When the storm hit me, Lupus was already waiting for him.

With a short nod for my bow, he turned to the exit, dropping over his shoulder:

"Over my shoulder."

I hurried after him, and I remembered how we, as little kids, were breaking down after him, not even thinking about slowing down.

Now I was almost the same height as him.

Right in the best traditions, the atmosphere of importance of the event was stirred up, I entered the high gloomy hall, poor lighting.

Gothic.

There were six of us, Lupus, a fat twi'lek and, unexpectedly, Kas'im himself, a perfectly trained person.

The fat man, according to the canon, is the Lord of the Kopecz, to whom Farfalla will cut off his head on Ruusan.

Kas'im, glistening with yellow eyes, just looked at us and, having made unclear conclusions, stepped back a little, putting the Kopecz head in first place.

Yeah, there's a deputy head of the academy in the dark.

He's always disguised, always behind your back, always watching everyone.

We haven't introduced ourselves, we haven't gotten out in decent faces yet.

All right, rat meat, logs for the fire of war.

Lupus bowed briefly, saying:

"Here."

Kopecz waited a couple of seconds for the continuation, then obviously realized that our curator has exhausted the stock of words for today, spoke himself:

"I'm going to the front, I need some acolytes."

His voice turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant to the ear, powerful, not loud, but bossy. "Whoever accompanies me will decide the Force."

The silhouette of the deputy head of the academy thickened out of the darkness.

He always wore a hoodie to the floor and a mask covering his face.

Not paying attention to the general bow of our group, he immediately took a bow by the horns:

"You have a trial to face. You'll be dropped off at the range. There will be a group of Jedi there. Besides them, there's a group of your rivals from another academy. Victory will be awarded to the team that reaches the point of evacuation with Jedi heads. All Jedi."

He was impressively silent.

"The victors will receive lightsabers and go with the Lord Kopecz."

Oh, shit, what happiness! I've always dreamed of going to war.

The rest was quick, concrete.

They came out of the hall. They got up and sat down in the transport shuttle.

While smoothly swinging in the chairs of the shuttle, Rinka, struggled with excitement, began pumping:

"We're the best, and we're gonna make it. Jedi shit can't do anything against us. And neither can the looters!"

It wasn't a torture class.

It wasn't the first murder experience.

But it was the first time we were in a serious operation.

Approximately 12 opponents. Fighting to the death.

Funny, it looked like a fantastic story. It seemed unrealistic that teenagers were involved in the upcoming massacre.

Come on, commander, boost our morale!

I was glad you couldn't see the smile behind the polarized visa.

Covered my thoughts more closely, and sank into reflection.

If I haven't mentioned it yet, I couldn't decide on my attitude to the sides of the Force. My knowledge did not represent the Sith and the Jedi in the best light. Both currents of development of the gifted have done many foolishness and abnormalities. And in the end, no one seemed to be the winner.

Now, I certainly don't need the victory of the Brotherhood of Darkness.

Neither does Bane's bald head, which hasn't yet been born in a mine-battered bald head.

But the guy who's gonna create the Black Guard after Ruusan is interesting. I don't remember his name, but I do remember the headquarters on Mustafar.

And the matukai are interesting. And Zeison Sha.

The Jedi need a visit, but later. The aura should be corrected first, or very well disguised. My disguise is at a decent level.

It's not like I smelled flowers at the academy.

And I killed and tortured for the credits.

Not a lamb of God, that's for sure.

The conclusions seemed to be clear. I need to stay close to headquarters so I don't miss a moment when Kaan brakes are finally off. Safety is important, because those closer are rarely allowed as forward meat. But you don't have to get too close to make my absence disturb anyone in the Brotherhood.

And for that, we'll have to go to war.

And the full survival of my group doesn't worry me much. However, their survival is not of any concern to me either.

On the other hand, if there was one place near the Kopecz, it would be worth looking more often at the satellites.

The loudspeaker in the salon barked:

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Get ready!"

"Alright.

We are scanning the scene in the city tonight.

We are looking for you to start up a fight

There is an evil feeling in our brains

But it is nothing new you know it drives us insane.

Running, on our way

Hiding, you will pay

Dying, one thousand deaths

Running, on our way

Hiding, you will pay

Dying, one thousand deaths

Searching,

Seek and destroy

Searching,

Seek and destroy

Searching,

Seek and destroy

Searching,

Seek and destroy

There is no escape and that is for sure

This is the end we won't take any more

Say goodbye to the world you live in

You have always been taking

But now you're giving."

***

The last thing Padawan Mitch Nurlon remembered from his past life was a fierce battle with the enemies of the republic, the death of his teacher, pierced with two scarlet blades at once, then darkness.

