now, and it made it so very easy to keep going with the flow of it. To lose aspirations in the lull of comfort and safety.
My aspirations required me to have a level of power that was far beyond my reach.The rip-a-tank-in-half, throw-an-Inquisitor-across-the-room, make-Palpatine-sneeze-from-a-distance kind.
But that wasn't what I had.
What I had was a twitchy sense of space, a psychometry addiction, and a telekinesis ability that barely registered as a party trick. Two years of survival, constant training, desperate self-hacking... and my Force push still couldn't be used for anything other than a light push to anything bigger than a space-toaster.
Why?
Why was it this bad? The question kept repeating again and again in my mind since the last 2 years, sometimes eating my mind when staying awake late night, other times coming up during day while working.
I ran the numbers. Over and over. In the dark. In the shower. While Vasha snored beside me, legs thrown over mine like she was trying to stake a claim. I analyzed everything I remembered from the forums back home, from the canon, the Legends, the half-baked fan theories posted by terminally online nerds with too much time and a terrifying understanding (or just head canon) of midichlorian theory.
Midichlorians.
They were the door that connected the life to the cosmic. Everyone had them, some in sparse, some in spades. How much you could open it depends on what's your M-Count is, most of the times.
I wasn't unacknoweledged of the scenarious when even ones with door slighly open displayed power far beyond their paygrade by following the will of force almighty. Like Kanan did to stop the explosion, to protect his family, by letting go.
That wasn't an option. No chance this boy gonna become the bitch of some ethereal almighty will, not in this life, nor in the past one.
Ezra, or more like the original flavor Ezra - had potential. Sure, not Skywalker-tier, but definitely on the "could've been Jedi Council in another timeline" spectrum. Somewhere between Kit Fisto's creepy smile and Yoda's dimwit speech.
So why was mine so kriffing weak?
I wasn't stagnating. I was molasses. Slime. A slow crawl of microscopic growth, like someone turned on the faucet of power and forgot to pay the water bill. My telekinesis was barely progressing, despite every trick(that I could think of), every meditation, every frustrated punch at the universe.
And it shouldn't be this slow.
By ten, a Force-sensitive should've shown more. My cell count had by my calculation, grown by atleast 1.5x since I woke up in this body .
And if midichlorians existed symbiotically, their bond with host developing as they immersed themselves in the Force, I should've been riding a power high by now, especially after doing such heavy usage of hyper-perception and pyschometry daily. Hell, the former was practially equivalent to meditating, janked up to 11th level (Through I still didn't know how the actual Force Sense worked or would it even work for me.)
Unless...
Unless dying had screwed me.
Unless being dragged from one universe to another had flayed off those little Force bacteria like a sterilizing blast. What if transmigration nuked your metaphysical immune system? What if I'd rebooted in Ezra's body... and either killed those tiny fuckers or maybe Force had did a re-roll for my cosmic number lottery.
That was a horrifying idea.
Naturally I refused to accept it. Through if that's the reality, I would be disinclined to do so.
So today, I put everything on pause. The shop was closed. Vasha could sleep in or rant about droid grease later. We had enough credits to hibernate for a decade anyway. Right now, the only thing that mattered was me.
My body.
My power.
I tried the tech route first. Again. I pulled out the sad excuse for a Electro-Photonic Nano-Sync Microscope we salvaged from some trashed medical station junk (and repaired it) and aimed it at a blood smear.
This had a resolution that rivaled those of electron micros-scope but using some advanced quantum syncing technique, they generated an actual colored live view of that scale.
But inspite of that, Useless it was.
A kaleidoscope of cellular chaos. Mitochondria. Ribosomes. Organelle soup. No visual guide in any textbook told me what a midichlorian looked like. They didn't even show up in any boks.
Not even religious text of some groups that worshiped the Force had clear imagery—just vague descriptions, half-science wrapped in spiritual babble.
And why would they? When even Jedi didn't share that much of their workings despite being potentially the most famous group of Force followers.
And now?
