Acolyte Ascending

His prior night spent with Haro Aven at an arcade had been a welcomed respite, the array of neon lights serving as both a distraction and the very place where a new friendship was forged.

Now, the acolyte's gaze flicked upward; the bloodstained sky of Korriban burned its usual crimson hue. The planet’s oppressive heat was already pressing heavily upon him, sweat trickling down his brow even in the early hour. His black gym bag was placed at the edge of the training grounds upon arrival.

The surface beneath his feet today was stable, more convenient compared to some of the sessions that took place on terrain that would further test his abilities.

While his interests at the academy may have shifted over the past year, there was one passion that remained constant: the study of Teräs Käsi.

True to form, Lysander’s day had begun with an early morning run, stirring life into his being. That would be followed by meditation, to sharpen the mind. Beneath the calm demeanor, his ambition and discipline simmered as always. Yet lately, pulses of anger surfaced more often, being raw and untamed. He knew he had to master them, to properly wield the emotion, rather than let it consume him, to channel it into strength instead of recklessness.

Stepping forward and joining the other students, his eyes quickly found Naamino Zuukamano and Varin Mortifer. The Zabrak and Epicanthix-Nagai boys were both acknowledged with a nod; however, the usual smirk or grin was absent.

This environment demanded nothing less than complete focus.

Now was the time to work.

Reaching back into his bag, the boy retrieved his plum colored hand wraps. Most believed them to be a luxury, but from a personal standpoint, it was a necessity for this kind of training. Naturally, the galaxy would never allow him such comfort in real world application, but he wouldn’t shy away from proper preparation here, supporting the wrists, knuckles, and fingers from countless strikes that would surely follow. Besides, pointless injuries would only set him back.

They did provide some additional benefit, as they were weighted, to add resistance, to increase muscle strain.

Once they were eventually stripped away, there was little doubt that his hands would move faster than bolts of Sith Lightning.

Soon, the teen's focus turned inward, remaining mindful of the others nearby. The ritual of shadowboxing commenced, refining his technique, an art in itself, a display of everything he had learned thus far on this journey.

He started with a jab, then followed with a cross. A double jab came next, before another cross landed against his imaginary opponent. Every strike was crisp. Eventually, he fell into a flow state, incorporating hooks and uppercuts, feints and pivots, every strike a rhythm of lethal intention.

It was the perfect balance of violence and control.

The blonde’s defense never faltered; indeed, a foundation many killers neglected in an irrational pursuit of pure offense. But those cracks always revealed themselves when real sparring began.

His head movements were precise, paired with fluid slips and rolls, never one to be caught off guard, refusing to leave his chin exposed on a silver platter.

Once feeling confident with his hands, he would unleash a series of kicks and knees, each crafted from pure instinct and muscle memory. Lysander would avoid all Force enhancement during the warm-up, his only guide being raw skill, the result of compounding effort.

The class would progress, each drill building upon the last; some were endured alone, while others required a partner. The blonde's face now glistened with sweat; he channeled all that he was, summoning every ounce of strength to drive forward. Despite improving his endurance, built upon countless kilometers logged from running, his breathing still grew heavy. Each inhale slowly became ragged.

As the day’s session drew to an end, all the students gathered in a circle for sparring; this was done twice every week, and undoubtedly, the acolyte always yearned for an opportunity to test his mettle.

It was inevitable that his gaze would fall upon one pureblood Sith; it was the same one who had marred Lysander’s face maliciously during their exchange of blows one week prior. The aftermath left him strangely feeling shamed, dishonored even, while traversing the halls of Kor’ethyr Academy. Bad days were part of the process; this was no hidden secret, but that loss tasted like disrespect.

More memories flooded back to him.

The ferocity of them was almost overwhelming.

Their Chiss instructor, a stoic figure, stepped forward, his voice slicing through the air around them. “There is no growth in comfort, and silence will reap you no reward here. If you mean to challenge, make sure they can hear you.”

The weight of Corazona von Ascania's actions, fragments of his father’s death that lingered, and the recent Tuk'ata Tears concert surged in his mind.

Perhaps one of the bigger revelations recently came from the discovery that his master, Revna Marr, was of kin.

But now she was pulled far away, by a false doctrine no less, leaving him in a state of confusion and hatred.

With each remembrance, a fire burned hotter within.

He wanted not merely to defeat this new rival, but to send a message to the other initiates, inked in pools of crimson.

Finally, Lysander advanced forward. Each step was a whisper of death. His stance was relaxed, like a poised predator, ready to claim victory.

And another life.

Time stretched.

But he did not seek attention.

Only execution.

From his lips, the name slipped, colder than a shard of ice.

“Varkos.”