Extremely sorry guys, in last chapter I noticed only now, 4-5 hours after uploading that I had put the draft chapter on scheduled update instead of the final one. It was really cringe, I knew it myself and ...and reading the feedback you guys gave...told me we shared the same opinion.
I have redacted the content of previous chapter and posting it as a new one here, cuz I want to keep the feedback you guys gave as an lesson that would remind me of the mistake about how should never show first draft to readers lol.
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The man turned his head—or at least, I think he did, since his face was still about as detailed as a potato—and called out:
"Varin. Prepare."
I glanced around, half-expecting some jacked warrior to step forward.
Silence.
Then I noticed.
Everyone was staring at me.
My brain short-circuited. Oh. Oh no.
"Uh," I said intelligently.
The man tilted his head. "Varin?"
Right. Okay. So either:
I'd accidentally possessed some poor schmuck named Varin mid-training, which was rude.
The axe-staff had decided that i can't cheat my way to mastery of weaponry, or atleast Force-imbued memory without actually experiencing them
Or This was all a sleep-deprivation hallucination, and any second now, Vasha was going to shake me awake while yelling about drooling on her good hydrospanner again.
The man—who was definitely the instructor here, judging by the way everyone else straightened up like he'd just mentioned pop quizzes—repeated, slower this time:
"Varin. To the center."
I swallowed. Well. If I was gonna get my ass kicked by a ghost gym teacher, I might as well commit.
I stepped forward, gripping the staff like it might save me.
Before the instructor could even say anything else, one of the faceless figures stepped out of the circle.
Overexcited huh?
The guy planted his staff into the ground like it was magnetized to the planet's core. Stood straight. No wobble. Showoff. Then came the fist-to-forehead salute. All very solemn and martial-arts-holo.
Right. Okay. When in creepy ancient Force bootcamp…
I mimicked the gesture – or tried to. Jammed my staff butt-first into the dirt.
Clatter. It faceplanted instantly.
A wave of silent judgment radiated from the faceless crowd. Oh, bite me. It's slippery!
Second try. Wobble… wobble… thud. Seriously? I hissed internally at the uncooperative stick.
Third try. It leaned precariously, held its breath… and collapsed like a drunk gonk droid. Oh, come ON!
Fourth try. Pure desperation. I practically willed it upright. Miraculously, it stayed. I slammed my fists to my forehead in the salute, probably looking like I was trying to knock myself out pre-emptively. My opponent was still frozen mid-bow, radiating secondhand embarrassment. Awkward.
The instructor's voice boomed: "Begin."
Oh, I'm gonna die. Painfully. With an audience.
The rival exploded forward. His staff whistled towards my ribs, a blur of motion I barely registered. I threw up my staff, a desperate block.
THWACK!
A shockwave of agony detonated in my forearms, making my teeth rattle. I gasped, the sound thin and reedy. Okay, vision or not, that HURTS! Is this OSHA compliant?!
Before I could blink, the other end cracked against my temple.
CRACK!
My vision swam, the blurry figures around me stretching and twisting. A wave of nausea rolled over me. Stars above! Is concussing students standard curriculum?! Yelp review: One star! 'Instructor stood by while Timmy got his brains scrambled!' I staggered, disoriented in this unfamiliar, taller body. My attempt at a swing was wild, off-balance. My rival sidestepped with effortless grace, like I was moving through syrup. The butt-end of his staff jabbed straight into my solar plexus.
THUD!
"OOF—!" The air exploded from my lungs in a ragged gasp. I hit the dirt, gasping like a landed fish, unable to draw breath. My chest burned. Internal organs… reporting severe dissatisfaction… union forming…
WHACK! Across the shoulders. Pain bloomed. OW! HEY! Personal space, pal!
THUMP! To the thigh. My leg buckled. MY LEG! Is this a spar or a tenderizing session?!
SMACK! Behind the knee. I crumpled again, a jumble of limbs and throbbing pain. Okay, seriously! Is beating the kriff out of people allowed here? Where's the HR department?!
I scrambled up, vision still hazy, trying to swing back. This body felt like piloting a drunk AT-AT—too long, too heavy, all wrong proportions. My staff wobbled pathetically through the air. My opponent stepped back, tapped me on the forehead with his staff like I was a misbehaving pet.
BONK.
Really? REALLY?! That's just insulting!