Anything related to them was something that would have been already obsure in the golden era of Jedi, much less these days when a ball-sack-for-a-face Palpy was sitting on the highest throne and scouring the whole galaxy for secrets of force and to abduct or kill any force sensitive.Naturally any such information would be cleaned or scrubbed. You just had to take a look at the clone wars history taught nowadays to see how even the event that Jedi participated enmasse has been sanitized.
I still didn't knew whether they did mass surveys or tested every academy cadets for those M-count of not.
But maybe I didn't need a microscope.
Maybe I had something better.
But I had something better, didn't I?
Not tech. Not textbooks. Not even one of those stupid fanfic power-ups like a divine blessing from the Force gods or a motivational flashback montage with Yoda.
I was going to science the fuck out of the Force.
It had already handed me a galactic middle finger when it came to raw power.. But sensing was where I could sense the absolute shit out of stuff.
I'd trained this particular edge obsessively. Hyper Perception wasn't just a sense anymore—it was a framework. A living map. My personal early-warning system for everything from falling tools to hidden snipers to suspicious glares from shady patrons. There was always a low-level bubble around me, passive but twitchy, like a half-asleep cat. It couldn't stop death, but it could at least make me flinch appropriately before it happened.
Do you know how many people would pay to know what killed them? Okay, none. Because they'd be dead. But still.
Anyway.
Today I wasn't interested in falling wrenches or Vasha's snore-rhythms. Today I was diving deep. Layer by layer. Peeling perception apart like an onion marinated in ketamine.
Over years, I have explored its various aspects and learned a lot, through its quite funny how I am probably in the prologue of my story and still doing stuff people did in training arcs inbetween pumping action.
First: the material layer. That was easy. I didn't even have to think about it anymore. It just was. I reached outward, and my awareness bloomed. Dust motes became thunder. The pressure difference from my own breath ricocheted off the walls like sonar. My consciousness threaded through the furniture, pinged against the durasteel supports, and settled briefly in the old coil of copper wire in the junk drawer. I was everything, and everything was me.
Second: Force Perception.
This was trickier. More like standing in a thunderstorm, but the thunder was also you, and the rain was made of voices from a trillion years ago. It wasn't the friendly "feel the tree" crap the Jedi always talked about and probably something I hadn't even learned.
This was the raw, unfiltered substrate of existence, detected because of just how through the material layer was, detecting even the meta-physical. The Force as a field—not spiritual, not moral, just there. Like gravity if gravity also whispered poetry and occasionally tried to eat your soul.
I slipped in.
The real world blinked out.
The metaphysical landscape hit me like cold water to the face. All-consuming. Featureless. Yet full of shape.
It was dark, but not absence-of-light dark. It was every-color-canceling-itself-out dark. The kind of dark you only feel in dreams you don't talk about. And it wasn't empty. Not remotely. Every object I had tagged in the material world now flickered in and out of my perception like dying stars. A ghostly outline. A presence half-here, half-something-else.
And me?
I was a speck. A thread in the network. A spark caught between surges.
This was the cosmic Force in its rawest observable state. Unfiltered. Undiluted. And probably illegal in three systems for psychological reasons.
It was terrifying.
I might have peed a little. Just a bit. No judgment, right? I was ten. Ten-year-olds get a terror-pass.
Because what I was seeing—feeling—was everything.
Man-made horrors beyond comprehension?
Yeah. That meme didn't go far enough.
This was the source code of reality.
Everything bled into everything else. There were no boundaries. Just vague pulses, force-signatures flaring like dying candlelight and then vanishing again. I could feel the memory of a conversation in the couch cushions. The echo of a ship's thruster from the melted patch on the ceiling. The pain of a solder burn still radiating from the floor panel where Vasha had screamed two weeks ago.
There was a third layer.
Mine.
I called it Days of Future Past, because of course I did and Branding was important for a memorable story.
Sounded cooler than "Temporal Psychometric Hyper Perception Interface." Also, I wasn't trying to win a Nobel prize in Force metaphysics. I was ten. With problems. And ambition. And a brain fried on rewatching "Rebels" and scavenging fan theory blogs at 2 AM.
This layer started sloppy. Like two bad holos flickering over each other. Present smashed against past. But over time, the overlap smoothed out. Clean edges. Sharper echoes. Tech items whispered their histories like chatty old men with good stories and horrible breath. Diving into them felt less like hacking and more like catching up with old friends that bled voltage and solder.
