The sun of Coruscant filtered through the tall windows of the Jedi Temple, casting amber hues across the smooth floor of the training hall. At this early hour, few Jedi were present. The silence was broken only by the sound of focused breathing and the muffled hum of training sabers.
At the center of the dojo, a young Padawan spun with precision, his blue-bladed saber roaring with power at every movement. His stance was solid, his strikes heavy and deliberate — a style built on brute strength and counter-attacks.
He was practicing Djem So, the fifth form of lightsaber combat. A style often associated with the boldest, and sometimes the most reckless, duelists.
"Again, Talren," his master said calmly, stepping back with fluid ease. "Control your anger. You're too direct."
The Jedi Master — a human with graying hair and a composed gaze — moved with a nearly dance-like grace. His saber, glowing a deep green, traced wide and measured arcs. His style, Niman, was a form of balance — neither overly aggressive nor overly defensive. A synthesis of other forms, often mocked for its lack of specialization... but in a master's hands, it became an unstoppable dance.
Talren let out a frustrated breath, resetting his stance.
"I just want to win."
"Victory means nothing if born of impatience," his master replied, raising his saber slightly. "Djem So can strike hard. But it doesn't forgive mistakes."
The Padawan charged again, a cry escaping his throat. His saber lashed out like lightning, a vertical strike. The Master pivoted, absorbed the impact, then slid his blade diagonally — disarming his student with grace and quiet strength.
The bluish saber slid across the floor. Talren stepped back, panting.
"Again… you got me again," he muttered, frustrated.
"Because you're trying to beat me instead of learning," the Master said with a faint smile. "I'm teaching you the art of survival, not domination."
He deactivated his blade and stepped forward.
"Niman doesn't seek confrontation. It seeks balance. Peace within the fight.
Djem So, on the other hand, is a raw blade — but if you forget restraint, it will crush you."
Talren remained silent. Then finally, he nodded.
"One more time, Master."
"Very well," the Master said, stepping back a few paces. "But this time… feel. Don't strike to win. Strike to understand."
And in the silence of the Temple, the blades ignited once more. Two generations. Two styles.
Talren's saber had barely shut off when a service droid rolled quickly into the training hall.
It came to a sudden stop before the Jedi Master, let out a respectful beep, and projected a holographic message.
A figure appeared: Master Olen Kovar, a member of the Jedi Council, known for his cold demeanor but strategic clarity.
"Master Solen," the projection said in a grave tone.
"We've received an urgent request from the High Command of the New Republic. A high-priority, confidential mission."
Master Solen calmly extinguished his saber.
"I'm listening."
"A diplomat's son — a key figure in negotiations between the Republic and the border systems — has been kidnapped."
At those words, Talren turned his head toward his Master.
"Finally, a mission," he exclaimed, excited.
The hologram continued.
"The child was last located on Felucia. The planet is unstable. Radical imperialist groups — unaffiliated, but armed — have recently established a presence there. The unit sent to retrieve the boy hasn't reported back."
Master Solen crossed his arms.
"A rescue mission, then."
"Yes. Discreet. Swift. Without attracting attention from Republic media or dormant Imperial cells. You're the most qualified. And your Padawan could learn much… in the field."
The transmission ended.
Talren began to buzz with excitement.
"Finally, I get to train in real time."
"We go in carefully, Talren," Solen replied with unshakable calm. "The priority is the child."
He looked out the wide windows, at the sky filled with ships, at the towers of Coruscant stretching like a mechanical ocean.
"Get ready, Talren. We leave the Temple within the hour."
Talren nodded, nervous.
The Republic ship slid through the spore-laden atmosphere of Felucia with the softness of a breath. Its modulated turbines avoided triggering local detection systems.
Master Solen watched the bioluminescent jungles through the cockpit viewport.
"The planet breathes," he murmured.
"Or it's waiting to swallow us whole," Talren replied, eyeing the shifting curves of giant mushrooms and carnivorous ferns.
They landed on an old trading platform, now overgrown with moss, roots, and cables eaten by mold.
Their boots had barely touched the ground when the Force vibrated.
They moved through the fungal forest for an hour, guided by an old Republic transponder. The signal led them to a former transport camp — now a repurposed base used by Imperial loyalists. Fanatical men, armed with heavy weapons, tattooed with the sigil of the fallen Empire.
Solen raised two fingers. Talren understood the command. They would strike.
The assault was swift. But bloody.
Talren was the first to emerge from the mist.
His blue saber slashed the air in a crackling arc. He leapt on the first sentry, severing the man's arm in one clean stroke. He rolled, struck, pushed. Each motion was cold, brutal. He didn't use the Force like a blade — but like a hammer.
"You're too aggressive!" shouted Solen from a distance, moving forward calmly, each movement a perfect balance of attack and defense.
"I'm in control, Master!" Talren replied, panting, but smiling.
But Solen could read the shadows in his student's heart. Talren was too impatient. Too violent. And yet, somehow, his heart still carried a spark of purity.
Solen disarmed three opponents with one fluid motion. He dodged blaster fire without anger, just a simple sidestep, and deactivated a turret with an open palm.
Talren had just taken down two more opponents, his sabers leaving behind outlines scorched black from the heat. His breathing was rapid.
The enemies fell one by one.
When silence returned, only the faint crackle of burning spores lingered in the air.
"Controlling the blade isn't enough, Talren," said Solen as he sheathed his sabers. "You must also master what drives your hand to strike."
Talren remained silent. He wiped his forehead, streaked with spores and blood. The boy still lacked balance… but he was talented.
They searched the camp. No sign of the boy.
"Strange…" Solen murmured, frowning.
Talren slowly twirled his deactivated saber between his fingers, looking thoughtful.
Solen was trying to reconstruct the events, to figure out where the child might have been taken, when a brief whistle sliced through the silence. A signal. Their signal. An old reflex between master and apprentice, used when something felt off.
Talren froze, pointing his saber toward a shadow.
"We've got company."