Another flailing swing. Another easy miss. Another casual tap to my skull.
BONK.
Stop patronizing me, you faceless—OW!
He wasn't even trying anymore. Just letting me flail around like an idiot before casually bopping me on the head. The crowd's silent judgment was deafening.
Finally, mercifully, the instructor's voice cut through my humiliation: "Halt."
Oh thank the Force. FINALLY. I doubled over, wheezing, probably looking like I'd been put through a food processor. My opponent stepped back and gave that stupid formal salute again. Show-off.
I limped back to the circle's edge, thinking my torture was over. Time to blend into the crowd and pretend this never happened.
"Varin."
No. No no no.
"Return to center."
I turned around slowly. Excuse me? I thought we were done with the public humiliation segment?
A different figure stepped forward. Bigger. Meaner looking—or at least, as mean as a faceless blob could look. This one moved with a predatory grace that made my first opponent seem like a gentle massage therapist.
Oh, come ON! What is this, a conveyor belt of pain? Do I get a punch card? Buy nine beatings, get the tenth free?
But I trudged back to center anyway. What choice did I have? The new guy planted his staff, gave his salute. I did the same—only took two tries this time. Progress!
"Begin."
This guy didn't explode forward. He stalked. Like a nexu circling wounded prey. I tried to keep my guard up, but my arms were already shaking from the first beating, the phantom aches almost as real as the blows I'd just taken.
He feinted left. I fell for it completely, stumbling right into his real attack. The staff cracked across my ribs with a sickening crack.
CRACK!
I gasped, the pain fresh and sharp. Agh! Different technique, same result!
But then he did something my first opponent hadn't. He aimed low. Really low.
My balls! NOOOOO-
CRACK
I whimpered, eyes squeezed shut against the agony as I felt every single second of my life pass by me in an instant and the pearly gates opening up. I was brought back to not-so-real-reality, not by some enlightenment or realization, but by snickering ...SNICKERING. These ancient more ghost than alive warrior-monks were laughing at my testicular trauma!
No honor!No dignity! If any one of you guys were left in the galaxy, let it be known that I will personally hunt you down, you motherfucking ball shattering bastards...
The second I tried to stand, he did it again.
THUMP!
"GODS DAMN IT! STOP TARGETING MY REPRODUCTIVE FUTURE!" My voice cracked but the need of the hour made me scream that aloud.
This became the theme of the fight. Every time I managed to get vertical, WHAM—right in the family jewels. It was like he had a personal vendetta against my genetic legacy.
THIS MOTHERFUCKER!! I WILL FUCKING SKIN HIM ALIVE AND FEED THIS BASTARD HIS OWN BALLS ARGHHHH....
But slowly—painfully, literally—I started adapting. Not consciously, not skillfully, but my body remembered the first few blows, twitched away. Started reading his movements. When he went for his signature low blow, my staff, almost by instinct, dropped and blocked it.
Of course that was just my delusions of having plot armour. I was still getting roflstomped...
I managed to parry some attacks, just pure chance playing their game, the staff clattering against mine.
Look at me go! I panted, managing to deflect a strike toward my head. I'm almost competent! This is character development!
THUMP.
Right in the crotch again.
Never mind. Character regression.
But even as I got pummeled, I could feel myself improving. My blocks were getting cleaner, less panicked. My footing, though still shaky, was more stable. By some miracle, I even landed a hit—a clumsy, flailing swing that caught him in the shoulder.
YES! Point to Varin! The crowd goes wild!
The crowd did not go wild. The crowd remained ominously silent.
"Halt."
Thank the Force. I was getting good at this! Well, "good" being relative. I'd graduated from "completely helpless" to "mildly pathetic." But hey, growth is growth!
I limped back to the edge, actually feeling a strange, battered pride. Maybe I'd earned my place now. Maybe—
"Varin."
Son of a bantha.
"Return to center."
A third figure stepped forward. This one moved differently—not just predatory, but surgical. Precise. Every step calculated, every breath controlled. When he planted his staff, it didn't wobble even slightly, sinking into the earth with a quiet thud.
Okay, what's the deal here? Is this like video game leveling? Easy, medium, hard, then 'Oh God Why'?
The salute. The stance. "Begin."
