Sith alchemy is something.

Although, as we study the archive, it becomes clear how much has been lost by the degenerate followers of Darth Ruin.

Pupils longing for power united against the more powerful teacher and killed him.

Before they knew it, their master was trying to hammer them into empty heads.

He, naive, thought they had more than one gyrus, and they...

Ugh. Barbarians and savages.

When I gained somewhat more access to the archives, I read how researchers who devoted their lives to the study of the Force were killed for no reason, for they could be a hindrance.

In the process of killing, a peaceful researcher naturally resisted. And since the action of "chapter trimming" usually took place on its territory, then the winner sifted through the ruins in search of a few surviving books, scrolls and holocrons. And then either an even tougher guy would come and make a Big Bada Boom, or just spit and forget.

But some of the survivors were found and adapted.

Some, though incomplete knowledge about transmutation, about symbols, which, being applied to the blade, caused intolerable pain, inflicted wounds to the Force, and simioles on armor made miss, returned the blow. Miracles! Wonders of the Force sometimes turned this world into a world of fairy tales and fantasy.

Here I sit, looking at the fruits of my many months of work.

The workshop looks like the lair of a mad alchemist from earthly cinema.

That's what it is, though.

Although Master Marcus, exactly Emmett Brown from the trilogy "Back to the Future", looks quite organically among all these flasks, retorts, burners and other jar crucibles.

I got in touch with him in my habit, listening to his stories, gently washing on my whiskers. After all, the problem with most people who are reasonable is that everyone wants to talk and almost no one wants to listen. So it turns out that having found an interested listener, a reasonable person first feels sympathy for him, then friendly feelings, then the listener becomes the most important person for him.

At work in my past life I had to listen to all sorts of nonsense, so I have the right training.

And the chirping of girlfriends, or walking to the supermarkets with them? I had to keep an interested person in order not to hurt the girl.

Okay, well, shopping's not that important.

Master Marcus generously shared his knowledge, even helped me get rare ingredients for my research.

But at the moment he's not paying attention to me, busy with his business, mumbling and mixing something on a lab table covered with burners and some suspicious stains.

Some of the stains were moving around on the surface of the table, and when they came across others, they started to fight, launching micro-discharges of electricity into each other, some suspicious green fog, or just like amoebas, absorbing the victim.

I stand at the other end of the room, next to a mountain, where two slightly curved strips of runes are cooled down.

By force, I lift the future blades and lower them into a quenching solution in which the blood of the terentarek is the simplest ingredient. The hissing does not distract from manipulating the Force.

Meditation is all ours.

In the holocron I got from Archont, a holocron created by someone from the master alchemists, there were several, one might say, spells that allowed me to change the properties of materials.

And, interestingly enough, the spells themselves were just a mnemonic Formula for tuning the consciousness into the right way. The "sorcerer" himself became a conductor of his will, a kind of medium, and everything else was done by the Power for him.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Having searched other sources, I understood that practically all methods of assassins were based on this principle.

The connection to the Force is weaker than any Darth with a Master, they use their own potential in general, which is much faster than the Assassin version.

But if you prepare the "spell" in advance, you can break it in such a way that it won't seem to anyone.

Even now, powerful techniques, which I myself would not be able to overpower, are coming off the binding inside the consciousness.

Long, half-year preparation of a 'spell' does not pass for nothing, and the molecular bonds of the blades change, the alloy of metals and the Force acquires new properties.

Cortosisis molecule at the tip, not fused, as it is impossible to melt physically, is fused into one with the blade.

Singing steel, bronzium, cortosis and all these theoretically non-alloyable metals are subject to the will of the Great.

My Precious!

A couple of hours later, when I was already in my room fixing the handle, the Rinka broke in. She in my group and our silent leader.

"Fork! Have you heard?"

"Take it easy. One at a time."

She's a nice girl, a little fussy, but funny.

Blondie with a wasp waist, small but firm breasts, ass nut, all with her.

Add the right facial features, slightly supported nose, naive look green eyes, deep voice, thin, nervous fingers and the ability to touch, homely, look at the interlocutor ... a cute creature?

You are mistaken.

She's the leader of her trio. There are six of us in the group.

I'm a loner, Brass and Dona work as a couple, and Rinka's in charge of her own three, Cortis and Marika.

They go to the point of impact, and she waits for the moment to hit her in the back.

And by torture in the field, Master Tuska puts her as an example to all the acolytes.

But if the master takes the sadistic pleasure of the victims' torment, Rinka is cold and calculating.

