3.4k words marathon...
////
The staff came at my head again, and my arms moved to block again. The impact rattled my bones, teeth buzzing like I had bitten a live wire. My own staff vibrated in my grip like a tuning fork that had been hit too hard.
Blocking was the one part I had figured out.
My faceless sparring partner—Steve, as I had named him—never followed a script once the fight started. The scene always began the same way: the semicircle of blank figures arranged around the circle, the Instructor looming like a mountain, and Steve stepping forward to face me.
That setup never shifted. After that, the fight became something else entirely. One run opened with a heavy swing, the next with a sweep across the legs, sometimes quick and aggressive, other times deliberate and testing. Every round became a new mess to survive.
The faceless crowd never moved, silent witnesses carved from air. The Instructor remained frozen as well, a monument of pressure. His presence weighed on the space like extra gravity. The one time I had tried to rush him, an invisible force crushed me into the sand before my weapon reached the guy. Game over.
A single try was enough to understand his role...Ofcourse it wasn't. My spirit animal was a cat, and this cat had unlimited lives, and so it died atleast 9 more times before giving up. If they thought I will just give up at once, fat chance.
Only after multiple tries and realizing that the whole stage seemed to be pre-programmed, a script to be followed, and the instructor was the dungeon master incharge of plot following the script did I reign in my curiosity.
Steve pressed forward with a burst of thrusts and sweeps. I gave ground, arms reacting with an odd grace that felt borrowed rather than earned.
The first time I appeared here, I lasted less than ten seconds. Miss a block, ribs cracked. Miss a counter, lights out. Reset. Same semicircle, same Instructor, same Steve stepping forward. Every time began from the same checkpoint.
At first I assumed it was punishment. The Force rubbing my face in failure. Then, after enough deaths to build a pile, I began to suspect a different angle. Maybe it was a trial. The Force demanding to know if I could handle the knowledge buried inside the weapon. The one thing this place seemed to offer without limit was retries.
That was when I stopped flailing and started watching.
Bodies give themselves away. A strike never starts with the arms; it starts with the frame. Shoulders shift, hips twist, weight slides. I had seen some of that back when I was repairing the exo-frame, studying muscle mechanics so I would not shred my own joints. Turns out, those lessons worked just as well when survival was on the line.
In reality, studying tells mid-fight usually gets you killed. Here, death only meant a reset. A perfect environment for trial and error. Fail, reload, fail again. Souls-like at its finest.
The beginning was painful at his best, as a lot of high power bonks were delivered to me, no parts spared as I was always caught staring at Steve with unfaithful intentions.
Color me surprised when I discovered a mystery in my body.
Over time, the staff in my hands felt different. When I tried to block, the movements flowed smoother. When I attempted to counter, my body already knew the shape of the action. The weapon did not choose the timing for me, but once I acted, it showed me how. As if it carried echoes of old muscle memory, lending them to me.
Which ofcourse it did. Happy it made, but confused it made me more.
Trashed my previous conjucture of this being a trial stage was.
But well, even if not, I was learning, growing. So I continued treading. And not to lie, there was a small part..okay, a large part of me that wanted to trash Steve. So much pain this faceless bastard had given me, and i wasn't gonna let go without returning it.
Yeah, i was kinda addicted
For the instincts that came with the staff, timing was still mine alone, and I stumbled through it plenty. Yet with infinite retries, even failure began to look like progress.
It felt like a tutorial. One that explained the controls but refused to hand me the enemy's attack patterns.
Then I saw it. A brief gap in Steve's guard after a heavy swing dragged him off balance. A sliver of opportunity which brought me out of my thoughts and into the battle.
I moved.
My body shifted with a strange certainty, the staff sliding into the gap before I even thought it through.
Clang. Blocked. Steve's weapon snapped mine aside like he was swatting a fly. The shock stung through my arms.
Another opening. I lunged, convinced this one would land. His staff twisted, parrying so smoothly it felt rehearsed. The rebound ripped at my grip, almost tearing the weapon free.
We circled, sticks crashing in steady rhythm. Block. Pivot. Shove. Simple patterns, yet each exchange dragged the air from my lungs. My arms burned, but I managed to sneak a few strikes past his guard. They still got stuffed, but that was fine.
