Two years flew by — not in an instant, but somehow too quickly.
I feel like I’ve done a lot, but when I look at how much more there is to do, my ears just droop on their own.
Twelve years old — a significant age for a youngling.
Today begins the tournament I’ll have to participate in.
Technically, I could weasel out, say I’m not ready.
The Force doesn’t will it, and all that.
If nothing else, I’ve learned to lie and shield myself well.
At least from those who don’t practice mental techniques — and there are maybe one or two of those in the whole Order.
But there’s no point.
If I find a teacher — good.
If not, it’s no big deal.
Younger ones are only taken as padawans on major holidays and as exceptions.
Usually, they pick fourteen-year-olds, occasionally fifteen-year-olds, and every now and then a thirteen-year-old gets lucky — but not often.
That’s why I wrote earlier about having three tries: the first at twelve is just a trial run.
It doesn’t count.
The first fights are by age group — four matches each in the first round, three in the second, and then single elimination.
There’s no real winner.
More accurately, placement doesn’t matter.
The whole incentive to last as long as possible is the extra chance to be noticed and catch someone’s eye.
Eight fights is the guaranteed minimum.
The competition is about three or four younglings per padawan slot.
Tolerable.
Especially considering the tradition of mostly selecting the older ones.
Though, there’s an unpredictable factor — the Force.
If it doesn’t whisper to the masters and knights who’ve flocked to the tournament, you can beat everyone and still be left with nothing.
“Hm, and why shouldn’t I try reaching out to it myself?” a sensible thought crossed my mind.
There’s time.
I sit off to the side so my tail doesn’t get stepped on.
Inhale, exhale.
Relax.
Open myself to the illusory ocean.
My perception sharpens in a leap.
Hearing, smell, touch — my whiskers bristle.
The world around is bright and contrasting, colors saturated, real objects shrouded in haze.
A grid of currents and probabilities, a bizarre tangled tree with a tiny grain of sand at its center — me.
A mesmerizing hum, like the echo of a huge crowd bouncing around a crystal cave.
The smell of ozone and frosty freshness, as if a thunderstorm just passed after a blizzard.
The Great Force and its perception by a Force-user — it’s a thing in itself.
Even stranger things are possible.
I send out a question-desire-interest.
The Force, in a strange, impossible wave-cobweb, spreads from me.
Currents and branches begin to snap, one after another.
One thick branch won’t give way.
My flow-question breaks apart; several eddies tear and scatter the wave-cobweb.
But suddenly, one of the droplet-threads touches a vein-tendril on the surface of the tangle, and it, shuddering slightly, responds with a hum.
Strange, unclear.
I try to make sense of this jumble of vague shadow-sounds, blob-images, and smell-feelings.
I try to somehow connect it to reality — however vaguely — to interpret it.
Unexpectedly, ancient predator instincts kick in.
My body clearly signals — prey!
The beast is wounded, scared, panicked, weak.
My lips curl back on their own, baring my fangs.
A growl rises in my chest, almost inaudible to human ears.
I’ve long since learned to suppress such impulses.
No need to scare the children.
Infrasound is harmful to the psyche.
I surface through the waters.
The tree of probabilities dissolves into the streams of the Force ocean.
The tangle of thread-fates, like a cocoon enveloping me, breaks apart and dissipates like cigarette smoke in the wind.
My soul is at peace and calm — I’ve never dived so deep before.
It’s strange — being human in mind but inside a Cathar’s body, and yet having these associations when working with the gift.
Well, let’s sum things up.
Somewhere in this temple is a being who could become my teacher.
At least, I can’t interpret the feeling of close prey any other way.
I’m certainly not counting my future opponents as that.
No, no — I’m far from underestimating them; it’s an objective assessment.
The body I’ve been given itself provides huge advantages over the majority of my rivals.
After all, the percentage of sentient races descended from predators — especially those at the top of their world’s food pyramid — is vanishingly small.
As a rule, they simply have no need to awaken their minds.
Their natural attributes are enough.