And, in contrast to Tuska's oozing lust, almost always neglecting clothes, sometimes I wonder in which of her natural holes she drags a sword, Rinka dresses quite strictly, without any hint of provocation.

And now she's wearing a nice military uniform, no insignia.

However, in her everyday life, as I mentioned, she is vain and cheerful.

The last rivet inside the hilt took the necessary form, and I dug out of the state of meditation.

"What's the news, baby?"

She tightened her sponges.

"Don't push it, Fork."

Okay, let's do an eyebrow movement that should mean "not so much and I didn't want to." But the girl's lips have already stopped acting like a chicken lip.

"Anyway, you know, we've got six fighters here. Marauders. Our age!"

And he looks so... Waiting.

I'm turning on the state of the analyst:

"So what?"

Impervious, however.

He takes my hand, leans towards me, slightly opens his lips.

Yeah, learning how to influence the person you're talking to. Not bad for a seventeen-year-old snotty little girl.

"Fork, I know very well what you know and know more than you show."

"Let's say."

Oh, baby, you have no idea how much.

"Oh, come on, you gotta be kidding me."

Covers my other hand with my palm.

"Why do you think they came?"

What's there to think? Ruusan not here yet, so there's no real shortage of gifted when Jedi and Sith cut each other up.

It's for mere mortal students of our academy at unreachable altitude, and for true Dark Lords, we're consumables.

They wanted gladiators.

"I think I'm gonna have to kill them, Rinka."

Just a little pause. I'm adding a little more weight to the words.

"Perhaps to death."

Now you can see the instant transition from a sweet home girl to a group leader.

"I'll warn everyone to be ready."

He managed to scream afterwards:

"Tell them to be ready at any moment!"

Why? That makes sense.

We are, as mentioned, the best group our age. That's what we need to be prepared for.

It's time to look in the troubled suitcase.

That's what I call a big armored safe in my room.

Lightweight armor.

No servomotors, just fabric armor.

Armored pads protect the groin, the lumbar.

Shoulders, gloves, handcuffs, knives. Same armor.

I made myself a helmet modeled on my motorcycle.

Typical Uvex Enduro, bearded silhouette with visor, visor lift, can polarize.

All the armour will be sealed, even half an hour in space.

Lightweight cape with wide sleeves and a hood.

It's also fabric armor.

The whole set of my favorite blue and black.

Plus there's the option of turning on the gray and white stripes, like a digital camouflage. And there are two modes.

The first is static stripes.

The second one cuts the eye with a chaotic flicker.

Little Virtual Intelligence inside the helmet recognizes thousands of intelligent species of the galaxy and turns on the blink mode, which will be the most painful to the eyes exactly for the opponent with whom I will fight at the moment.

That's technology you can't understand, baby!

Aerosol for a volume detonating explosion.

Tasteless, colorless, odorless.

It's also alchemy. It's activated by willpower.

It's only mine.

Sonic blaster in the right arm, flamethrower in the left.

The boots have repulsors.

The backpack's just a battery. The reactor's out.

Two bolos per belt.

Positioned as a sliding energy stick.

Blades on the back, with arms down. Jumped.

It's not rattling.

I'm ready.

You can immerse yourself in a replacement full meditation sleep.

Our mentors are big jokers, they can blow it up at any time.

There's a Keith Richards guitar fuzz in my head. Mick starts singing:

"I can't get no satisfaction,

I can't get no satisfaction.

'Cause I try, and I try,

And I try, and I try.

I can't get no, I can't get no."

Saying I'm worried is not saying anything.

I'm not Rambo. No cool Batman who puts his opponents in tutus.

And not the fact that the mouse can do anything about the gifted.

Eleven years of training hasn't been in vain, and I know now what kind of death machine the body of training is turning into with a drink of Force.

Reaction, speed, power. Here are three combinations that make a gifted man invincible in hand-to-hand combat against an ordinary mortal.

And if you add Force Techs, it's horrible.

The Jedi in the Clone War were killed in such numbers because they relaxed. Besides, Jedi were killed, either by stupidly filling up with meat, iron, to emphasize, or trained super fighters, who are even less than gifted, or former comrades-in-arms, who have lost their minds.

It's either Durge.

Durge... Put it on hold for the future.

Here and now is the peak of the confrontation of this era.

Much has been lost compared to the times of Revan, but still.

The Force's technicians are organically entwined in combat, forming quite the working bundles.

Of course, I wasn't wasting time going much further in my research, but still... no satisfaction.

Let's see, the battle will show.