"Some blades are not forged. They awaken. Not with heat—but with hunger."
The morning came without urgency.
Soft Temple light filtered through the high lattice windows of the meditation wing, painting pale patterns across the floor—geometry layered over silence. The room was quiet. No Masters. No initiates. No lectures. Just space.
And in its center, Elai sat cross-legged, his hands resting lightly on his knees, his spine upright without strain.
He wasn't meditating to calm himself.
He wasn't meditating at all, not exactly.
He was listening.
Not to voices. Not to the hum of distant corridors. But to the subtle alignment beneath it all—the way motion moved in layers, how presences entered the edge of perception long before they arrived.
He knew the footfalls before they echoed.
Not hurried. Not cautious.
Measured.
The rhythm of someone who did not rush, because rushing was unnecessary.
Elai opened his eyes before Qui-Gon Jinn stepped into the chamber.
The Jedi Knight paused just inside the threshold, hands clasped at his back, his expression unreadable but not unkind. His robe was travel-worn, his boots still carried a trace of dust from somewhere beyond the Temple—though he had arrived late the night before.
He said nothing at first.
Elai didn't rise. He just waited, gaze steady.
Qui-Gon took a few steps closer, then came to stand beside one of the low stone pillars flanking the alcove.
"You already know," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Elai nodded, once.
"You don't want to ask who decided it?"
"No," Elai said softly. "I heard when the Force shifted."
Qui-Gon let out a quiet breath—not exasperated, not skeptical. Just faintly amused.
"Not many would treat a trial of skill as a footnote to a morning."
"It's not the first one I've had," Elai said.
That, somehow, made Qui-Gon smile.
"You may find this one different."
At that moment, another set of footsteps approached. These were less subtle—more precise, a bit faster, lighter. Younger.
Obi-Wan rounded the corner of the entryway, pausing as he caught sight of them both already waiting.
"Oh," he said. "You started early."
Qui-Gon raised a brow. "We were quiet."
"That's worse," Obi-Wan muttered, stepping down the last few steps and approaching. "It's like walking on two statues mid-thought."
He turned to Elai. "They assigned your tester this morning."
Elai tilted his head, curious but still quiet.
Obi-Wan folded his arms, then glanced toward Qui-Gon.
"Have you ever met Fy-Tor-Ana?"
Qui-Gon gave a slow nod. "Only briefly."
"She trained me. Before I got handed off."
"Handed off," Qui-Gon repeated, dry.
"You know what I mean," Obi-Wan said, then looked back at Elai. "She doesn't go easy. Ever. She's tested more younglings than I can count. Doesn't do politics, doesn't do pleasantries. She's not cruel, but she sees through things—and she pushes."
"She taught you?" Elai asked.
"Before my trials, yes. Shii-Cho, Soresu, and combat assessment. She never smiled. I'm not sure she even knows how."
Qui-Gon almost smiled again.
Obi-Wan ignored him.
"Fy-Tor-Ana once stopped a training group mid-form because someone flinched when she blinked," Obi-Wan said. "She said. Flinching is what gets you disarmed in battle. Made them all start again."
Elai didn't blink. He simply listened.
"She's hard," Obi-Wan said, slightly more serious now. "Even if she sees potential."
He waited for some kind of reaction.
Nothing.
Elai's eyes stayed on him, quiet, unbothered.
"You're not nervous?" Obi-Wan asked, trying again.
Elai turned slightly. Not to respond.
Just to look at him.
There was no mockery at the glance. No smugness. But something about it made Obi-Wan shift his weight, caught between awkward and impressed.
Then Elai asked, without changing tone:
"When does it begin?"
Qui-Gon answered before Obi-Wan could recover.
"Soon. The hall is being prepared now."
Obi-Wan glanced at the floor. "Word's spreading, too. You might want to be ready for more than just the test."
"More?"
"Curious Jedi," Obi-Wan said. "Teachers, Knights, maybe a few Council members. You've noticed, Elai. Whether you meant to or not."
Elai stood slowly, one smooth motion without tension.
"I didn't mean to," he said. "But I'm not hiding."
That answer landed harder than it sounded.
Qui-Gon looked at him—not as a Knight evaluating a student—but as someone seeing a shape forming, not yet finished.
