The virtual space of the holocron greeted them with the familiar silence of a necropolis.
In the center of the square, where Kreia usually materialized, a pedestal of black stone now stood. On it lay two items—cylindrical, forearm-length, clearly disassembled.
"Lightsabers," Verena breathed.
Alex moved closer, examining the construction details. His engineering mind automatically began to analyze: power cell, focusing system, power modulators, emitter matrix...
"Elegant engineering," he said aloud.
"But not magic," Kreia's voice responded.
She materialized next to the pedestal, as always suddenly, as if she had simply stepped out of a fold in reality.
"You have studied levitation," she continued, surveying them. "Body control. Foresight. You have learned to sense the flow of probabilities, manipulate matter at the quantum level, peer into the folds of the future." She paused. "It is time to study the blade."
"But first," Kreia's voice grew harsher, "I will tell you what the Order hid from the Padawans. What they didn't speak of before initiation into knighthood. And many were never told."
She waved her hand, and the air above the pedestal sparked. Seven lightsabers appeared, hanging in the air, each glowing with its own color: red, blue, green, yellow, purple, white, and—barely visible—black.
"You must understand that the color is not chosen," Kreia said. "The color of the blade is not a coincidence. It is not the whim of the crystal. It is a map of your soul, laid bare before the universe."
Kreia began to walk along the row of hanging blades, and her voice took on an almost hypnotic quality—the voice of a teacher giving a lecture, repeated a thousand times, but each time imbued with new meaning.
"Let us begin with the color of blood." She stopped before the red blade. "Red is the answer of those who look into the abyss of absurdity and say: 'If the world has no meaning, I will become its meaning.'"
The red blade flared brighter, casting bloody shadows on the stone slabs.
"The red blade sings a song of power. Not the pathetic power granted by titles and thrones—they crumble to dust along with those who bear them. No, it is power over the very fabric of reality. The power to tell gravity: 'Retreat,' time: 'Slow down,' death: 'Wait.'"
Verena felt a chill run down her spine. There was a seductive truth in Kreia's words.
"But listen more closely to this song," Kreia continued, and her voice grew colder. "Do you hear how it changes? How the owner's voice gradually becomes only an echo, and the main melody is led by someone else?"
Alex frowned: "Parasite."
"Yes." Kreia nodded. "The red blade is an invitation. An open door for an ancient entity that slumbers in the depths of the Force, awaiting a suitable bearer. For the power that the red color promises is too great for a mortal mind. To bear it, one must either become a god, or allow a god to become you."
She waved her hand in front of the red blade, and it extinguished.
"I have seen it happen. How a living person, full of passions and desires, slowly transforms into something else. How their eyes become empty windows, behind which burns another's fire. How an ancient entity devours their personality from within, leaving only a shell filled with dead malice."
She moved to the blue blade.
"Blue is the color of the sky on a clear day, when the world seems just and ordered." Her voice became almost mocking. "It is the choice of those who cannot bear the weight of freedom and seek refuge in the embrace of the system."
The blue blade glowed with a soft, almost calming light.
"'Meaning is prescribed,' whispers the blue blade to its owner. 'Your duty is to serve. Your role is to obey. Do not think, do not doubt, do not ask questions. Just follow the rules, and everything will be fine.'"
"What a sweet lie!" Kreia's voice became sharp. "The owner of the blue blade can commit any horror, and their conscience will be clear—for they were merely following orders. They can destroy lives, and their heart will not falter—for they served a higher purpose."
Verena remembered the Jedi she had seen on the news—calm, confident, unwavering. Blue blades were the most common among them.
"I wore a blue blade for most of my life," Kreia confessed. "I know its song by heart. It is a lullaby that soothes the mind, makes it forget its own will. It is a hypnotic melody to which an army of righteous people marching to kill in the name of peace easily marches."
She moved to the purple blade.
