Bright Shadow Chapter 10

Previous Chapter: ***Chapter 9 - Lessons in Redemption***

***Chapter 10 - The Final Trial***

The last test of the acolyte’s training had arrived much sooner than anticipated. The event had been scheduled a mere two days after Doran’s attempt on Vycerant’s life. Everything within the Empire had suddenly shifted over those last forty-eight hours; Life had changed for the Imperials. Plans had been rearranged. Schedules reorganised. Something had happened within the Empire and something big was coming. Word of mouth among the Imperial populous were sung like a chorus of birds. Far-fetched rumours spoke of a coming vengeance of the Sith. That their feared navy, chockfull of lethal dreadnaughts and agile starfighters was almost complete; ready for a full-scale invasion of the Republic.

Vycerant knew the legitimacy of street-word. Filled with half-truths and falsehoods. But even he, someone who grew up on the streets, felt that there was a certain validity to the words that were spoken about the coming war. He too had felt the sudden change in atmosphere around in Academy. Each of the separate acolyte groups had dropped like flies. Now each of the groups were viable to take part in the final trials. Some had already passed and became apprentices to some of the most powerful Sith Lords. The Empire was preparing for something on an epic scale and Vycerant was about to take part in it.

That was, however, if he survived the final trial; the fighting pits that he and the other acolytes used to train in had become packed with Imperials eager for bloodshed. Even Lords came to witness the battle; some looking for a potential apprentice, others merely looking for some entertainment to pass what little free time they had. For this ephemeral moment in time, all rivalries between Sith were put aside. All spite held between generals and admirals were postponed for this brief instant of unity; all just to watch four acolytes kill each other.

Inside the cage that laid under the crammed spectator stands, Vycerant stood with two slaves, both of whom dressed him in thin leather garments. The only metal plating he was given was a shoulder-piece that ran from his collarbone to his wrist. Bronze spikes protruded out from the smooth plating that fortified his right arm. Vycerant raised an eyebrow at the ungenerous armour that he was given as the slaves tightened the lacing around his waist and ribs.

At the entrance to his enclosure, masked and hooded blackboots guarded the entrance. Even on the verge of becoming a real Sith, the Empire still considered Vycerant a slave and kept him bound under their iron fist with soldiers watching his every move. He wondered if that would change upon him finally graduating the Academy and joining the Sith army. The seed of doubt in his mind told him otherwise.

Zhen entered the cage, signalling the black-robed guards to leave the room. The slaves finished suiting Vycerant up by handing him his helmet: a horned helm resembling that of a bull. As the servants were about to follow the guards in exiting the cage, Zhen stopped them both and slipped them some food and credits. The shocked slaves looked at the Sith Lord in awe as he ordered them to leave the cage immediately, which they obeyed without hesitation.

Zhen approached Vycerant as he tried to rearrange his poor quality armour.

“Couldn’t get me any better armour?” Vycerant asked his master through his helmet. “This stuff wouldn’t stop a wasp sting,” he said analysing the thin layer of leather that had been strapped on his torso and left arm.

"Vycerant, if I somehow had the ability to conjure more special favours from my peers I would not waste them on an acolytes trial," replied Zhen, holding his hands behind his back in a formal posture.

"Ouch," replied Vycerant in his continued sarcastic tone. "Way to give your soon-to-be apprentice some confidence before facing the man that nearly killed him a couple days ago."

"Oh, come on, you seem confident enough," said Zhen. "Besides, it's three on one isn't it? You'll do fine. In fact, I think you'll do great. Ah, I do apologise for the poor armour though. The Empire has its resources spread thin these days. They can’t afford to simply hand out high grade armour to acolytes.”

“Yet they’re able to organise and event like this on Oddisor’s whim?” Vycerant retorted, his voice only sounding half angry. He clenched his fists and dished out some punches against the training target in the corner. Zhen let his would-be apprentice take let out some of his anger on the dummy.

“It’s all just as I guessed,” Vycerant continued as he boxed the wool-stuffed punching bag. “The Empire has no idea what it’s doing. All so disorganised with messed up priorities. No wonder they lost the last war.”

“Don’t let melancholy and disillusionment distract you from our goals,” Zhen interjected. “Keep your mind on the here and now. I don’t want my best acolyte to perish in the final trial due to some kind of philosophical epiphany.”