"You'll do fine," Qui-Gon said. "She'll test you for the truth. And truth, from what I've seen, isn't something you're missing."
Elai nodded.
Then turned toward the hallway beyond.
Seryth padded quietly behind him, white fur brushing stone as the boy made his way forward—toward whatever waited.
Not because he had something to prove.
But because someone had asked a question.
And he had an answer to give.
Jedi Temple – Combat Observatory, South Spire
By midmorning, the observatory was full.
Not full in the casual, drifting way of most Temple gatherings—but full in the way of a rumor taking form. The entire upper gallery—usually reserved for rotating master classes and archival sparring reviews—was packed with silent figures. Knights stood shoulder to shoulder beside scholars. Padawans leaned forward from the upper walkways, whispering to one another in disbelief. Even senior archivists—who rarely attended anything beyond ceremonial duels—had quietly taken up positions behind the observation lensing.
The lower levels were no better.
Every training hallway within four chambers had been redirected. The Temple's internal guidance droids, normally subtle in their detours, were now actively rerouting traffic to keep crowds from choking the entrance. But it didn't work. Not really.
The hall just outside the chamber doors was already lined with initiates sitting cross-legged against the walls, heads craned to watch the door. Behind them, junior instructors stood uneasily, arms crossed, unsure if they should intervene—or if doing so would only invite more curiosity.
Inside the chamber, the air felt sharp.
The lights had been lowered slightly, not for effect, but for clarity. The open-floor combat arena in the center gleamed beneath the high lattice dome, wide enough for full-range dueling, empty but for the waiting figure standing alone near its center.
Master Fy-Tor-Ana.
She wore no armor. No elaborate formal robes. Just the practical combat gi of a Temple instructor—sleeves rolled, belt tight, sabers clipped at each hip. Her posture wasn't aggressive. She didn't need to be.
She stood with her hands clasped behind her back, shoulders aligned, gaze fixed across the far end of the chamber where the doors remained closed.
Not one of the Jedi entering from the side galleries dared interrupt her silence.
Some who had trained under her lowered their eyes automatically, a reflex from younger years. Others—particularly the youngest knights—whispered her name with the kind of reverence usually reserved for Jedi who had statues made.
Her reputation had spread long before this test. And now, with the word that she had been selected, the Temple had come in full force.
But what they hadn't expected—what no one had expected—was the sheer scope of attention.
A holodisplay emitter had been activated high above the gallery. Subtle, but unmistakable. Jedi from across Coruscant—some off-world—were already linked in, watching the feed through secure Temple channels.
The test of a six-year-old child was being broadcast to half the known Order.
And he had yet to arrive.
This irritated Fy-Tor-Ana, but not in the way others might expect.
She didn't mind waiting. She hated spectacle.
She'd seen the shift happen before—when sparring became performance. When the motion of a blade became theater instead of honesty. When Force instincts gave way to calculated applause.
This wasn't supposed to be a lesson in public discipline.
It was a test. A measure.
And now, she would be doing it under the gaze of half the Temple—and likely several Council members.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
Her request for background on the boy had returned with almost nothing. Some vague remarks from Councilor Kcaj, who had already left the Temple. A few reports from hangar technicians. Even fewer from Knights who had observed Elai in passing but hadn't been permitted to instruct him.
No Form ranking. No recorded combat assessments. No logged dueling scores. Not even a proper sparring match on record.
The system said he had studied diagnostics. Engineering.
The Council had said he was ready for this.
It made no sense.
But she would make sense of it. The same way she always had—with movement, with skill, with escalation.
Her eyes narrowed.
Her plan was already set. Start with range probes. Slow. Calibrated for child-speed. Then adjust. Add angle variation. Add pressure. Observe footwork. Reflex. Awareness. Instinct.
If he passed that, she would bring the tempo forward.
Not to break him.
To measure how deep he truly listened to his own rhythm.
But all of that still waited.
Because the doors had not opened.
And the boy—Elai—had yet to step into the chamber.
This, too, irritated her.
Not because of the wait.
Because the crowd had begun to shift in tone.
They were no longer whispering curiosity.
They were anticipating it.
She heard the murmurs from the upper deck:
"Is he really that strong?"