"Purple is a rare color, born from the mixing of opposites. Red anger and blue obedience, forged in the crucible of internal conflict." The purple blade flared, and in its light, both shades could indeed be discerned. "It is the color of those who try to serve the light by using the darkness. Who want to achieve righteous goals by unrighteous means."
"The owner of such a blade lives in constant tension, balancing on the razor's edge between light and dark. They think they have found the golden mean. That they can use anger to protect the innocent, cruelty—to punish the guilty, deception—to achieve truth."
Kreia shook her head.
"But the purple blade is a trap. The owner of such a blade is open to influence from both sides. They can become prey to both bright illusions and dark temptations."
The green blade was next.
"Green is the color of life, the color of growth, the color of hope." Kreia's voice softened, but bitterness crept into it. "The color of those who see the connections between all things, who understand that the universe is a single web, where every action generates consequences."
"Its owners are teachers, healers, peacemakers. They do not seek power for power's sake. They want to heal the world, make it better, help others find their way. Their motives are pure, their intentions noble, their hearts full of compassion."
A pause.
"And that is precisely why they are so dangerous."
Alex raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
"The green blade is the weapon of the most sophisticated of all self-deceptions. The owner of the green blade sincerely believes they are serving good. They do not see how their wisdom turns into dogma, their compassion—into patronage, their desire to help—into a desire to control."
Kreia touched her chest.
"My teacher was one of them. He taught Padawans, healed the wounded, reconciled warring factions. He thought he was making the world better. He didn't understand that each of his lessons was another chain on the student's mind, each healing—another dependence on his power, each reconciliation—another compromise with the truth."
She turned away from the green blade as if it caused her pain.
"The green blade turns its owner into a merchant of spirituality. They trade meaning, sell comfort, give answers to questions that everyone must solve for themselves."
The yellow blade glowed calmly, almost imperceptibly.
"Yellow is the color of the sun, the color of gold, the color of constancy. It is the color of those who choose not to create new, but to preserve the old. Not to seek truth, but to guard tradition. Not to change the world, but to maintain it in its current state."
"The yellow blade sings a song of loyalty. Its owners are temple keepers, archivists, guardians of ancient knowledge. They do not strive for glory or power. They simply want everything to remain as it is."
Kreia chuckled humorlessly.
"But in this striving for preservation lies its own poison. For what is tradition but petrified lies? What is ancient wisdom but the mistakes of the past, elevated to the rank of truth? What is order but a system of suppression, consecrated by time?"
"The owner of the yellow blade becomes an immune system of lies. It rejects any attempts at change, any questions to the established order, any doubts about the correctness of traditions. It protects not the truth, but habit. Not wisdom, but ossification.
The white blade barely glowed—rather, it flickered like a distant star.
"White is the rarest of all colors, the color of those few who have gone through all the trials and come not to denial of the absurd, but to its acceptance." Kreia's voice became quieter, almost meditative. "The owner of the white blade does not fight the world—they accept it as it is, with all its contradictions and horrors.
"His strength lies in inaction, in the ability to be himself without effort or pretense. He does not judge others, does not condemn their choices, does not try to correct them. He simply exists, and this presence in itself becomes a healing for those who are ready to accept it."
Kreia fell silent, looking at the white blade.
"But even the white blade carries danger. For accepting a world created on lies means accepting the lies themselves. Peace achieved through the refusal to fight can become complicity in a crime. Wisdom that does not distinguish between good and evil turns into indifference."
"I have met those who wore white blades. They were calm, wise, imperturbable. They did not get angry at injustice, did not grieve for suffering, did not rejoice in victories. They accepted the world as it is—and thereby became accomplices in all its horrors."
And finally—the black blade. It was almost invisible, rather guessed as the absence of light.
"Black is the color of absence of light, the color of emptiness, the color of absolute negation." Kreia's voice became strange, almost reverent. "The rarest of all colors, if it exists at all, for a black blade can only be created by one who has rejected everything—both light and darkness, and the very system that generates their confrontation.