Vycerant stopped punching the dummy and looked to his master. “Then how about we start being real with each other?” he said. “How about you tell me what’s been going on these last few days? Why is all this change happening now, Zhen?”

Zhen did not hesitate to reveal the truth to his acolyte. “The Empire is ready,” he said. “The time has come for the Empire to reclaim it’s former glory. For the Republic to fall.”

Vycerant gazed at his master in disbelief. He couldn’t believe that the Empire which had only six years prior been near annihilation, was ready to claim its revenge on the Republic that devastated their regime.

“So soon?” he asked Zhen as if expecting a genuine answer from his ambitious master.

Zhen walked over to Vycerant and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t make me regret telling you this, acolyte,” he said. The sudden shift in Zhen’s tone made Vycerant’s stomach churn. A reminder of the time when Zhen would refuse to call Vycerant by his name. Yet even through all the calamities and pain the bald man had put him through, Vycerant was now more motivated than ever to win.

“You won’t regret it,” said Vycerant confidently. “An opportunity to finally get out into the field. To finally do what you’ve been telling me these last couple years. To at last make a difference to this decrepit Empire. I wouldn’t miss it for the galaxy.”

Zhen’s demeanour switched back to his encouraging attitude upon hearing his apprentice’s enthusiasm. His almost welcoming manner returned and emboldened Vycerant spirit. The young acolyte turned to observe the arena through the gate that separated the enclosure he was caged in with the colossal fighting pit.

“I have full confidence you will survive,” Zhen said as Vycerant watched the hundreds of people waiting in the colosseum-like arena. “One more thing. Make no mistake; once you pass through those gates, once you hear that bell ring, you will have left your old life behind for good. The man I am talking to right now will have been swept away with the times. You will no longer be an acolyte once your boots imprint those sands. Once your blood and sweat mixes into the ground that you’ve spent the last three years of your life training at. Once that crowd cheers for you, you are a Sith.”

Vycerant let the words register with his mind but did not say a word back. His thoughts were too deep in contemplation. Zhen shuffled over to join him in his introspection and rested his folded arms on the metal bars of the gate. He then muttered a series of words that would change his apprentice’s life forever. Something that would echo in Vycerant's mind for eternity.

“A slave becomes an acolyte when he learns to direct his hatred onto his masters. An acolyte becomes a Sith when he learns to target his malice on his enemies. A Sith becomes a phantom when there is no one else left to hate.”

Vycerant froze as if he had suddenly been dropped onto Hoth. The utmost dark wisdom that radiated from Zhen’s words ignited the fire in Vycerant’s heart. It burned with insight yet was hindered by the obvious hypocrisy and self-destructive nature of the Sith. Zhen’s words spoke true. Who do the Sith kill when there is no one else left to fight? The dark side will always destroy itself. It was only inevitable.

Vycerant had finally understood the complex philosophy of his master. He slowly turned to look at Zhen with a readied countenance.

“Give Doran hell,” Zhen said finally to his silent apprentice as he turned and walked away from the pureblood, exiting the enclosure. As the black hooded guards re-entered the cage and stood at attention at the exit, Vycerant closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

He was ready to kill Doran.

The harsh, midday sunlight shone down through the arena’s exposed rooftop. Every inch of the stadium was illuminated, contrasting greatly with the attire of the audience members; a sea of conformist black and grey dotted the seats and stands all the way from the nosebleed section to fenced off front stands. Many of the Empire’s younger members, mostly fresh ensigns and newly anointed Sith Apprentices sat at these barred off edges with their legs dangling loosely over the precariously welded frame. Each one of the onlookers sat and waited, eagerly anticipating the approaching fight. Navy admirals made bets with prestigious Sith Lords on which of the four acolytes would emerge victorious. Others sat in silence, annoyed by the long build up to the duel.

The patience of every audience member was rewarded when the three members of the Neophyte Council appeared from a doorway in the upper stands. Zhen and Dulcia simultaneously sat into their chairs whilst Oddisor stood at the edge of his podium and was greeted by a mixed surge of cheers and boos from the crowd. The crowd of Sith and Imperials no doubt harboured many admirers as well as a plethora of rivals, like a field of rotted crops. Very quickly, however, the jeers died down when they realised, they were outnumbered by the enthusiastic applauds. The mentality of mob rule was rife in the society of the Empire. No body wanted to be in the minority, save the more ambitious or rebellious members.