The only thing I can do is fight with full commitment.
And what else is left for me?
Nothing.
First opponent: a boy, human.
Blond, blue-eyed, with a green practice saber, half a head shorter.
Fight!
A straight overhead strike — what is he, moving like a fly in frost?
I sidestep diagonally toward him, a circular motion of my wrist.
My hands would have been burned; if this were a real saber, the kid would have lost his hands.
A swing from hip to shoulder, and the opponent’s chest is crossed by the blade.
I intercept his hands gripping the saber — a chopping strike to the neck.
Done.
Three touches — a clean victory.
Second opponent: another human.
A boy.
A tousled brown-haired kid.
Stocky and short, clearly from a high-gravity world.
Fight!
I meet a diagonal strike with a hard block.
The kid’s used to relying on natural strength.
Big mistake.
Surprise!
Cathars are about four times stronger than an average human, and our endurance is something else.
A hard repulse, and the disoriented opponent takes a saber thrust to the throat.
Unpleasant.
A light burn.
Few people know how to detach themselves from pain in battle.
Even though it’s a basic technique taught to everyone — who volunteers to train it?
No masochists around.
Except me, and even I didn’t overdo it.
The kid recoiled and immediately took a strike to his hands.
Consider his fingers gone — the fight was lost.
I continue the motion and nick his kneecap.
A trifle, even in a real fight — a minor thing, but the touch counts.
Done.
Seventh fight.
I haven’t been touched once.
I haven’t even had a serious clash with anyone — just play.
New opponent: a Miraluka girl.
Seriously.
They’re blind in the ordinary sense and see the world through the Force.
Two sabers.
Miniature and flexible.
Agile, always seeming to dance.
Hm, this’ll be interesting.
Fight!
A jump and a scissor strike.
Seriously?
I jump up.
Use telekinesis.
I just shove the girl face-first into the arena floor.
Thud!
Disappointing.
In a real fight, that would have been the end for her.
Crushing her head or breaking her neck by landing on top — elementary.
I cross her back three times while the disoriented Miraluka is down.
Victory.
New opponent: something insectoid.
I don’t remember seeing anything like it.
Four limbs.
Male or female?
Who knows.
But it’s doing a decent Grievous impression.
Though Grievous probably isn’t even a project yet.
Alright, let’s begin.
Fight!
Ever seen a helicopter rotor blade?
That’s what this underwhelming grasshopper charged at me with — four blue propellers instead of limbs.
Hard block.
Use a strike-jump to stop another propeller.
Barely got my head out of the way and saved my ears.
I arch backward.
Slash back with my saber.
All my strength and the Force poured into the strike.
Didn’t reach him.
Quick.
No matter — the path to victory is clear.
The insect was thrown back by my counterattack.
It’s light and weak.
We dance for five minutes — it can’t touch me, but I don’t have enough skill either.
My opponent has excellent control of Force techniques.
A stalemate.
We wait.
Sixteen minutes.
A long time.
But victory is mine.
Wore him down.
The moment the “grasshopper” lost its rhythm even slightly, I managed not just to stop the insane whirlwind of blades again, but to punch one of its limbs.
Didn’t break it, I think.
A worthy opponent.
As soon as the insect dropped its saber and got distracted, I immediately seized it.
Ended up with two blades against three.
I couldn’t hit as hard with one hand as with two, but still, it worked out.
By that point, the chitinous fighter was noticeably fading.
He seemed to be running on sheer willpower alone.
Insectoid sentients, as a rule, are members of the higher castes, and those are never known for the endurance of workers or the power of warrior castes.
Eleventh match, and my opponent is a Wookiee.
Armed with a lightsaber pike — the same kind Darth Maul used, only the blade colors were different.
He’s fifteen, by the way.
This is single elimination; age groups are done.
Wookiees are one of the few humanoid species that surpass Cathars in physical strength.
My strengths are speed and agility; his are power, size, and a longer weapon.
Plus, one I’m not used to.
Fight!
We exchange a series of blows and jump back.