"Didn't he fix a starfighter faster than a Knight?"
"They say he doesn't even carry a saber yet—"
"Then how's he going to fight?"
"He's six."
And then someone added, just loud enough to catch her ear:
"That's what makes it worth watching."
Fy-Tor-Ana exhaled through her nose.
Interesting.
She had no interest in it.
She wanted precision. Discipline. Intent.
If this boy was more than a rumor, she would see it. If he wasn't—then the Council would regret wasting her time.
The doors at the far end of the chamber hissed once.
Not open.
Just unlocked.
A signal.
The subject of this entire disturbance had finally arrived.
She didn't move.
Didn't shift her stance.
She simply turned her gaze forward—
And waited.
The murmur died slowly.
Not all at once—but in a ripple.
It began in the hallway outside the dueling chamber, among the younger initiates who had been fidgeting and whispering only moments before. Then, like falling dust settling midair, the quiet moved inward—through the side rows, up the gallery steps, and into the center stands. By the time the main doors gave their soft hydraulic hiss and split apart, the observatory was holding its collective breath.
No sound.
No movement.
Only expectation.
Elai entered.
He did not rush. Did not walk slowly for effect. His pace was even. His gaze forward. His bare feet made no sound against the polished stone, but his presence landed with weight far beyond his years.
He wore no ceremonial robes. Just the simple, well-fitted training tunic he had grown into. Pale, lightly reinforced at the shoulders, sleeves folded neatly. Across his back, twin hilts crossed in an X just below the shoulder blades—held in a plain black sling, nothing ornate.
Some observers gasped at the sight of the sabers—others tilted their heads, clearly realizing only now that he was, indeed, permitted to carry them.
Fy-Tor-Ana's gaze sharpened.
She did not let her posture change, but she watched the boy's every movement—not with skepticism, but with the scrutiny of someone who had measured hundreds of students and found most wanting.
Elai walked to the edge of the dueling floor, stopped, and looked directly toward her. Not challengingly. Not passive.
Just ready.
His silence was not forced.
It was natural.
And that unsettled more of the gallery than any shout would have.
Above, the observatory's ceiling dome cast soft ambient light over the chamber. The slight gleam on Elai's shoulder made it seem, for a moment, as if he had stepped from shadow into clarity.
No announcement had been made.
No instructor called roll.
And yet—he had arrived like the beginning of something long awaited.
In the upper gallery, Master Qui-Gon Jinn entered quietly through the northern tier, his long cloak pulled back from his shoulders, arms loose at his sides. Obi-Wan followed two steps behind him, his expression composed but his eyes flicking toward the crowd with barely concealed discomfort.
Tyvokka stood near the central podium, already present.
Qui-Gon moved to stand beside him, folding his arms loosely as his gaze dropped to the arena floor.
"Elai," he said under his breath. "He really came."
"He would not have missed it," Tyvokka rumbled.
Qui-Gon's mouth curled slightly at the corners. "And the crowd?"
Tyvokka did not answer.
He didn't need to.
Qui-Gon chuckled under his breath. "Someone in this Temple has a gift for spreading secrets."
Obi-Wan looked away, eyes low.
The Wookiee gave no comment.
Back on the dueling floor, Master Fy-Tor-Ana stepped forward. Her hands now at her sides, her voice carried cleanly across the space—not raised, but firm.
"This is a sanctioned combat readiness evaluation," she began. "Requested by the Jedi High Council for the purpose of determining Elai's capacity for self-defense and deployment outside the Core. It will be conducted in progressive tiers."
She gestured to the perimeter, where remote drones were being calibrated by Temple technicians.
"Stage One: Reflex and instinct evaluation through assisted probe engagement. Stage Two—"
Elai raised a hand.
Not high. Just enough.
She paused.
The entire room tensed.
"Yes?" she asked, her tone unreadable.
"I'd prefer we begin with the duel," Elai said.
His voice was calm.
Not loud. Not defiant.
Just certain.
The silence that followed cracked the already-fragile atmosphere wide open.
From the balconies came a ripple of disbelief. From the Knight tier, someone exhaled sharply. Even several Masters blinked.
Fy-Tor-Ana did not blink.
"You decline the standard protocol?" she asked.