"The black blade does not sing. It is silent. Its silence is a cry of protest against all the songs that sound in other blades. It is a rejection of all melodies of temptation, all hymns of self-deception, all lullabies of submission."
"The owner of the black blade says to the universe: 'I do not accept your rules. I do not play your games. I am my own law.' His negation is not nihilism, but an act of self-creation."
Kreia reached out to the black blade, but did not touch it.
"But the black blade is a paradox. For to create it, one must reject the Force itself. And having rejected the Force, you can no longer create lightsabers. A black blade can only exist as a symbol, as a reminder of a path that leads beyond all paths."
She lowered her hand.
"I tried to create a black blade. Years of experiments, meditations, attempts to purify the crystal from all influences. But every time I thought I was close to success, the crystal either crumbled to dust or flared up with some other color."
All seven blades extinguished simultaneously, and the virtual space plunged into twilight, illuminated only by the stars overhead.
"Because the black blade is not a weapon," Kreia finished. "It is an idea. The idea that one can live without the Force. That one can be human, not a god. That one can choose freedom, even if it costs everything."
"So the color is not just aesthetics. It's... a psychological interface between consciousness and the Force system?" Alex asked.
Kreia turned to him, and something akin to approval flickered across her face.
"You could say that. The system uses color as a marker, as a way of categorizing users. Each color is a certain thought pattern, a certain philosophy of interaction with reality." She took a step towards him. "The system did not create such diversity by chance. It needs different types of tools for different tasks."
"So, we..." she began, but faltered.
"So, you don't choose the color," Kreia finished for her. "You choose what tool of the system you want to become. Or—if you are wise enough—you choose not to become a tool at all."
She waved her hand, and all seven blades disappeared. Only the pedestal with disassembled lightsabers remained.
"But before you make that choice," Kreia continued, "you must understand the mechanics."
Alex walked over to the pedestal, his fingers reaching for the components.
"Energy cell," he muttered, pointing to a cylindrical block. "Durasteel casing for overload protection. Focusing system..." His finger moved to the next component. "Are these power modulators? Interesting solution, a parallel circuit instead of a serial one..."
"You grasp things quickly," Kreia remarked. "Yes, it's elegant engineering. Millennia of optimization have led to an almost perfect design." She picked up one of the components—a focusing lens. "But all this is just a flashlight without the main element."
She lowered the lens and pointed to an empty socket in the center of the assembly.
"The kyber crystal."
Verena moved closer, peering into the empty space.
"Kyber crystals are not just minerals," Kreia said. "They are nodes of connection with the Force. Living interfaces between matter and... your soul."
She waved her hand, and a holographic projection appeared above the pedestal—a crystal rotating in the air.
"The crystal resonates with the owner's consciousness," Kreia explained. "It doesn't just focus energy—it transmits and amplifies intention. It converts fluctuations of consciousness into physical impact on matter."
Alex frowned, studying the patterns.
"So the blade isn't just a weapon. It's... a Force amplifier?"
"More accurately—an extension of the connection to the Force," Kreia corrected. "Without a crystal, you can manipulate the Force directly, through your own consciousness. With a crystal—you get an amplifier, a focus, a tool."
She turned off the hologram.
"The Order said that 'the crystal chooses the Jedi.' A beautiful metaphor. More accurately—the system assigns a tool to one who has already chosen a certain way of thinking."
"And synthetic crystals?" Alex asked. "I read that the Sith create them artificially..."
Kreia nodded.
"Yes. Synthetic crystals are easier to create—you force matter to adopt the desired structure. But the creation process itself..." She paused. "It's an act of domination. You don't ask the crystal to resonate with you—you force it. And the parasite feels it. It comes to those who have already chosen the philosophy of coercion."
"The red color," Verena muttered.
"The red color," Kreia confirmed. "Not a coincidence. The signature of the method."
Alex rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"So, a natural crystal is..."