He had already woken up here on Ryloth.

One of the nine Padawans who woke up in a cave with him was a Twi'lek and immediately recognized the rocky desert of his home planet.

They'd been wandering for three days, trying to find their way through a force field enclosing a circle of about ten miles in diameter.

The food concentrates and water found by the Padawans in the cave were coming to an end when the connection between them began to disappear.

The five clumps they found in the same cave only provided a stable link between them.

The Padawans broke into their usual pairs and persistently sought to escape from the trap.

In the event of unforeseen circumstances, they agreed to meet at the foot of the rock, from the top of which the entrance to their cave was visible.

Mitch looked around and saw Beef Aamau rushing after him.

The Ithorian wasn't feeling well now, but he could make a real difference in the battle. The sounds made by the four larynxes through his two mouths, filled with Power, resonated and gave his techniques a truly miraculous power.

Although, like all the Ithorians, Beef was unusually peaceful and the techniques he used had a supporting and healing character.

Mitch had already sensed the auras of four Padawans, but here the place where they were supposed to be located was surrounded by six figures in black armor.

In response, two blue, yellow, and green blades flashed.

Mitch ran as fast as he could, accelerating with the help of the Force, more than anything in the world willing to help his comrades.

About halfway through, the Force stopped accelerating and the Padawan ran at the normal speed of a trained teenager.

If the first half of the way he overcame in ten seconds, now he has forty, fifty seconds to the place of the fight.

In a hurry, however, he did not take his eyes off the fighters.

Black figures in armour, for some reason, instead of light swords, fought with two vibrating blades each. Loudly growling, like madmen, they made rapid jumps, each tried to get to the enemy first, than only interfering with others.

The outcome was logical and so far all four Padawans were alive, but the law of large numbers should have worked sooner or later.

To help his comrades in any way, Nurlon activated both of his blades and, waving them, made a loud scream.

He was heard, and two black figures in a long race went towards him.

The Padawan turned his back on his fighting comrades, befriending them in a short battle filled with humming and clattering.

He did not see that the departure of the two looters from his comrades had had a bad effect on their position. Now the figures in armor did not interfere with each other, the bout was divided into separate fights, and the Brotherhood acolytes working with two blades at once got a significant advantage.

Fighting off the fiercely wheezing through his opponents' vocoders, Mitch suddenly felt a burst of energy, his opponents' movements became crystal clear, and his green blades sang a friendly battle song, weaving an indestructible barrier.

A few pounds, one blow, another, and an acolyte with a roar falls on his back, dropping the blade that fell from his severed arm and trying to pull up his half-severed hip.

And at that moment the Padawan felt Beef's pain.

The Ithorian's Combat Meditation, which gave him confidence and strength, now transmitted the pain from the slowly piercing body of an energy stick.

The padawan bent down from the pain that pierced his body, but held his swords in his hands.

The bawling acolyte twisted the swords in his hands and stepped forward to end the padawan. Mitch, overcoming the pain, straightened, staring into the helmet visor as if trying to catch the enemy's gaze. But he jumped up and put the both vibrating blades above his head, suddenly shaking like a seizure and collapsing to the ground.

Only now, through the pain, Carson saw a bolo wrapped around both hands of the enemy and emitting powerful energy impulses into his body.

The pain finally let the padawan go, and he felt Beef's death.

Looking back distractedly, Mitch saw the figure in a shimmering, just cutting his eyes with his shimmering balloon.

***

The crispy Ithorian finally let his spirit out.

As the Jedi say, he's merged with the Force.

Out of breath, anyway.

I wonder if an Ithorian can talk different conversations at the same time, using different mouths?

Well, that's not what I'm thinking.

I interrupted the wailing of the marauder's right hand with a blade down his throat.

Yes, I used alchemy to create two blades.

The right sword, meanwhile, interrupted the agony of a maroon caught with a bolo. I don't like it when the sentient suffer. If not enemies. And these looters are not my enemies. They are adversaries. So is this Padawan. Nothing personal, it's war, mate.

The Jedi raised his swords at the Jar'Kai stand.

He's squinting, I can see he's got shimmering stains in his eyes on my suit.

Come on, Son of Light, let's start reeducating.

That's where he shuddered, you bet.

Two Jedi almost at the same time took off. And with them, three acolytes.

Our group is working.

Two more Jedi and the last one joined them an instant later. Judging by the tightly pressed lips of the padawan, the reeducation is postponed indefinitely.

Then let's try the real option of testing our abilities.

The blades in the hands begin the flight of death, describe the rapid eight, ready to break off with blows from unpredictable angles.

