Four years.

Four long years filled with studies, notations on "all Jedi shit and ashes under the feet of the Masters, and we, future Assassins, a little higher than shit, we can even lick their shoes".

Yeah, my abilities in the Force are defined as a little above average. So, according to my group curator, if you squeeze all the verbal water out of them, I can become an elite killer with my own lightsaber.

I will even be allowed to lick not only my shoes, but also the incomparable asses of the Masters on the great holidays.

And the desire to stick my tongue in as deep as possible is welcome.

The school is deep in the dungeons of the planet.

A network of caves a mile from the surface, miles two hundred from the local Aboriginal area. Towards "noon".

No entourage of the dark, gloomy dungeons. Everything's very decent, the cleaning droids are keeping order, the ventilation's working. There's even a huge pool.

Sometimes they take us to the local training ground. In a small area covered by an energy dome, different climatic conditions are reproduced. Different jungle, mountainous terrain, etc. that exists in the Galaxy.

There we learn to disguise ourselves in the terrain, and the punishment for detection is quite unpleasant. A loser becomes a test subject in torture classes for his classmates. Stimulates. Maintains the necessary atmosphere of becoming a wrestler with the light weak.

There are six of us in the group, we haven't gotten names yet.

Unworthy.

We need to "prove ourselves."

And the system works not on objective signs, but how the curators of the groups will decide. I mean, again, the ass-licker will break through upstairs faster.

It's like nostalgia for a past life.

Why? Everything's happened. A couple of times I've been around corners the same way.

The man in charge of our group calls himself "Lupus".

Yeah, everybody here has call signs and nicknames like in the armed forces.

Except there's no useless violence and stupid bullying, it's strictly monitored. Gifted, even averages like us, are appreciated. It's just not the way to spend such scarce material. It's true, you're punished for everything.

Discipline.

Classes are held in groups, with one mentor, who acts as a curator.

Poisoning, alchemy, ambush tactics, meditation, hiding in the Force, various simple yet techniques of the Force.

Hand-to-hand fight, physical exercises for agility and flexibility.

I read novels and had a weak idea about the training of Jedi younglings. I remember exactly what Jedi do not divide children by species and race.

But the sith train differently. All six in our group were people. I think that's because different races have different motor skills, and they require different approaches to physical training.

Apart from us, there are about two hundred pupils and fifty mentors. But they have their own business, we don't overlap. I brought out the total number, remembering the faces of those I met, running with the group through the corridors of the enclave.

Although I may be wrong.

And today, for once, is the day when we finally get to meet the discipline mentors.

Our training will now be on the principle of "who is more susceptible to what", although I think it's idiotic.

Those who developed this learning system were a vivid illustration of the victory of logic over common sense.

After all, the output turned out to be extremely one-sided specialists narrow profile, which is very difficult to turn into a combat group, where all are interchangeable.

Therefore, in the case of the withdrawal of someone from the group due to death or injury, the group, originally balanced, lost quality.

But my opinion is the opinion of a man from planet Earth. And I am now a Sith larva! Individualism and egocentricity are the basis of the dark side.

Don't forget the legacy of Darth Ruin. Everyone is afraid that even the Assassins will overthrow the power of their masters.

Lupus promptly came into our room.

The room is large, twenty men, but we were gone. Six child pupils, three boys and three girls. Plus four slaves to take care of us.

I hate slavery, but this is how it's supposed to be.

From the youngest fingernails we are taught to sibarite, so that everything connected with the Dark Side and especially with Masters is good in the subconscious.

Who is a little older has a personal servant, and who is about thirteen years old or two or more, depending on personal success in learning.

They are proud of this achievement and boast that my adult consciousness is enriched with fun.

It's phallometry on the Dark Side, too.

Lupus looked closely at us who were built upon his arrival.

"Follow me."

Actually, this skinny man hasn't talked much in 40 years, but always on business.

After climbing three knocked down stairs in the rock, we finally found ourselves in a fairly spacious cave.

Smooth, like a polished floor. Bright, but not cutting light. On the walls there are shelves with durastale-imitations of light blades, vibration marks, shock batons and stakes.

In the centre was a circle on the floor, ten yards in diameter.

Our group was standing behind Lupus' back, watching his eyes sparkle. Life at the academy was weaned from good surprises.

From a deep wicker chair, standing near the circle, a high Zabrak rose.

Black baggy robes, yellow eyes, horns and tattoos.