Rome took centuries, and cracking a defense took more than one swing.
There.
A clean strike slipped through, the end of my staff thumping into his chest. He rolled with it, using the impact to hop back and reset the distance.
Finally.
I held my weapon steady, chest heaving. That was the first time I had landed anything on him in what felt like forever. My so-called "first phase" was complete.
Achievement unlocked.
Even with all my retries, this was progress. Out of ten loops, I survived maybe six. Four times, Steve still flattened me. Knowing his movements was one thing. Moving my own body fast enough was another.
Instinct and training memory clashed more than I liked. My own reflexes wanted to jerk one way, while the weapon's borrowed instincts demanded another. The two overlapped, creating awkward gaps in my stance.
Reflex was automatic—the hand that snaps away from hot water, the arm that shoots out when you trip. The weapon carried deeper, older reflexes that had nothing to do with me. Layering the two left cracks in my defense.
Maybe I had not given myself over fully. Maybe I was still holding back. Either way, I was still standing. And in this endless grind, standing counted.
The Instructor's staff tapped the ground again, and my boy Steve stepped forward. Only this time, his weapon tilted, the blunt end lowering while the blade and spear tip gleamed like someone just flipped the switch from "tutorial" to "actual boss fight."
"Cool. Phase two. Thanks, FromSoftware," I muttered under my breath.
The fight was only warming up.
Steve didn't waste time. He came at me faster than before, stabbing and sweeping with the spear end. The staff in my hands moved on instinct—block, deflect, pivot. The rhythm was different now, sharper, like he'd suddenly upgraded his move set.
The first thrust nearly took my stomach out. I managed to twist and redirect it, but the blade's edge still nicked my ribs. The burn lit me up, but the fight didn't stop. No pause button here.
Seven… maybe eight exchanges like that, my arms screaming the whole time. His attacks chained together relentlessly, no mercy windows, no easy dodge-rolls. Just pressure. Pure, crushing pressure.
I blocked one swing low, but the follow-up spear jab hit before I could reset my stance. Straight through my guard.
The pain wasn't cinematic. It wasn't some slow-motion, blood-splatter glory kill. It was just… lights out.
Darkness swallowed the arena in an instant.
And then the nothingness came. The same void I always fell into after failing.
"Again," I said automatically, the word slipping out like muscle memory.
The world started knitting itself back together. Sand. The semicircle of faceless watchers. The Instructor, unmoving and heavy as a mountain. Steve stepping forward into place like nothing had happened.
Round 47, or maybe 470. Who was counting anymore?
I tightened my grip on the staff. My ribs still ached from the phantom hit, even though I knew my body was fine. Didn't matter. I'd died here before. I'd die here again.
And one of these times, I wouldn't.
___
I opened my eyes to the dim light bleeding through the cracks in the motel curtains. The staff was still across my lap, cold and heavy like it had been waiting for me to wake up and press continue on the loading screen. I let out a long breath, the kind of sigh you make after dying for the twentieth time in Elden Ring.
One flick of my wrist and my datapad blinked alive. 08:37. Huh. So either I had been stuck in vision world on that Dark Souls grind for way longer than I thought, or time itself was doing some Doctor Strange impression. Felt like three seasons worth of shonen training arcs crammed into a single coffee break.
And the funny part. Every single run still ended with me getting clapped. Steve had more W's than a League of Legends smurf. But each reset slipped something into me—like my body downloaded another small patch update. Not enough to win, but enough to survive just a little longer. That liminal space between progress and faceplanting.
Copying it out here though? Whole other story. The second I try to replicate those smooth instinct moves, I end up looking like a kid waving a broomstick after watching too much Naruto. Guess the only way forward is grinding. Repeat until reality finally installs the same DLC my vision-self already has.
I leaned forward and pushed myself off the bed, bones popping like bubble wrap. The mattress in this dump must have been imported from a Sith torture chamber, because my back felt like it had been folded by an origami master. Shoulders tight, arms aching, but it was that good ache, the one you brag about like gym bros flexing after a single set. Progress pain.