I've been looking for descriptions, explanations, crumbs of knowledge about this style of combat for a long time.

***

The lord of Kas'im with ostentatious laziness watched the holo-transfer from drones circling over the place of the fight, but then, when the figure in a shimmering hoodie twisted blades around him, he leaned over the projector with interest.

Although the Padawan's skill in Jar'Kai left much to be desired, the strange, curved blades simply tore his defence to shreds.

A severed brush flew away, a second, then a head.

Kas'im leaned back in his chair and asked for a figure wearing a hoodie and a mask:

"Have the Assassins started studying Juyo?" Juyo

***

Tired but satisfied, we stood before the dark eyes of the Lords.

"You should go to the workshops and get your swords. The Lord of the Kopecz is leaving in six hours."

The Deputy Chief's speech reminded me of the manner in which the unforgettable Mace Windu spoke. The smug and careless expression of "Did you do the job? Did you get up? Go on your next assignment."

And then Kas'im showed up.

"Hold on."

Without bothering to recognize a little worm like me, he just poked me with his finger.

It was just a brain drain! He's got a manicure!

Stop!

Uncomfortable thoughts away from me!

Here we are at the gym.

"Show me how you move with your weird sabers."

I didn't know I made sabers. I thought I created two short swords with narrow blades.

I swear.

Showing my basic body to steel unity exercise.

"That's enough."

I stop bowing and bow again.

Kas'im extends his hand and I put a blade in it.

The lord makes some test strokes and notices:

"No balance."

I'm sick of these ceremonies, but I bow again:

"Overlord, the lack of balance is an advantage of this weapon. They cannot fence. They are designed for a sharp and aggressive manner of fighting, with little or no protection. They do not fence with these weapons, lord. They are killed by them."

The Lord's eyebrows soared up and he weighed the weapon in his hand again. Then he turned his eyes on me.

Kas'im's second hand stretched out and got the second blade.

And then I realized what the real Master Blade is. My training and battle with the padawan were just twitching compared to the Lord's movements.

He was surrounded by a halo of singing steel, the blades spinning at such a speed that they turned into a semi-transparent sphere from which sputtering and chopping strikes came out.

For ten minutes Kas'im was dancing, gradually increasing speed, and then he stopped and the obsession disappeared. But the impression remained.

When I caught the thrown blades, I bowed low.

In fact, there are pinnacles of skill to aspire to, and then it is worth dying on that pinnacle.

"Your aura seems familiar to me."

One more bow.

"It was you who brought me to this academy, Master."

You can't hold a poker face, Master Klink.

It was a glimpse into the depths of my eyes of recognition.

"And how did you come to think of working with them? With two blades."

"I met a mention of a school of two swords. I realised that this art was almost forgotten, Master. Forgotten, so little known. To know rare knowledge is an advantage. I was reconstructing it from old records."

He was still a little silent, bent over.

"So you know how to use information, acolyte. Let's do this."

A holocron slipped from his bag to me.

"Here are notes of a basic style, more perfect, more complete and perfectly adapted to the lightsaber. Juyo."

I found a gold mine!

I just couldn't dream of it! I'd hug you, Kas'im, and I don't care about your manicure, but the subordination...

So I just bow.

***

A week later, I was already in hyperspace somewhere. I got my first assignment.

There was time for meditation in the flight, trying to realize my path.

Meditating next to the holocron curator, I realized that I was so interested in the very style of Juyo.

Juyo is not only and not so much a collection of sword strokes, no matter what weapon.

Juyo is also a special state of consciousness, a sense of fusion with the environment, a strategy for unexpected turns in the fight.

In a way, it all reminds us of the "drunkard technique" from an old oriental movie about kung fu, with its seemingly unpredictable movements.

Everything goes, and the environment, and the swordsman himself, illusions, Dun Möch.

And it requires a subtle adjustment for the enemy, it is necessary and its possible actions to be built into its battle strategy, imposing him exactly his rhythm and pattern of the fight.

And it also became quite clear to me that without a normal mentor to reach at least some level, just above average, is impossible. It is impossible to achieve success without a teacher. Kas'im could have been such a teacher. But first of all, he is too keen on the ideas of the Brotherhood of Darkness, and secondly, who is a pathetic acolyte for him? The Brotherhood has hundreds of them.

But there's another one that's comparable in class to him, Master. And we must meet him!

Oh, it's the Great Master! And he deserves a great plan to arrange a meeting.

My survival, at this stage of my plans for the galaxy, is still important.

Oh, the clink has worked.

Lord Kopecz wishes to see the unworthy of me.

We are now entering another stage of the operation to survive and perfect in the Force.