"This is instructor "the Hammer". He will train you."

Lupus' astounding wordplay ended there, and with his heels spinning, he left.

The instructor walked softly in front of us for a while. I noticed the grace and lazy slowness of the tiger with which he was doing it. That's enough!

The culture of movement is present.

The voice is deep, pleasant.

"Pupils. Today you finally begin your weapons training."

He put his hands behind his back and rolled his eyes dreamily.

"Yes, with a gun."

Then, without any transition, he stood up sharply before us. He put his hands behind his back and continued with a steel overtone:

"But don't dream of becoming blade masters! Your strength is in a hidden and sudden blow to the enemy's back."

And again, without any transition, he began to move, and again, a purring tiger walks in front of us.

"What I'm going to teach you will hold back the enemy until your comrade stabs a blade in his back."

That's lovely. Obviously, we're talking about gifted opponents. From what I've read here, opponents who aren't gifted just don't count.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Okay. In the back, so in the back..

It's an important skill. It's a skill you need to be able to do.

At the Hammer's command, we picked up the durastal blade that we liked.

I chose it with a curved handle. I had one important thought.

I knew for sure that by the time of Yavin sword of light had degraded. The Jedi had definitely lost part of the school.

I had a chance to touch the skill of the masters, to learn from the masters. And I expected to swing straight for a more advanced course.

Three hours of showing and practising the base posts.

Then showers, slaves wash away dirt and sweat from our tired bodies, then we get fresh clothes in the locker room, and go. To the barricades, I mean, the Archive.

A grey lively old man with a trick in his eyes gave us a small lecture on the information contained here and gave us three hours to study for ourselves. Then he's obviously gonna go through the logs and see who was interested in what.

The man is clearly on his mind and with a penchant for philosophy. Maybe my plan will work here, too.

Twenty minutes later, I finally got what I wanted.

And what kind of archive keeper wouldn't annoy a visitor who looks dumb in front of him without even including the holoscreen?

"Well, what are we doing sitting here?"

A rattling tenor was heard above my ear.

"Time is limited! Aren't you interested in the answers to many questions?"

Heh-heh, that's where you come in, man.

I turned around in the swivel chair facing him and portrayed Luke Skywalker with the greatest expression of naivety in the face. Really, my eyes are brown.

"No, master, not interesting."

The old man leaned on the table and, with his head on his side, looked at me with a squint.

"Why?"

Here it is, the moment of truth.

"I'm not interested in answers because I'm interested in questions."

The old man laughed:

"Original!"

Then he took it seriously:

"Okay, then let's see what questions you can find out here."

***

"Give me back my broken night

My mirrored room, my secret life

It's lonely here, there's no one left to torture

Give me absolute control

Over every living soul

And lie beside me, baby, that's an order!

Give me crack and anal sex

Take the only tree that's left

and stuff it up the hole in your culture

Give me back the Berlin wall

give me Stalin and St Paul

I've seen the future, brother:

it is murder."

Five years. Five damn years we've been studying. We learned to kill. And more than that.

"No, you're wrong, Fork!"

Archonte, that was the call sign from the archivist, stood in front of me with a dry fist.

"That's the Dark Side's way!"

Yes, I've earned the right to speak by name for three years instead of "hey, you".

However, like everyone else in our group. Still, we were above average in ability.

Unlike Archonte, I was sitting. I prefer to remain calm during the discussion.

"What is it, Master? The path of the Dark Side is to bear death and destruction?"

"To free the galaxy from the rotten Republic and the lies of the Jedi!"

"That would be good, Master."

That's where I moved my eyebrows expressively.

"And the galaxy wants to free itself? Did anyone ask for the opinion of those who are about to be liberated?"

The discussion began with the news of the release of Korriban.

Sker Kaan did enter a confrontation with the Republic.

"Why do you think, Master, why do Republicans so easily recruit volunteers?"

"Ha, they're just hiring rich people from the center!"

"Of course," I got my hands on my knee. "And we're all idea fighters."

I have to say, the Academy hasn't refrained from a rapturous mindset. Critic was welcome. They do make cold, calculating killers here after all. And we have to assess the situation in a balanced way. And act on the basis of accurate calculation, keeping consciousness from slogans and appeals.

That's where the looters and the meat are cooked, yes, there's a great pumping of ideas.