"I don't decline," Elai said. "But I don't think I'm here to follow a standard."
Even more gasps—this time hushed.
He stood without flinching.
No arrogance. No bow.
Just clarity.
Obi-Wan, in the gallery above, shifted awkwardly.
Qui-Gon, beside him, smiled openly now.
"Maker," he said, not without warmth. "He's bold."
Tyvokka's arms remained folded. His head did not turn.
But his silence now held a different tone—like approval that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
Down below, Fy-Tor-Ana observed the boy for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she nodded once.
"Very well," she said. "We begin where you are."
She turned on her heel, walking to the opposite end of the platform.
Elai did not move.
He remained centered—feet even, gaze forward, hands by his sides.
The sabers stayed on his back.
The murmurs had stopped again.
No one whispered now.
They were watching something different.
Not a prodigy.
Not a test.
A child—who wasn't waiting to be proven.
He was waiting to begin.
The moment the sabers ignited, the silence shattered.
Fy-Tor-Ana moved first.
Her green blade burst to life in a clean upward arc, catching the light like a single, focused breath of heat. She did not wait. No posture. No flourish. She launched straight into motion—sharp, decisive, refined. She had tested hundreds, cut down illusions of strength, stripped away the bravado of Padawans and the overconfidence of Knights alike.
She expected the boy to react with caution.
He did not.
Elai surged forward.
His twin sabers hissed into existence in one seamless draw—blue, clear, pure—and crossed before him like the mandibles of a striking insect. His form didn't mimic the Temple katas. It didn't resemble the sparring styles of the Initiates. It moved.
He ducked beneath her first strike—not back, but under, so close her blade singed the edge of his shoulder wrap.
She pivoted sharply. He was already gone.
Not retreating.
Redirecting.
Elai twisted mid-air into a tight spiral, both feet kicking off the edge of the dueling dais, using the elevation to flip forward and come down with both sabers in a crisscross slash—one horizontal, one low and angled for her side.
Fy's heel skidded back—just enough. Her blade snapped up to deflect the left-hand swing, her elbow tucking in tight to parry the low one. Sparks flew. Not from contact—he missed her robe by centimeters. But the intensity of the clash pulled heat from the floor.
The gallery leaned forward as one.
What had begun as a test was becoming something else.
Elai didn't relent.
His feet landed, but he didn't stay grounded—he used the recoil to spring sideways off the pillar just beyond the combat line, bounding into a wall-run arc that brought him up and over in a flash of blue light. Both blades whirled in a snapping circle as he descended toward her from behind.
Fy-Tor-Ana rotated, one hand on the hilt, the other extending in a Force-assisted push—but Elai twisted mid-air, absorbing the pulse through his movement rather than resisting it. He landed in a half-roll and came up low, blades at opposite angles, sweeping for her ankles.
She leapt.
Clean. Vertical. Precise.
But she wasn't in control.
Not completely.
Her foot caught the edge of his saber wake—just barely. Her landing skidded off-balance. For the first time in years, her blade rose defensively.
The blue sabers pressed in again.
Elai didn't shout. He didn't grunt. His face was calm, expression unreadable, but every motion screamed with momentum. His left saber danced forward, feinting toward her shoulder, then redirected instantly as the right stabbed straight for her side—too close, too fast for any training schematic.
She turned hard—spun inside his reach—and brought her saber down with full intent. Her green blade cracked against both of his, locking them in a triple-blade grind that sent sparks skittering across the floor like static rain.
"You're pressing hard for someone so small," she murmured through clenched teeth.
Elai didn't answer.
His sabers dropped at the same moment—releasing pressure, slipping under her guard.
She barely caught the angle.
The crowd exhaled all at once.
One of the senior Knights near the observatory wall muttered something inaudible. Another just stared, mouth slightly open.
Master Adi Gallia leaned forward in her seat, eyebrows rising slowly.
Down on the floor, Fy-Tor-Ana knew the truth.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't a clever child pushing his limit.
This was precision that shouldn't exist in a body that size, that young, with so little time.
And worse—Victory wasn't the goal—revelation was.
He was aiming to reveal.
To test her.
To make her work.
Her blade swept upward in a high guard and she dropped into a lower stance. Her breathing deepened. Her weight centered.