This one didn't stalk or rush. He simply attacked. Clean, economical movements that flowed like water. No wasted motion. I tried to parry—actually succeeded a few times, thanks to my previous beatings, my body responding with a desperate memory—but it was like trying to stop a river with a fork. Each parry merely deflected the inevitable, buying a fraction of a second.
His staff work was beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful. Every strike built on the last, creating openings, exploiting weaknesses I didn't even know I had. He moved around me, a silent, deadly whirlwind, the air whistling with each precise pass of his weapon.
But I was holding my own! Sort of! I mean, I was still getting hit constantly, sharp jabs to my arms, dull thuds to my legs, but I was hitting back occasionally! This was practically a miracle!
I managed to land another solid blow to his ribs, a desperate, clumsy lunge. HAH! Take that, you faceless—
Something changed.
The air grew colder. Sharper. My opponent's movements shifted from precise to lethal. The quality of the vision itself seemed to sharpen, edges becoming clearer.
His staff spun, and suddenly the blunt training end was gone. In its place, the gleaming axe blade caught the light, reflecting the ghostly courtyard in its polished surface like a predator's smile.
"Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" I backpedaled frantically, my voice a panicked squeak. Time out! Weapons check! We've got live steel here!
The blade whistled past my face, a chill against my skin, close enough to part my hair.
"INSTRUCTOR!" I screamed, a raw, desperate sound, dodging another swing that would have taken my ear off. "Your student's gone rogue! He's trying to actually murder me! Is this normal?! Is this part of the curriculum?!"
The instructor stood motionless. Silent. Uncaring.
The axe blade carved through the air again, faster this time, impossible to avoid.
SLICE!
Fire erupted across my chest. I looked down, disbelieving, to see my robes parting, a dark, wet red spreading rapidly across the fabric. A fresh, blinding agony tore through me.
"ARE YOU SEEING THIS?!" I stumbled backward, pressing my hand to the wound, feeling the hot stickiness of blood against my palm. "He's literally trying to kill me! With actual murder-weapons! This is not a training exercise!"
Another swing. Another line of agony across my arm. The vision intensified, the pain searingly real.
SLICE!
"This is INSANE!" Blood ran down my fingers, dripping onto the coarse robe.
I want my money back! I want a different instructor! I want my mommy!!
I tried to run, tried to scramble out of the circle, but my legs were heavy, sluggish. The blade caught me across the back.
SLICE!
I hit the ground hard, vision blurring, the taste of dust and blood in my mouth. My body convulsed, every nerve screaming. The faceless crowd watched in perfect silence as my opponent raised his staff one final time.
The axe blade gleamed, poised above my skull, cold and sharp.
"Wait," I gasped, my voice choked. "Wait, please, I—"
CHUNK.
A pain that came and went in instant, combined with the embrace of darkness so dark that I forgot which world I was in, took my senses on a mushroom filled trip across space and time in the instance of a moment.
—
GASP.
I was hunched over the axe-staff, real air burning my lungs, and my whole body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
A very weak lead. A Very strong hurricane.
Every phantom wound throbbed with remembered pain, a deep, bone-aching ache that resonated through my limbs. My chest felt tight and my breath ragged.
I frantically checked myself over, tearing at my shirt. No cuts. No blood. Just sweat and the lingering, visceral sensation of being filleted like a fish. The cold mist on my skin felt like a ghost of the blade.
"What the actual HELL was that?!" I wheezed at the weapon, my voice trembling. "Some kind of sadistic training simulator?!"
The axe-staff hummed with serene, peaceful energy in my trembling hands.
I wanted to throw it off the roof.
Instead, I just sat there shaking, trying to drag in enough oxygen, wondering what kind of insane warrior culture had thought death-by-training was a reasonable educational strategy.
I still threw it through, just on the roof-floor. A bit delicately too. Pricy it was, an single trauma was not enough for me to gutter down the credits.
"These people were psychopaths," I muttered, teeth chattering, partly from the cold, partly from the lingering terror. "Absolutely kriffing psychopaths."
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[Comments from previous chapter has been pasted below]
A/N: How was the first combat of the story? Good, bad, needs improvement ? Gimme feedback.
And was anyone able to guess who are these people? Whoever does it first gets an 1 month patreon sub for free.
If you want to support me or read advanced chapters, you can do so at Patreon. I would be highly appreciative of that and it would support me very much in my writing endeavors.
Link: www(dot)patreon(dot)com/Abstracto101
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