By this point, even a light tap into the third layer gave me a comparison—what it was now versus what it had been. Tracing the difference was easier than breathing, and even easier than pretending I wasn't constantly skirting emotional combustion over Vasha's presence in my life.
And not only that, the supposed tree was still growing.
Even without using anything flashy, I could sense what made a device tick. Not educated guesses—intuitive certainty. Like I'd spent years designing the thing, even if I'd picked it up ten seconds ago.
Maybe that was just the Days of Future Past leaking unconsiously. Maybe it was just the innate understanding that came by living the life of an thousand circuits. Or maybe it was a new specialization forming. A support class awakening.
Which came in handy when someone wanted to turn me into sliced meat halfway through their villain speech.
Or maybe it was something else altogether. Something I'd have to research later. Right now, I was diving into the meat of the matter.
And yeah, I had telekinesis and even if a laughable version of it, I am quite an utilitarian in resources regards.
I might not have power, but with that weakness, I have grown other aspects of it -- precision. The kind that let me weave together wires the size of thread strands, clean circuit rot like a metaphysical toothbrush, or unjam a power coupling without touching it.
My control didn't come from strength. It came from scarcity. From need. The kind of mastery forged in poverty, where you learned how to stretch one credit across a week like your life depended on it. Because it did.
Once I'd stabilized in the second layer—cosmic soup, infinite whispers, and unsettling comfort—I grounded myself.
Then I stared at the hydrospanner in my hand.
It was familiar. Scarred. Slightly greasy. It had fixed more things than I could list. The closest thing I had to a sibling. I held it up, loose grip, and tried something experimental.
Force push. Light. Controlled. Barely a nudge.
It rose slightly.
Then again. Up. Down. Just enough to let me observe the interaction.
I kept lifting it. Just the hydrospanner. Up. Down. Float. Drop. A repeat loop of effort and concentration, like a kid doing dumbbell curls with a pencil. My telekinesis hadn't improved in any grand way—it still felt like squeezing a fart out of a constipated bantha. But something different happened this time. Something subtle. Quiet. Dangerous.
On the third lift, when my brain finally shut up and my focus turned razor-clean, I felt it.
A hum.
Tiny. Directional.
The kind of vibration that didn't tickle the skin, didn't buzz the air, but lived somewhere just past the edge of my nerve endings. I couldn't even point to where it started. My skull? My chest? Somewhere behind my thoughts, like a ghost echo pressing against the fabric of reality.
But it wasn't the hydrospanner that vibrated.
It was me.
A tremor radiated outward from my body—thread-thin, impossible to see, but undeniably there—and the Force field around the spanner reacted. Twitched. Shifted.
Connected.
Like a spider web string being pulled, but in reverse. The strand wasn't part of the tool. It was me, stretched impossibly thin and distant, brushing against the cosmic layer like a metaphysical finger.
I didn't feel the extension. Yet I knew it existed. In the same way I didn't feel the exact bones in my toes when I walked, but I knew they moved. The hydrospanner became part of me for one trembling second, and that was when it floated. Not because I forced it. Because I reached for it and the Force reached back.
My mouth hung open like a discount Anakin in front of a sand-free beach.
This—this was the link. The connection. The method.
The Force wasn't some wild burst of emotion or mystic flex. It wasn't a power-up that came with a scream and a glowing sword. It was... continuity. Flow. Transmission. I didn't throw my will at the spanner—I extended something deeper, more essential. A constant, invisible stream that came from within and touched the world.
I lifted it again. On purpose. Just a few centimeters. Hovered it there like a dad playing "look what I can do" with a malfunctioning toy.
The connection held.
The stream held.
That was the wild part. It wasn't a flicker. This was no one-time spark. The vibration—the metaphysical beam—I could feel it now, clearer than ever. Continuous. Like a steady line of thought, only it wasn't thought. It was presence. My essence, stretching across the veil of the cosmic Force.
It didn't travel. It existed. Instantly.
No delay. No lag. Just response.