"Very well," she said aloud, circling now, watching the twin points of blue glimmer in his grip.
"No more testing."
She lunged.
And the next movement would begin not as instruction—
—but as a fight.
The blur of motion slowed for just a breath—but only from one side.
Fy-Tor-Ana stepped back, her saber still raised, chest rising with each breath. Her brow glistened with sweat, dark strands of hair clinging to the side of her face beneath her bindings. Her robes were marked—creased, slightly scorched, pressed by near-misses that would have landed on anyone less trained.
She wasn't outmatched.
But she was being pushed.
And across from her—
Elai stood calm.
Not tense.
Calm.
His sabers were still lit. Both. One lowered at his side, the other tilted slightly behind his back in a mirrored guard—his form fluid, centered, and unreadable. Not a single rise in his chest. No muscle trembling. No stance shifted in recovery.
He walked a slow circle.
Not toward her.
Around her.
Measured. Unhurried. As if the duel were a lesson he was teaching, not surviving.
And the gallery noticed.
The muttering began. It swelled from the outer halls where the younglings sat shoulder to shoulder, into the stands above where even seasoned Jedi leaned forward. The commentary wasn't laughter. It was awesome.
"He hasn't even lost pace…"
"That's not Form I—he's flowing between lines."
"Did you see that footwork? That wasn't evasion. That was design."
"He's playing with angles no one teaches."
Fy-Tor-Ana didn't speak. She adjusted her grip, reset her footing—and Elai responded immediately, matching the tempo without effort.
Then—
A voice cut through the rising tension from the upper observatory tier. Calm. Clipped. Calculating.
"I wonder," Count Dooku said aloud, his tone unhurried but coolly intrigued, "how long he can maintain that state before it turns against him."
Several heads turned toward him.
One of the Council Masters glanced across the row.
Even Adi Gallia gave a slight nod, lips pressed. Not disagreement.
"I've seen Knights fold under far less," another voice added—uncertain whether it was in admiration or concern.
"Then perhaps," Dooku continued, eyes fixed on the arena floor, "the test should evolve."
There was no announcement.
No signal.
Just a motion.
A flicker.
Qui-Gon Jinn dropped from the upper level in a single, clean leap, his brown cloak caught by the temple's filtered light, his landing precise. He touched down in a crouch beside Fy-Tor-Ana—who glanced up, startled but not displeased.
The murmurs turned to a single, stunned silence.
Obi-Wan, still seated behind Tyvokka, let his head drop slightly into his palm.
"Of course," he muttered.
Tyvokka made no sound—but the corner of his lip shifted almost imperceptibly.
Elai didn't flinch.
He only stopped circling.
The moment Qui-Gon's hand moved toward his saber hilt, Elai reversed his grip on his right-hand blade and shifted his feet into a narrower stance—not defensive, not aggressive.
Waiting.
Fy-Tor-Ana drew a sharp breath, steadying herself, lightsaber still active. She gave Qui-Gon a quick nod.
"You're late."
"I was waiting to be invited," he said with the faintest smile.
"Consider this your welcome," she replied—and launched forward again.
And Qui-Gon joined her.
Two Jedi. One a respected instructor. The other a seasoned Knight, unpredictable and powerful.
Both now converge on a child.
And still—
He met them head-on.
Elai moved like liquid under pressure. The moment the blades came near, his stance broke—not in failure, but in transformation. He pivoted low, then shot upward between their strikes in a spin that redirected both of their momentum away from center. His sabers flashed in arcs that made the audience flinch—one swipe grazing inches from Qui-Gon's shoulder, another turning Fy's guard sideways.
And as she tried to press him—
Elai vanished behind a wall-flip.
Using the stone itself like a third limb, he launched back into the center of the arena before either of them could recover.
The light gleamed against the sweat beading down Fy-Tor-Ana's face.
Qui-Gon's brows lifted, a breath escaping in a sharp exhale—not shock.
Amusement.
The test was no longer a test.
It was a revelation.
And across the gallery, the Force itself felt as though it had paused—not to watch…
But to witness.
The assault came swift and sharp—two Jedi, trained and seasoned, pressing in tandem from opposite flanks.