As Oddisor stood before his devotees, he raised an authoritative hand and the noised from the crowd died down like a receding wave.

“Unleash the slaves!” announced Oddisor through a hovering amplifier that projected his voice to the entire colosseum.

The eager cheers began again as four gates within the sandy arena opened up concurrently. Vycerant stepped out of the concrete structure from his cage into the piercing light, shielding his eyes with his left hand. As his eyes adjusted to the punitive daylight, he noticed the other acolytes exiting their cages.

Kristina emerged from her gate on the opposite side of the pit. The sheer size of the arena hid most of her facial features from Vycerant but her red hair was heavily illuminated. To Vycerant’s squinting eyes, she seemed to have worn a bronze breastplate with grey gauntlets and brown shin-pads.

Adjacent to Vycerant’s left was Belushi who had been lucky with his selection of armour and was granted a helmet. His eye mask was barely visible under the metal plating that ensconced his head. The helm, however, was gifted at a cost; his chiselled torso was exposed to the unforgiving sunlight and his only other armour was a shoulder plate, not too dissimilar to the one that Vycerant sported. Belushi stood tall and confident as he peered over to Vycerant’s direction and nodded at his red-skinned friend. Vycerant nodded back with uncertainty at his blind ally as he sensed the presence of his rival to his right.

Doran emerged from the shadows of his cage like a prowling beast. His armour was begrimed black with a leather shoulderpad. His hands were tightly draped in white wraps like a brawler about to enter a bar fight. Doran looked up at the spectators stands as he felt the blistering sunlight on his ashen face. A sudden elevation in the cheers and applauds from the crowd indicated a clear favourite acolyte among the four contenders. As the praise and glory were heaped upon him, Doran smiled and held his arms up in a cross position, spurring the crowd to cheer for him more, which they did upon his command.

Vycerant kept his eyes off Doran even as the cheers grew more and more intense. He refused to let his anger consume him and, in turn, distract him from his objective. He closed his eyes and let the teachings of Zhen sink into his mind, focusing on all the positive experiences of his life, however few of them there were.

“Let the final trial begin!” exclaimed the voice of Oddisor over the distorted loudspeakers.

Vycerant woke himself from his calming meditation as he felt the ground under his feet tremble. The entire arena shifted and cracked open with fissures and ravines leading deep into a series of lava-filled chasms below. All four of the acolytes stood firm on their remaining pillars of sand and granite as a larger pillar of rock emerged in the centre of the arena. In the middle were three blades held upright in wooden stands.

On the left side was a rusty, primitive-looking blade that would have likely been owned by a champion of the Sith some epochs past. To the four acolytes, however, that particular weapon was a poor excuse for a weapon. It had aged to the worst degree possible; exhibiting a yellowish-orange shade to its corroded blade, as if a small breeze would turn it to dust.

The weapon on the right was in much more pristine condition; a sophisticated version of the training blades that Vycerant and his fellow acolytes had wielded during the practice sessions. This sword, however, was special; the blade was jagged and unorthodox, almost ceremonial looking. The shiny, serrated blade glistened like a fine gem in the midday sunlight.

All the acolyte’s attention, however, was fixated on the weapon in the centre of the arena: a lightsaber. But there was something incredibly unique about this blade. Its black hilt was split by two shorter vents protruding on either side of the blade. A double bladed crossguard lightsaber. All other thoughts within Vycerant’s mind had disappeared upon the sight of the special blade. His rage had been overcome with a voracious desire to impale Doran with the special lightsaber.

A piercing sound ringed in Vycerant’s ear. The reverberation rung in the distance as a group of ragged slaves clobbered a brass bell with rock hammers. Instinctively, Vycerant’s legs sprinted his body forward towards the weapons. Belushi, Doran and Kristina did the same, leaping their way across the pillars that remained. Their desperation to avoid the lava fed the adrenaline in their feet as they precariously danced across the perilous stacks of rock.