Immediate. Absolute.
The implications slammed into me faster than a Force yeet through a bulkhead. This was how it worked. This was why Vader could turn an Admiral's windpipe into space spaghetti from a moon away. Why Luke could do ghost projection cosplay across star systems while sipping lactose-intolerant milk from local wildlife.
The Force didn't follow rules of distance. Or time.
Because there were none.
That stream? That vibration? It didn't travel to the hydrospanner—it was already there. It was me. An extension of self, impossible to trace, immeasurable by any known law of physics. Instantaneous transmission. Instantaneous presence.
And suddenly all those galaxy-breaking feats I used to meme about didn't seem ridiculous anymore. They felt... obvious.
I nearly dropped the hydrospanner.
The wonder was too much.
This was it. The Force wasn't about strength. It wasn't even about will.
It was about alignment.
Sympathy. A match in frequency. A handshake across existence.
I sat there, staring at the floating tool, feeling that soft shimmer of continuous contact. The stream hummed like a lightsaber with the volume turned way down. Ethereal. Eternal. Indivisible. My mind couldn't follow it, and my reflexes were far too slow to trace its change, yet it obeyed my intent before I even finished forming it.
Was that why the Jedi always meditated like their lives depended on it? Because they were trying to clean the signal? Sharpen the stream?
Or had they overcomplicated it? Or have I over complicated it.
I just sat there.
The hydrospanner floated a few inches above my palm, barely moving. Just hovering. Existing. And somehow, it felt like the whole galaxy was holding its breath with me.
My chest hummed with something ancient. Older than stars. Every inhale stirred the air around me into little waves I couldn't see but somehow knew were real. The Force didn't shout. It whispered. Quiet. Constant. Present in everything, from the cracked tile under my foot to the lazy spin of the spanner drifting just out of reach.
I lifted a finger, traced the arc of a dust mote drifting through the sunlight. It danced like it knew I was watching. Like it wanted to be seen. There was no drama. No storm of lightning. Just motion. Perfect, gentle motion.
It felt... alive.
Not just the mote. Everything. The whole room. The entire kriffing galaxy. Alive and vibrating, slow and infinite.
I couldn't name the feeling. Couldn't box it up in a neat little definition and toss it into some fan wiki page.
It was just awe.
Like I'd been staring at the ocean my whole life and only now noticed the depth.
The Force didn't care about power levels or cool tricks. It didn't need lightsabers or lightning bolts or floating rocks. It was there, always, breathing through the cracks of reality, humming behind everything like a low, eternal melody.
And I was in it.
Just floating.
My mind wasn't racing for once. No spreadsheets of fan theory math. No panic over midichlorian density or growth caps or whether some dead Sith lord had better cheat codes than me. Just stillness. Like the universe had nudged me in the ribs and said, hey... look.
The Force wasn't a secret to crack.
It was a miracle to witness.
I closed my eyes. Let myself feel it. Every molecule in my skin hummed with that subtle, endless frequency. It moved through me like warmth. Like sunlight slowly melting through ice. I wasn't stronger. Nothing had changed. And yet, somehow, everything had.
I could feel the galaxy underneath me. Like it had always been there. Like it had been waiting.
The spanner hovered. Weightless.
But all I could look at was the space between us.
Alive.
Vibrating.
Endless.
And I just sat there, suspended in wonder, while the Force pulsed through the bones of the universe like a lullaby older than time.
-----
Author's Note:
The time has come, the dawn of a new week, a new world. Vote, vote and vote. (I have uploaded the chap 5 min in advance so you guys have time to read it before ranking resets at midnight in china.)
Last week had been a bit slow, we got pushed down to 30 smth on rankings, but still you guys did good. I love ya all for support you give to this baby.
My college classes have started and being in senior year makes things very hectic. I need those extra stones of motivations to keep me going. wink wink
Story Leaks: Chapter 34 name is [Premonitions] , make what you may of that jajajaja...
(For note, webnovel chapter number is ahead of official so you would see the chapter on 36 I think)
If you want to support me or read advanced chapters, you can do so at Patreon. I would be highly appreciative of that and it would support me very much in my writing endeavors.
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