And Steve. As much as I wanted to punt his faceless mug into orbit, he was the kind of opponent you secretly thank later. Balanced right in the zone where I could almost believe I had a shot. Whoever coded this trial had the same mindset as game devs who want you to suffer, but not uninstall.
A faint red blink tugged at the corner of my vision. I turned my head and saw the charge light on my loyal mutt guarding the room, pulsing like a tired heartbeat. Right.
Thing had been running since last evening without a break. Honestly, I was half surprised it hadn't just keeled over and smoked itself. Guess loyalty sometimes looked like a slow death by battery drain.
The Predator Mk 1 sat on the table, its barrel sweeping the room in lazy arcs. The little blue sensor light glowed steady. Watchdog mode. My own cobbled-together turret, standing guard like a loyal mutt. Took me weeks back on Lothal to even get it functional.
A heap of scrounged servos and messy code stitched together by sleepless nights, but it worked. One helpful son of a bitch. Which, by technicality, made me the bitch in the relationship. Yeah, let's just bury that thought and never dig it up again.
And look, I know what you're thinking. Predator. The name's stolen. But hey, it's not like the Yautja are about to roll into Star Wars canon and sue me for copyright infringement. Besides, my turret isn't rocking shoulder-mounted plasma casters that one-tap xenomorphs like they're level-one mobs in an MMO. Mine just… politely rotates and waits for instructions. Same family, just way more Walmart clearance bin than cinematic murder god.
At its heart, the Predator was a simple learning system. Machine learning stripped down to the bones: reinforcement loops, basic pattern recognition, and a couple of old droid subroutines duct-taped in for spice. It scanned its field of vision through a cluster of infrared lenses and tagged anything moving inside two hundred seventy degrees. During normal use, it stayed passive. The last thing I wanted was my own turret blasting random civilians in a market.
So I was the one marking targets. Predator did the spotting, I did the choosing. In watchdog mode, though, every living or moving thing became a target. With one exception: me. The emitter inside my chest pinged my signal on loop, telling the system to stand down whenever I wandered into its sights.
Would be really terrible if it blowed my head off while sitting on my shoulder...terribly funny.
As I shifted my butt on the bed, an screw poked me right on my scrumptious bony ass
Oh yeah, my makeshift workstation from yesterday night...sprawled in a heap around the disassembled blaster I had been tinkering with.
My plan had been simple: rip out the gauss cannon in Predator and replace it with the blaster. The cannon hit like a starship gun, but it carried only four or five shots before the capacitors wheezed out. Each shot also demanded a recharge window that felt like a lifetime. Big punch, terrible efficiency. A turret that slow was more siege weapon than guard dog.
What I needed was rate of fire. A turret that could keep snapping off shots without taking a nap after every pull. A blaster fit the role better. The gauss cannon was flashy, sure. Like bringing an artillery piece to a street fight. But flash did not keep me alive. Speed did.
But then I realized that if I did that, it would certainly not be ready for the whole night guard duty. Say, if an ass-hunter came to the room, hungry for my not-so-legal ass, who would me?
That's why I postponed it to morning, which meant now...hah, my procastinating ass really didn't want to work but grind can't stop.
I shuffled across the room, still half in my head about the Predator's upgrade, when something loomed right into my personal space. My heart skipped like a scratched record and I almost swung the staff on instinct. Who the hell was standing in my room this early.
One blink later, my brain caught up. Oh. Right. That thing.
In the corner, the exo-skeleton leaned against the wall like a drunk who had lost the will to stand upright. Ugly thing. Ugly but mine. Honestly, it scared me more standing there than it ever did in action. Half-built droid vibes, horror movie lighting… ten out of ten chance someone walks in here at night and screams.
I had thrown it together on Lothal when I realized the pile of gear I needed to drag around outweighed what my scrawny frame could manage. The store back there, as much as I loved it, had turned into a cage. Every instinct told me to bail. And when I left, I carried half a lifetime of tools and prototypes in one bag. Replacing them across the galaxy would have bankrupted me, so I built something to carry the load.