"It's a choice of acceptance," Kreia finished. "You go where crystals form naturally—for millions of years, under pressure, absorbing randomness, chaos, the very life of the planet. And you wait until one of them responds to your presence."
She looked around at them.
"You can refuse the blade. It is not a mandatory tool. Many of the greatest Masters of the Force were unarmed."
"But you are teaching us to create it," Alex noted.
"Because you must understand what you are rejecting before you reject it," Kreia replied. "You cannot reject what you do not understand." She touched one of the disassembled sabers. "A lightsaber is an anchor. The more you use it, the deeper you integrate into the system. The stronger the connection becomes. The harder it is to break the chain."
She looked up at them.
"But if you choose the blade—you must understand its language."
Kreia stepped away from the pedestal, and the space around her began to change. The stone slabs under her feet expanded, forming a level platform. Ruined columns moved aside, making room.
"Now, about how to use them."
"The Order has systematized seven forms of swordsmanship," she began, and a lightsaber materialized in her hand. Colorless, just a white glow without a tint. "But it's not about technique."
She activated the blade, and the characteristic hum filled the space.
"Optimal strikes, blocks, stances—they can be calculated mathematically. This is what you have been learning all year. They are the same for all forms." Kreia made a few movements—quick, precise, measured. "We have already studied all the movements with you. A year of training, mathematically calculated trajectories, feints, transitions."
Alex nodded. Each movement was broken down into angles, speeds, points of force application. They trained with training blades, studied combat geometry, practiced to muscle fatigue in the real world.
"Then what is the difference between the forms?" he asked.
Kreia stopped, the blade frozen in a defensive position.
"In how you work with probabilities."
She waved her free hand, and two virtual blades appeared in the air. They floated slowly towards Alex and Verena.
"Take them."
Alex caught the hilt, and the blade activated in his hand. Weightless, almost unreal. A year of training with training blades had not prepared him for this sensation—as if he were holding not a weapon, but pure intention, materialized in the form of light.
Verena activated her blade, and her eyes widened.
"It... it has almost no weight."
"No inertia," Alex added, cautiously making a few movements. "The physics are completely different."
"Yes," Kreia confirmed. "And that changes everything. But that's not what we're talking about now." She assumed a combat stance. "We're talking about the nature of combat between those who see the future."
She made a slow lunge towards Alex. So slow that he saw every millimeter of movement. He saw the trajectory, the point of contact, the moment to block...
And yet, when he blocked, Kreia's blade was already elsewhere.
"How?" he breathed.
"You saw my intention," Kreia explained, returning to her starting position. "You predicted where I would strike. You reacted optimally." Pause. "But I saw that you saw. I saw how you would react. And I changed the trajectory."
Verena frowned.
"But if both see the future, and both see that the other sees... isn't that infinity?"
"Yes," Kreia smiled—a rare and somewhat unsettling sight. "Infinite recursion of foresight. I see what you see, what I see, what you see..." She made a gesture with her hand, as if tearing an invisible chain. "And that is why the forms exist."
She began to walk slowly across the platform, her blade lowered.
"When both opponents see the future, physical combat becomes secondary. You don't fight the opponent's body. You fight their intention. Each action generates a fan of probabilities. The opponent sees these probabilities and chooses the optimal response. But you see how they choose, and adjust your action."
Alex felt his mind begin to construct a model.
"It's like... quantum superposition. You exist in all possible states simultaneously until the opponent tries to 'measure' you."
"A good analogy," Kreia approved. "Combat becomes a game of anticipation. Whoever sees deeper—wins. Whoever can calculate more steps ahead, whoever can hold more probabilistic branches in their consciousness."
She stopped.
"But there is a limit. The human mind cannot hold an infinite number of probabilities. Sooner or later, you reach the horizon of predictability—a point beyond which the future becomes too blurred, too chaotic."
"And the forms are ways of working with this chaos," Alex concluded.