Fy-Tor-Ana struck from the left in a slanted high-guard feint, while Qui-Gon came low with a spiraling slash meant to draw Elai's guard outward.
It should have worked.
Together, their coordination had undone high-ranking opponents in live sparring sessions. But here, against a six-year-old child who had never once fought a ranked match, it was coming undone in real time.
Elai ducked under Fy's stroke by a hair, letting the tail of her robe flutter past his shoulder. He turned with the motion, met Qui-Gon's blade with both sabers in an open X—absorbing the strike, not blocking it—and let the kinetic energy roll him backward into a handstand spin. One foot kicked out—not striking, but displacing space just enough to make Qui-Gon lean his shoulder back off-balance.
In that single pause—
Elai vanished again.
He slid between their guards, sabers drawing twin arcs of blue light that never made contact but came close enough to raise a hiss of air across their sleeves.
"Maker," Qui-Gon murmured, breathing harder now. "He's reading us in real time."
Fy-Tor-Ana didn't answer. She was too busy regaining her stance.
They tried again—harder. Faster.
But Elai's tempo refused to match them. He danced between their coordination like a ripple slipping past a stone. His strikes were precise, but his footwork was wild—intentional chaos woven into impossible balance. Wall steps. Vaults. Reverse flips using nothing but a hand's touch against the floor. And still, he struck—relentless and exacting, without a shred of fatigue on his face.
Up in the gallery, the mood had shifted from impressed to uneasy.
"He's not just reacting," a Padawan whispered. "He's inviting it."
"That's not a child," muttered a Knight. "That's a storm given shape."
And above them all, leaning just slightly against the carved stone rail, Count Dooku's voice rang out again—level, but barbed:
"It seems the Jedi have grown... comfortable."
Heads turned.
"Two Knights," he continued, folding his arms, "cannot press back a child. Not even wound him. If this is the measure of our next generation's strength... perhaps the flaw lies not in the boy's advantage—"
His gaze dropped back to the arena.
"—but in the tradition that failed to prepare them."
No one replied.
Not even the Council.
Because at that moment, Fy-Tor-Ana stumbled.
Her foot caught the edge of a misjudged turn—just a half-second of falter—but Elai capitalized instantly, sliding in low beneath her attempted recovery swing and tagging the hem of her tunic with the hum of his blade.
Qui-Gon turned to intercept—and nearly took a reverse-spin slash to the ribs, catching it with a panicked last-second block that rang across the arena like a bell strike.
Above, several Jedi stood abruptly.
"This is—he's—"
Then it happened.
Two more Jedi dropped from the upper ring.
No names. No announcement. Just motion.
One—a Kiffar Knight with cropped dark hair and sharp eyes. The other—an older human with burn marks across one arm and a saber held in reverse grip. They both landed in clean crouches and activated their weapons in unison—yellow and blue.
The crowd murmured.
Then shouted.
Then fell dead silent again.
Four.
Four Jedi Knights.
Against a six-year-old child.
And still—
Elai did not falter.
He looked up, eyes wide not with fear, but something deeper.
Thrill.
His sabers twitched in his hands—not with tension, but with anticipation.
Then the aura began.
At first it was a whisper—a shift in the weight of the air.
Then it pressed.
An invisible wave swept outward from him.The weight wasn't sound or fury—it was density. Like the pressure of gravity intensifying around a sun that refused to collapse. Several younger Jedi in the crowd took unintentional steps back.
Even Obi-Wan's fingers clenched the railing.
"He's—what is that feeling?" someone asked.
And below, Elai moved.
No longer only avoiding.
He chased.
He lunged into all four Jedi with a roarless burst, sabers flashing in wild, unreadable angles. He no longer waited for them to attack. He demanded it. Every movement was clean, but unleashed—like storm winds trapped inside form. His strikes came with layered intent: one saber high, the other low, followed by kicks, spins, disarms, and bursts of redirected energy that staggered even the newcomers.
Fy-Tor-Ana barely blocked a leaping thrust that would've struck her neck.
The Kiffar stumbled back under a dual saber clash that rang his bones.
Qui-Gon's defense was intact—but only just.
The fourth Knight tried to flank Elai—
—and was caught mid-swing by a saber pressed against his own hilt before he could complete the strike. Not with strength. With presence.