I wasn't trying to become Iron Man. What I wanted was an Iron Mule. Something that could haul weight and keep moving. But once you start bolting parts together, the temptation creeps in. Why stop at a pack mule when you could turn it into armor.
The first version was clunky, heavy, and moved like a toddler strapped inside a walker. Mark 0.5, I called it. Not quite worthy of fanfare, but accurate. It boosted my strength just enough to lug gear and swing the spear-axe without blowing out my shoulders. Protection was laughable, but hey, baby steps.
One day, if I ever scored cortosis or beskar, maybe I could turn it into something terrifying. Mandalorians had already proved armor could slap Jedi around with nothing but smart design, jetpacks, and stubborn pride. Add a powered frame and some decent weapons to that equation, and suddenly the underdog has claws.
The real wall was power. Back home, high-capacity compact batteries lived in sci-fi. Here, even the cheap cells ran droids for days, but throughput stayed pathetic. Energy trickled out, not flooded. Stack enough cells, though, and you got something usable. Bulky, sure, but the frame itself solved bulk.
So yeah, hard, but not impossible.
Tony Stark built a suit in a cave with scraps. I had an entire scrapyard galaxy. The dream didn't feel impossible. Just slow.
By the time I scraped up a ticket off Lothal, the exo-skeleton stood at Mark 0.5. Bulky, awkward, and only technically working, like a broken speeder still rolling downhill. But it gave me strength I lacked and let me carry my life on my back. That alone made it priceless.
If rare metals and proper labs ever came into play, then sure, this frame could evolve into something the galaxy hadn't seen before. Until then, I worked with what I had. One ugly mule at a time.
Across the room, the Predator turret clicked, lens flashing as it swept past me again. Servos humming, patient as ever.
My baby...which reminded me of the shop cum house back home
The store on Lothal stayed locked under Shockwave's care. Taxes paid, doors sealed, tools tucked away. A nest abandoned, hopefully not forever. I ached a little at the thought, missing the familiary and security it gave, but each memory there was intertwined with Vasha, and without her, it was just an house full of torture.
If I am to save here, nest must be left behind and wings be spread, even if it lead to fall from the heights, because one can never learn to fly without falling.
I rubbed my eyes and collapsed onto the mattress. The springs whined in protest, matching my mood. Another day, another list of plans to stab until something gave.
Progress came slow. That was fine. Slow was still forward.
And one way or another, I was building toward something that would flip the table.
If only the shuttle had landed me in Mos Eisley, I could've shaved hours off this whole circus. But nah. Lothal and Tatooine both had the trading density of a dying MMO server. Hardly any routes, fewer passenger shuttles, and apparently zero concern for people who just want fast travel unlocked.
So here I was, parked in Mos Espa, the unofficial capital, the place everyone called the "hub" of Tatooine. Which sounded impressive until you realized the competition was a handful of sand-choked towns where banthas probably outnumbered people.
Meanwhile, Mos Eisley , the one city I actually needed, the one that sat closest to where the Lars farm supposedly was just twinkled far, far away on the map like a taunt.
I asked around, did the whole "lost tourist with a datapad" routine, and the locals gave me two options. Option one: sit on my hands for a week until the next passenger shuttle crawled into town.
Option two: risk the land route, which was basically a galactic version of a Skyrim fetch quest, multiple junctions, half-broken connections, and the looming chance of running into some Tusken DLC encounter I didn't sign up for.
So yeah. Wait and rot, or road trip through Mad Max country. Choices.
You already know which one the protagonist gotta take for proper character developmene ehehe...
[Images]
---
A/N: Hope you enjoyed the long long chapter. Feels like been ages since I did chapters this big. I was about to upload yesterday, but sitting on desk, I feel asleep for hours. Then when I woke up, and started writing the chapter, it took too long to complete, and it had been nearly morning.
it was originally meant to end after the vision sequence, but I thought to add more content if its already late.
In the [[Image], i mean to add the exo-skeleton image but I haven't found one yet. Do upload your ideas meanwhile!
Next update in 2 or 3 days, depending upon how much inspiration I get from watching Andor and Kenobi series (just began both) and what time I am left with lol
Don't forget to vote!
Sayonara.