Belushi stopped on one of the pillars and looked over to Vycerant, who looked back at his friend wondering why he had stopped running. The Miraluka gestured with his hands the motion of a Force push. The quick thinking of the two acolytes led to Vycerant being levitated off his last pillar by the force powers of his friend. He was launched some thirty meters into the air towards the middle of the arena. The crowd erupted with aghast mouths as Vycerant was hurled through the air by Belushi’s push. The pureblood was the first to land onto the centre of the arena, performing a perfect safety roll as his body hit the ground. Wasting no time he sprinted for the middle of the fight pit and Force pulled the double bladed crossguard lightsaber out of it’s stand and ignited it. The two crimson blades ignited within the blink of an eye, accompanied by a gratifying swish upon its ignition. This was then followed by the activation of the two pairs of crossguards; four shorter blades jutted out of four side vents, providing a somewhat decent protection of the user’s hands. Vycerant felt as if he was held in some kind of trance upon finally holding a true lightsaber. He had been totally encapsulated by the majesty of the blade he did not see Doran leap from his last pillar and onto the main arena.

The infuriated man attempted to pull the blade from Vycerant’s hands with the Force. The effort was a poor one, however and Vycerant quickly snapped out of his admiration of his weapon and held onto its hilt tightly. The hilt suddenly came flying towards Doran’s hands with Vycerant still attached to it. Doran grabbed onto the hilt with both ands and desperately tried to wrestle it out of Vycerant’s palms, like a brawler in a dirty street fight. The two acolytes were fuelled by their mutual hatred of each other but were still weary of the multiple protruding plasma blades emanating from the lightsaber. Any wrong move could result is a cauterized leg or a decapitated arm.

Kristina leaped from her final pillar and landed on the main platform with half her body gangling off the edge of the cliff-like column. Desperately hanging over the brink of the cliff, the woman heaved her lower body onto the pillar. She hauled her way over to the weapon stands and unsheathed the special training saber from its rostrum. Belushi arrived simultaneously after leaping from his own pillar. Kristina took the rusted blade and chucked it into the dirtied hands of her Miraluka friend. The two acolytes quickly rushed over to help Vycerant who was still struggling with Doran over the lightsaber.

Vycerant kicked at Doran’s exposed left knee, forcing his opponent to the ground. As Doran cried out a mix of pain and frustration, Vycerant spun around to kick his enemy in the chest with his other foot, knocking the pallid-faced man to the ground. Speedy with his reactions, Doran reached out with the Force to steal the blade from Kristina’s hands. The woman looked at her suddenly empty palms with shock while Doran looked at his own hands with the shiny blade now in his possession with a wicked expression.

The three allied acolytes circled Doran like a pack of ravenous predators savouring the kill of a cornered deer. Kristina used her now free hands to conjure a ball of Force energy, Belushi held his corroded blade in a readied position and Vycerant slowly spun his blade in a circling motion. Doran tried to keep his eyes on all of his opponents at once, leading him to erratically look back and forth between the competing acolytes. The crowd hollered with demands for more bloodshed as the acolytes continued to circle each other.

"Well?" Doran asked his three rivals. "Come on then!"

Vycerant was the first to leap into the circle with a fierce downward strike with his lightsaber. Doran responded by rolling out of the way, causing Vycerant’s saber to dig deep into the surface of the pillar they stood on. Kristina released the building electricity in her hands in the form of a bolt of lightning directly at her enemy. Doran swiftly exited his roll and got onto his feet, absorbing the bolt of electricity in the palm of his hand as Belushi swung his blade towards him. Blocking with his own blade, Doran returned the bolt of lightning to Kristina who was sent flying backwards away from the duel.

In the stands high above, Dulcia watched her secret apprentice fight. A large cyborg man sitting next to her leaned over to the woman. "That boy has the spirit of a Sith in him. He'll make a fine addition to our ranks," said the cyborg.

Dulcia simply nodded to her compatriot as she returned her attention to the battlefield, nervous of the outcome.

Doran refocused his attention onto Doran and unleashed a flurry of attacks against the Miraluka. Within just three connections of their blades, Doran’s sword shattered against the sturdier metal of Doran’s blade, much to the Miraluka’s dismay. As the shards of the sword landed onto the ground, Doran refused to stop his barrage of attacks and Belushi was struck across the chest with the blade. A shallow incision was cut across the Miraluka’s exposed chest, forcing Belushi to shuffle backwards away from Doran as the crowd cheered at his successful attack. Vycerant returned to the fight and engaged in a fierce flurry of attacks with Doran. The two acolytes eventually locked themselves in a snag between their blades as they looked at each other with abhorrence in their eyes.