Elai stood there, holding the blade back—not trembling, not gasping.
His hair stuck to his forehead. His eyes glinted with heat.
But his breathing?
Still steady.
Still waiting.
More, it said without words.
And that was when the room began to shift again—not with excitement.
With doubt.
Doubt in the line between teaching and trial.
Doubt in the meaning of control.
Doubt in whether the test had ever been meant to measure him—
—or if he had come to measure them.
There were no more rules now.
No stages.
No ceremony.
Only combat.
The moment Master Windu stepped down into the arena along eight more—silent, focused—the energy of the room shifted. The noise returned in a torrent of confused awe.
"Windu—? That's the High Council—!"
"Thirteen—there are thirteen Jedi Knights down there!"
"They're still going to fight him?"
But no one moved to stop it.
Because even from the highest balconies, it was clear: Elai still stood.
Still fought.
Still pressed.
His feet were slower now, his dodges less acrobatic—but even that restraint was a choice. A survival rhythm. He had stopped using full motion in favor of space control. His dual sabers flashed less often, but more deliberately—blue arcs tracing tight geometries, turning the entire arena into a shifting diagram of zones.
When one Jedi came forward—he redirected.
When two flanked—he inverted footing and collapsed the gap with a tight-body pivot.
When three tried to pin—he burst forward, passing through the opening with just enough speed to brush cloth but avoid blade.
The gallery no longer shouted.
They watched.
Breath held. Muscles tense.
Because he was not just surviving.
He was fighting.
Even now, he tagged a Knight's outer wrist with a flick that sent the saber skidding across the floor. Even now, his aura rolled outward with the same quiet intensity—a storm beneath the surface. No anger. No darkness. Just pressure. A will that refused to yield.
And then Windu joined.
He didn't call out. He didn't warn.
He simply stepped into the press, ignited his violet saber, and moved.
His strikes were different. Tighter. Heavier. Intentional in a way the others were not.
Elai blocked the first with crossed blades—but skidded half a meter back. The second strike came in high; he rolled under it, but his movement lagged just a breath. The third strike clipped one of his shoulder wraps, searing the edge.
Gasps rang from above.
"Did he—?"
"No. It didn't cut him. But—he felt that one."
Elai spun away from a fourth, retaking space, but the ring was closing. Thirteen Jedi. Every one pressing in perfect sync—some lightly, some cautiously, but Windu and two others with genuine ferocity now. Testing. Measuring. Demanding.
And Elai—fought back.
He gritted his teeth now, not from fear—but from strain.
A front-flip let him vault over two sabers. A short hop let him clear a sweep at his legs. His left saber locked with a green one—his right snapped up to catch Windu's violet strike—but his knees buckled under the weight.
And still—
He did not fall.
He shoved both sabers outward, roared, and drove back three at once in a widening shock of Force pressure that cracked the marble beneath his feet.
His hair stuck to his skin. His hands trembled.
But his eyes blazed.
Dooku, watching from above, did not sit. He stood now, arms folded, gaze like frost.
"He still stands," he murmured, just loud enough for the Council to hear.
"A child. Untrained. Untested by our Order. And yet—your finest cannot bring him to yield."
He turned slightly, his voice smooth but edged.
"Perhaps this is not a question of skill. Perhaps your doctrine simply no longer produces what it claims to protect."
Across the tier, Yoda's head turned.
Slowly.
He did not speak at first. His eyes narrowed. His brow, unreadable.
Then:
"No longer a test, this is."
His voice was low.
Measured.
But beneath it—steel.
"He proves nothing. We do."
Dooku inclined his head, smiling faintly.
"A truth you may wish to meditate on."
Yoda's ears twitched.
But he said nothing more.
Below, the duel reached its peak.
The thirteen Jedi surrounded Elai now like stars in a locked orbit.
He breathed harder.
One knee nearly hit the floor—but a burst of Force lifted him again, feet finding new balance. One saber slipped out of alignment—he caught it mid-drop, reversed the grip, and redirected a strike into an unseen parry that stopped a Knight cold.
Windu spun in.
He came down hard, Form VII flowing like fire—raw, sharpened weight—
And Elai caught it.