Nothing gained.
We both choose a defensive tactic.
A few cautious feints and attacks at each other, and an irritated growl.
Synchronized.
Looks like it’ll come down to mother nature.
My chances aren’t great, but they exist.
Still, let’s try a little trick first.
Seventeenth kata, series of techniques forty through sixty.
Crouch, arm forward, saber back, lunge.
The pike hums as it rushes to meet me.
The Wookiee is taller — he just thrusts.
I drop to my knees and, with a wide swing, parry the attack.
Or at least I try.
If this were a real fight, my shoulder would have been cut open.
Not fatal, but unpleasant.
But the opponent would have lost his legs and been cut in two from groin to armpit.
In a grapple, a saber is more convenient.
Simply due to size.
I conceded the twelfth fight.
My opponent was a Togruta — a green-skinned fifteen-year-old girl with a yellow saber and a green shoto, which she held in a reverse grip.
Is that a species thing or what?
She started the fight in an original way: tossed her saber and sent me flying with a Force push.
Pretty naive to try and knock a cat down.
Not only was I in a kind of battle meditation, but I also had a decent handle on the Force for my age.
I can easily sense and foresee such attacks, plus I have natural instincts developed and reinforced by rigorous training.
Still, in nine out of ten cases, the opponent would probably have been distracted by the thrown saber.
I landed on all fours and even seized her other weapon with telekinesis.
I snorted-growled and tossed the “lost” saber back to the girl.
Then came a beautiful and swift battle between two predators.
The score was three to two in her favor.
Once, she even got me fair and square.
A kill, too.
She crossed my chest halfway with her shoto.
I’m not sure if it were for real, I’d have managed to take her down while dying.
I had a chance.
We ended up nose to nose, but when you’ve been cut open halfway and the wound has been immediately cauterized… Even if you’re three times a Force-user and a god of self-control with masochistic tendencies — it’s not a given you’ll find the strength for a single swing of your arm.
“It’s rare for a youngling participating in a tournament for the first time to get this far,” a man of about twenty with dark, shoulder-length curly hair and a somewhat childish face addressed me.
His bulging gray eyes regarded the world with, um… naivety?
“I’m Jedi Knight Nemak.”
“Youngling Mirr-ra-Mrr, twelve years old, Cathar, Clan ‘Mouse Claw.’ Pleased to meet you, Nemak-dono,” I give a bow in the Japanese manner.
After a close acquaintance with the history and culture of my new race, something like that started showing in me.
Cathars, while not particularly well-known in the galaxy — I’d even say practically unknown at all — have something of samurai about them.
At least as I imagine samurai.
I was into Eastern martial arts for a time, so I read up a bit.
Our culture also had a considerable admixture of medieval chivalry, with additions from the local Mandalorians.
Their invasion and genocide of our race didn’t pass without a trace — oh, no, it didn’t.
It created a volatile mixture.
Contradictory and rebellious.
It doesn’t bother us, and that’s fine.
We don’t impose our worldview or philosophy on anyone.
“Mirr-ra-Mrr,” Nemak mused, looking right through me.
“Just Mirr or Mrr is fine.”
“Alright, Mirr,” the teacher shook his head, pulling away from the Force.
“How about becoming my padawan?”
A stupid question, but you can’t avoid it.
A formality that became a tradition.
It happens.
In the whole history of the Order, there’s never been a case of refusal.
At least, nothing like that is known to me.
“I would be honored, Nemak-dono,” I bow.
Respectful treatment is pleasant even to a stone.
You think it isn’t?
Well, ask it, and remember — silence is a sign of agreement.
“Dono?” the knight raised an eyebrow.
“A term of respect,” I flicked my tail involuntarily and then immediately duplicated it with a universally understood gesture — simply shrugged.
Overall, this fascination with my homeland, evoking if not the genetic memory of my ancestors — we don’t seem to have that — then something akin to it, has noticeably affected some aspects.
Still, I don’t see anything wrong with it, and I’m fine with everything.