Sometimes a group comes from there with their brains washed and the rage of berserkers in their eyes. They know their duty, they've been told "Bite!" and they're tearing up.

"You're right, boy. There are a lot of mercenaries on our side, too."

The Archonte had a hard time swinging on the chair next to him.

"Unfortunately, there's too few intelligent ideas on both our and Republican sides," he sighed.

"Master, thanks to you, I learned a lot from the Archives. Always and everywhere, the cause of war is based on economics. Industrial tycoons on our and the republican side profit from the war, and no more. What, you don't say so? Or at least once, after the victory of one of the parties, the manufacturers of weapons were sitting on the bench of the defendants? No, they also continued to work, but already on the winning side."

"They only produce," the old man tired of rubbing his face. "Others shoot."

"Master, it is and it is right. Everyone is busy doing their own thing. Only for a businessman, profit is what counts. And in wartime, profit increases many times. Do you think they'll do their best to make war long, preferably continuous?"

The Archonte threw his head up and laughed with his rattling laughter.

"Wonderful, Fork! Well done! Awesome wrap! He uncovered the conspiracy of corporations that had divided the gifted into light and dark!"

It's time for me to smile crookedly, too.

"Optionally, master."

However, such conversations made the difference. My access to the archives was significantly, but unspokenly extended with the help of Archmont.

And the master himself turned out to be an excellent mentalist! He was a great fan of leading various illusions, and in my face found a grateful listener and student.

Hiding, sending fears at the enemy, dispersal of attention, were standard practices of a student of the Academy of Assassins. But I studied dark healing, combat meditation, deception of the mind, the center of being beyond the program, according to the materials provided by the Archonte.

Plus a couple hours of extra exercise with a sword in my room.

The most difficult was to artificially induce the rage necessary for many dark techniques. In my previous life I was a sanguine, trained to keep my emotions under control, although a broken head of Effector Force would not agree with me. But you can't touch a motorcycle. It's a saint.

Now you have to not only cause anger, but you have to do it instantly.

I've been training for three years.

And that's the only thing that's not working out very well yet.

What's the Marty Stu?

It's nothing like that.

I use my mind diligently, because it's the mind of a man, taking into account living here, in his 50s. With a great incentive to know what's going to happen on Ruusan.

So while most of the students were doing stupid things, I studied seriously. Everyone else was doing the lesson and stopping there to just relax in their spare time, and when they reached the age of consent, they also actively copulated. And I fucked myself with this study.

No, I wasn't acting like a virgin or a monk. Of course, to not stand out too much, and hormones pressed, and to understand the dark side of sex is necessary.

From time to time, I had fun with a couple of slaves who were given me as a successful student. The funny thing is that they often moaned in two voices in a sexy mess with my participation. Yes! I've been practicing mentality!

I also gained a reputation as a tireless stallion.

***

Only the elders walk in the academy, while the others move in a rapid step or run. So I have to crack to the next point of training, like a deer on corn.

The workshops where we studied and used fur-deru techniques, I was glad to be accepted. I used to pick up techniques from my childhood on old Earth, and then improved my handwork, in general, I'm "my boyfriend" with craftsmen.

That's what I use.

There it is, standing on my motorcycle. The Harley Davidson.

It doesn't look any different from the Earth model "Road King".

But inside!

I want to ride on wheels, and they're almost eternal, not wearing out.

The reactor, it comes with all the technology of the future.

I want to fly like a speederbike.

Because it's repulsive. And from flying, I rejoiced like a boy.

A step power switch from the reactor regulates the gearshift foot. The gas knob is now responsible for fine-tuning the power supply.

Beautiful. Fits as it should, on the left. Gave a pat on the imitation tank, there's a reactor right there.

Not today, buddy. A little later, we're gonna go out and fly.

I got a trial today.

"Hey, Mac!"

The back in the jumpsuit came out of the technical hatch, showed the owner of the jumpsuit had a thick black hair in addition to his back.

Mac turned and showed a week's bristles, and a powerful nose that in a compartment with sad Jewish eyes would not leave on Earth any doubts about his nationality.

"Hello, pest."

He looked doubtfully at the dirty hands, wiped them against his pants and, having looked at them again, he decided and started picking his nose.

"Are you going to spoil it again?"

His intoxicating job of picking his nose makes the words sound a little slurred.

"Yes. We have to measure the distance."

After looking at his finger out, Mac waved his hand into the corner:

"In the drawer. But then you fix it!"

