Location: Tython – Circular Arena of the Wayfarer's Grounds
Date: 24 BBY
The Wayfarer's Grounds had never been so full. The wide stone ring, surrounded by terraces carved from polished obsidian and vine-wrapped sandstone, now held the future of the Jedi in its heart.
Jedi from across Tython gathered, lightsabers clipped and robes still. Mandalorians, Kaminoan healers, and Dathomirian witches watched from shaded observation tiers—proof of how far the galaxy had already changed.
Three Padawans stood at the center of it all.
Cain Tython. Anakin Skywalker. Seris Vey.
Dressed in sleek, purpose-forged robes, their sabers rested at their hips, yet each presence blazed like a beacon in the Force.
Master Plo Koon stood at the edge, alongside Master Fay, Obi-Wan, and Knight Galia Thren. In front of them, two figures approached:
One, a tall, green-skinned Zabrak Jedi Knight named Tolar Raith, renowned for his Soresu mastery.
The second was shorter, elegant, calm—but fierce: Serra Keto, former Padawan of Cin Drallig himself.
And from the shadows beyond the arena's far end came the final figure—tall, cloaked in muted Jedi brown, with streaks of gray at his temples and a familiar two-toned hilt at his side.
Master Cin Drallig. The Jedi Battlemaster.
A quiet hush fell across the entire circle.
Cain felt it in his bones.
This is it.
Seris stepped forward first, silver eyes calm, her breath controlled. She ignited her golden lightsaber, its crackling edge flaring in the soft wind.
Tolar Raith bowed, then raised his blue saber in the tight Soresu stance.
The two circled. Seris struck first, light and fast—arcing feints that tested Tolar's guard.
But the Zabrak was a master of patience. He batted aside every strike with minimal motion. His stance was like a river stone in the current—unmoving, enduring.
Still, Seris didn't falter.
Be better than who you were, she reminded herself. Not others. Just yourself.
She began flowing—her body light, graceful, shifting forms like waves on sand.
Twice she nearly broke through Tolar's defenses.
And when her blade was finally disarmed in a clever lock-pivot, she flipped backward, hand raised—
—summoning it back mid-air and dropping into a calm parry.
Even when she lost, she was poised.
Master Tolar smiled. "Well done, Padawan. Very well done."
Anakin stepped next. He didn't hesitate. His eyes burned with purpose, and when he ignited his amethyst blade, it sang with deep resonance.
Serra Keto stood with her twin green sabers ignited, their hum creating a vibrating harmony.
"I've heard about you, Skywalker," she said with a grin. "Let's see what you've got."
He struck fast—Form V, Djem So, all power and precision.
Serra deflected with speed only a dual-wielder could manage, dancing around his strikes and answering with fierce counters.
But Anakin adapted.
He shifted his feet, absorbed her momentum, and turned her counters into new rhythms.
Serra pressed hard. Anakin pressed harder.
A rush of acrobatics followed—Anakin flipping over a blade arc, Serra sweeping low and forcing him to block with both hands.
For a moment, the crowd held its breath.
Anakin's blade locked with Serra's—
Then she spun, disarmed him, and had a saber tip to his ribs.
"Impressive," she said. "But you think too far ahead."
Anakin grinned. "Still landed two hits."
"True," she nodded. "I felt them."
Cain stepped forward next, his expression unreadable.
Golden saber ignited, the black shimmer around it casting strange light across the ring.
Serra nodded respectfully. "You're different than I expected."
"I get that a lot," Cain replied, eyes glowing faintly.
Their clash was quiet at first—blades speaking more than mouths. Cain's stance mixed elegance and unpredictability, using tight Makashi ripostes and Ataru's flexibility, while Serra moved like a storm—measured chaos.
But Cain began flowing faster.
Remember what Seris said.
Let go. Trust your instincts. Trust the Force.
Suddenly, Cain was gone—a blur of gold light and flowing movement.
He redirected Serra's attack into the air, dropped low, spun behind her, and—
Stopped.
Blade at her neck.
Serra deactivated her saber slowly, eyes wide.
"...That was not beginner's technique."
Cain lowered his saber. "It was yours. Refined."
They bowed to one another.
And then the circle shifted.
All three stood side by side as Master Cin Drallig walked into the arena, expression like steel wrapped in patience.
"I taught your teachers," he said. "Now show me what you've learned."
His green saber ignited.
Anakin rushed first, aggressive and confident—his blade crashing like a hammer.
Seris came next, controlling the pace, using precise steps to corner him.
Cain waited, then moved like a whisper—sliding into the gaps between their forms, keeping tempo, reading Cin's flow.
But Cin Drallig was the Battlemaster for a reason.
He parried them all—sometimes with a flick, other times with brutal counters that forced them to disengage. At one point, he flipped between Cain and Seris, using their own momentum against them.
Cain adjusted.
He began using shatterpoint perception, sensing Cin's movement threads a moment before they formed.
Seris filled the space, Anakin grounded it.
But even their synchronicity wasn't enough.
Cin disarmed Anakin, kicked Seris to the side gently, and landed a low sweep that dropped Cain to a knee.
Silence.
Then Cin deactivated his blade.
"You are not perfect."
He turned away.
"But you are ready."
Codex Entry 030 – Dance of the Blade
Skill is not perfection. It is clarity.
It is rhythm found between chaos.
And in that rhythm, we proved…
We are no longer just learners.