With both blades crossed above his head.
The press pushed him flat—
But he held on.
For five seconds—
Then slid back, reset, and faced them all again.
The pressure in the room turned heavy. Initiates began to cry without knowing why. Older Knights tensed as though they were in the fight. The Force itself seemed to tremble.
And Elai's voice finally rose.
Just one word.
"More."
He grinned—blood on his lip, legs shaking, blades glowing white-hot at the edges.
"Come on," he whispered, almost joyfully.
"More."
The ring had shrunk again.
Thirteen Jedi surrounded a single boy, their sabers still lit—but unmoving now. Mace Windu's blade hovered at an angle, humming in restraint. Fy-Tor-Ana stood breathing hard, arms slack but eyes sharp. The others—all seasoned Knights, sweat on brows and tension in shoulders—held their distance, their stances uncertain.
And Elai—
Elai was still upright.
Both sabers hung at his sides, arms trembling from the weight. His chest rose in short, uneven draws. His legs were locked, not by choice, but because they could no longer bend. A faint tremor ran through his spine as if his body were trying to hold something back—
—or hold itself together.
He didn't speak.
Not anymore.
But his eyes still searched the circle.
Still challenged them.
More…
The thought no longer formed on his lips.
But it radiated from him in waves. In the air. In the silence that had spread like frost.
And then—
Yoda moved.
He hadn't risen since the duel began.
But now, slowly, the GrandMaster stood—his cane striking the floor with a solid crack.
All heads turned.
No one spoke.
The room—every hallway outside, every corridor nearby, every chamber connected by holostream—fell still.
Yoda's eyes never left the arena.
"Enough."
His voice carried with no need for volume. It landed like a decree.
"This test is no longer a trial, but proof. Of strength, yes. But also of cost."
The Jedi in the ring hesitated.
Then, one by one, the lightsabers dimmed.
First Fy-Tor-Ana.
Then the Kiffar Knight.
Then Mace Windu.
Elai remained still.
He blinked once, twice—
And finally, his sabers powered down.
The hum vanished.
Only silence remained.
But then—
Obi-Wan stepped forward, eyes wide. "Wait. He's—"
Elai swayed.
His knees buckled.
His arms dropped.
And before anyone could catch him—
[SYSTEM NOTICE – QUEST COMPLETE]
Title:Measure the Blade, Shape the Path
Outcome: Singular Combat Trial Survived
Performance Rating: Unprecedented
Calculating Rewards…
Initiating Instinct Resonance Analysis…
Warning: Force Strain Detected. Consciousness threshold breached.
User Status: BLACKOUT
— Auto-Logging Deferred —
The system faded from view before it could finish.
Elai's body tilted forward.
And just as the floor rushed to meet him—
Qui-Gon moved.
He crossed the distance with Force-augmented speed, caught the boy mid-collapse, and knelt into the impact, cradling him against his chest.
"He's burning," Qui-Gon said sharply. "His body temperature—he's at limit."
"Medbay. Now," Windu said, already tapping his wrist communicator. "I want the High Ward prepped—immediately."
Qui-Gon didn't wait for permission. He lifted Elai effortlessly and strode toward the exit, his expression unreadable but jaw clenched tight.
Obi-Wan followed, wordless.
Behind them, the Council remained seated—but their expressions had shifted. No longer evaluative.
Just… silent.
As the news spread—across corridors, across halls, across the holostream—the doors to the viewing wings opened. Dozens of Jedi, younglings, Knights, and Padawans poured in. Some had seen the final moments through the broadcast. Some hadn't. But all of them had felt it.
The weight.
The pressure.
And now—the vacuum of Elai's absence.
The whispers began instantly.
"Did he really fight them all—?"
"How did he move like that—?"
"Was that even a style—?"
"No. That wasn't a style. That was something else."
And in the shadows of the far observatory ring, Count Dooku turned away from the fading glow of the arena floor.
His cape swept behind him as he began to walk.
But just before passing beyond view, he stopped beside Tyvokka.
"A child," he said softly, almost to himself. "Who fought like a storm. Who stood against everything we built."
He didn't look back.
"This will not fade. Not in memory. Not in the Force."
He walked on—leaving behind silence.
But the ripples would remain.