“You’re beaten,” declared Vycerant angrily.

Doran looked over Vycerant’s shoulders and smiled a fiendish grin. “Am I?”

Vycerant looked over his own shoulder to see Kristina hanging off the edge of the pillar, her hair frizzed, and her armour charred from when Doran deflected her bolt of lightning back to her.

Enraged at Doran and deeply concerned for Kristina, Vycerant infused his lightsaber with the full volatility of the dark side. A complex trick that Zhen had taught him; the Blade Bomb. After only a few seconds the energy of the blade boiled over and ignited, sending Doran hurtling backwards, almost coming close to falling over the edge of the pillar.

Taking advantage of his newfound time, Vycerant rushed over to Kristina and grabbed her hand to haul her up from the edge. Kristina smiled thankfully to her pureblood lover as she was returned to the safety of the sand-topped pillar.

Doran had returned to his feet and immediately saw Belushi charging towards him with the training saber in hand. A smudged stream of blood coated his exposed chest as his sweaty hair hung from underneath his helmet. He lunged at Doran attempting to stab him in the chest. Doran nimbly dodged the blade and Belushi tried again. Doran evaded the blade again and Belushi swung the sword repeatedly.

The cruel tactic of the shaven-head man was working. The Miraluka was becoming exhausted, using all of his strength unwisely and slowly wearing out his stamina. Doran waited for the right moment where Belushi had become so exhausted, his grip of the training saber had become weak and exposed.

Doran sprang forward after eluding Belushi’s blade for a fifth time and kicked the sword out from the Miraluka’s hand. The blade spun high in the air as the spectating crowd quieted for a brief moment, in awe of the skirmish they were witnessing. Belushi and Doran brawled each other trying to position themselves in the perfect place to catch the flying blade. Doran elbowed the Miraluka in the nose and threw the man onto the ground, blood gushing from under his helmet.

Vycerant and Kristina returned to the two duellers but were frozen in place by Doran who extended his right arm and immobilized them in place with the Force. The training sword landing in the left hand of Doran who turned from Vycerant to Belushi who was kneeling on the floor clutching his broken nose and shielding his slashed chest. Vycerant looked at his nemesis in horror, unable to shout and unable to move.

“You won’t be depriving me of this victory today, pureblood!” Doran shouted at the powerless Vycerant who was desperately attempting to break the invisible hold on his body. Taking the training saber, Doran impaled Belushi through the diaphragm. The Miraluka silently grunted as the saber pierced through his flesh and bone. The crowd erupted into more cheers upon the defeat of the fourth acolyte.

Both Zhen and Dulcia stood up from their ivory tower seats and looked down into the arena with shock. Dulcia teemed with infuriation with her soon-to-be apprentice. He had once again failed to take the life of the acolyte that she had ordered him to murder two years prior. Zhen raised his eyebrow and stroked the stubble that ran across his chin, contemplating the future events to come from this outcome.

Doran wasted no time in bathing in his victory. He taunted the crowd with his blade, now tainted with a glistening red from Belushi’s blood. The crowd had found their new champion.

As the ill-fated Belushi collapsed onto the sandy ground, his helmet came loose and fell off of his head, taking with it Belushi’s eye mask. His distraught friends desperately tried to break free of their restraints to help their dying friend. Belushi looked in the direction of his friends as they returned the look with distressed faces. Belushi’s eyes were finally revealed to Vycerant and Kristina: a pair of purely white eyeballs aimlessly beheld the observation of Belushi’s friends. As a single tear began to run down Belushi’s bloodied cheek, a feeling of completion came over the perishing Miraluka. His iris’ were suddenly imbued with colour; a striking forest green. As Belushi’s sight returned to him, he could finally see what his friends truly looked like. For what felt like eternity to the trio, time seemingly stopped as Kristina and Vycerant witnessed their friend’s final moments.

The comforting presence of his friends gave Belushi the last closure he needed before his life force left his body, the echoes of the crowd reverberating in his mind eternally as he died.

Next Chapter - ***Chapter 11 - The Price of Victory***

Copyright Jacob Burbidge 2019