The essence of my idea was simple.

Here's the Mechu-Deru technique.

It allows you to fix any technical device without knowing its interior or even knowing how it works.

But if the straightforward theorem is correct, the reverse is also true.

So you can break a working machine.

To fix it, you need to feel an object in the Force, then feel a certain irregularity in it.

And then to make some movement in your consciousness, designed to eliminate this incorrectness.

Here we go!

Fixing is complete.

All right.

Now let's get a bunch of Mac's junk out of my work equipment, tools, knots, even a couple of blasters got stuck.

Checking.

It feels like the Force is working.

The tester shows that the performance is present.

Now we're causing an error in this blaster.

It feels like the Force is broken now.

The tester confirms that the blaster is broken.

Calling a droid, ordering us to get the next item. For the purity of the experiment, you cannot touch it with your hands.

The droid's a step away.

Routine performance check, then a "force-induced mistake".

Testing.

It's not working.

Distance two steps, three steps...

I'm a practitioner, I know that any skill is honed by an infinite number of repetitions.

In the end, my limit is reached at forty three steps.

It remains to endure the headache, fix the broken and go to Master Tuska.

Thought long and hard before I turned to her. And I'm probably the only one here who's made up his mind at this age.

Unless you're a masochist.

But I'm an experienced, life-breaking cynic and I know that in addition to the fencing we've been given a couple of hours a day, there's a lot more to be done than that.

In movies and books, the heroes cost a couple of pathos shakes by Force and "bz-bz" lightning. And mostly they hit each other with lightsabers.

Lightning and I can now, but only three steps away. That's the order, you can't let some small assassins perform what's the Lords' calling card.

And my power in the Force does not yet allow it.

I've just reached the level when I can cause faint convulsions..

I pay a lot of attention to inconspicuous techniques, without causing a rapturous shine in the eyes of fellow groupies.

Master Tuska. A cold bitch with a divinely beautiful body that she prefers not to hide from others.

At the moment, she's only wearing a wide belt corset with a sword hanging on it. And the hilt of the sword is a complete copy of the dildo, only from singing steel.

And if, leaving her rooms, she periodically put on a transparent shawl, then inside she did not bother with it.

"Come in, baby," she blurted out. "You look tired today. Why don't you have a drink first?"

Deep, sensual voice.

If you were a really fifteen-year-old boy, you'd have a good time.

But an adult, experienced man with experience with bitches of different levels, clearly saw the soul of this outwardly expiring beauty.

Cold as an abyss, and I did not come to her for sex.

So I bow, I respectfully answer:

"Thank you, beautiful, I don't feel like it."

The master smiled, clearly expressed that she did not care about my wishes.

I take my clothes off, I stand by the shield.

Tuska, excited, fixed me with her straps.

My head, arms, chest, legs.

With lust clearly present in the Force, the master asked:

"Are you ready?"

I nod my head. She puts a stick in my mouth.

And then...

***

Lightning strikes a young body from her hands.

The woman sees the boy twitching and howling, but his eyes open with rage and his body suddenly calms down. Lightning continues to whip at the target, but now they are simply ignored by the pupil.

Negatio Damnarium.

Ignoring the pain.

Her first student, who volunteered to study the technique under her supervision.

And so, after many meditations, after fifty three attempts, the pupil finally managed to use it!

A warm wave began to rise from the bottom of her abdomen and the master knew how to amplify this sensation.

She dramatically increased the power of her lightning and the boy again delayed from the cramps in the muscles torn by pain.

A wave of pleasure covered her head.

***

The most bastardly thing about these cursed lightning bolts of power is that the victim remains conscious. My seizures stopped as soon as the master began to shiver in the paroxysm of passion, sticking his fingers between his legs.

Negatio Damnarium is powerful, even though I could not hold back the flow of pain during the lightning bolt, but came to my senses as soon as it stopped.

In the past, even with weak lightning, a couple of minutes at least came to consciousness.

I'm not a beast, not a Chosen One like Anakin, who threw himself into the fight almost immediately after Dooku's lightning.

But this bitch, who's leading our torture theory and practice, finally straightened herself out.

Looking at me with blurred eyes, she licked her fingers and started hurrying, with slightly trembling hands, unbuckling the straps of my shackles.

To refuse a horny woman is a sin.

And to refuse a certified Sith sorceress is a sin punishable by death.

I think I know what's about to happen...