"Exactly." Kreia raised her blade. "The forms are not techniques. They are philosophies of working with the infinity of probabilities. Ways to structure chaos. Ways to deceive the opponent, to lead them into probabilistic dead ends where all futures lead to their defeat."
She looked at both of them.
"Form is the language of intentions. And like any language, it can be used for lies."
Kreia assumed a wide, open stance. Her movements became sweeping, almost careless.
"Form one—Shii-Cho. The foundation." She made a series of wide horizontal strikes, each covering a vast arc. "It is the absence of philosophy. It is simply technique."
The blade cut through the air with a characteristic hum.
"You don't try to deceive the opponent—you simply attack along all probabilistic lines simultaneously. Wide, sweeping strikes covering maximum space." She made a vertical strike, then a diagonal one, then a horizontal one again. "This works against those who don't see the future. Against an equal—it's suicide."
She stopped, pointing her blade at Alex.
"Try it. Attack me in the first form."
Alex recalled the basic katas he had practiced. Wide strikes, simple trajectories. He stepped forward and made a horizontal strike from left to right.
Kreia didn't even move. Her blade flashed, and Alex's strike was deflected with minimal effort.
"See?" she said. "I know where you will strike because you yourself know it. Your intention is clear, direct, primitive. There is no deception, no complexity. Just strength and speed."
She deactivated her blade.
"The first form is the foundation, the base. All other forms are built upon it. But in itself, it is only suitable for training or for combat with multiple weak opponents."
Kreia changed her stance. Now she stood sideways, holding the blade with one hand extended forward. Her movements became minimalist, surgically precise.
"Form two—Makashi. Duel precision." She made a quick lunge—one, single, lightning-fast. "It is the philosophy of efficiency. Why attack along all lines if one is enough?"
The blade returned to its original position so quickly that Verena barely caught the movement.
"You calculate probabilities and choose the single optimal trajectory. Minimum movements, maximum precision." Kreia made a series of short, precise lunges, each aimed at a specific point. "Makashi was created for duels, blade against blade. For battles where every movement counts."
She turned to Alex.
"But this form requires absolute confidence in your calculations. You bet that you are smarter than your opponent. That your predictions are more accurate than his."
Kreia suddenly attacked—one lightning-fast lunge straight at Alex's chest. He saw the strike a moment before, his foresight flashing a warning, but his body hadn't had time to react. The blade stopped an inch from his body.
"If you make a mistake in your calculations—you are dead," Kreia finished, stepping back.
Alex breathed heavily. Even knowing it was a virtual space, that the blade couldn't hurt him, instinct screamed danger.
"The second form is elegance," Kreia continued. "It's a strategic game. It's an intellectual battle. But it requires cold calculation and absolute concentration."
Then her movements changed again. Her stance became more fluid, relaxed. The blade began to describe smooth arcs that flowed into one another.
"Form three—Soresu." Kreia's voice became almost meditative. "My favorite. It is the philosophy of uncertainty."
She began to move, and Verena felt that she couldn't predict the next move. Each trajectory of the blade could become any other trajectory. Each position contained dozens of potential transitions.
"You don't choose one probabilistic line—you hover between all of them," Kreia explained, continuing her smooth dance. "Each of your movements can become any other movement. You are like a quantum particle—existing in all states simultaneously until the opponent tries to 'measure' you."
She suddenly attacked Verena. Verena saw a strike from above, instinctively raised her blade to block—but at the last moment, the trajectory changed, and the strike came from the side. Only reflexes, honed a year ago, allowed her to deflect the attack.
"Soresu is the rejection of intention," Kreia continued, returning to her fluid stance. "You don't decide where to strike until the blade is already in motion. You hold many options in your consciousness and choose the future at the last possible moment."
Alex watched, mesmerized. It was beautiful—almost like a dance, but a deadly dance.
"You collapse the wave function at the last moment," he paraphrased Kreia's words.
"You could say that," she chuckled. "The opponent tries to predict your actions, but you yourself don't know what you will do until you do it. Your body moves, guided by intuition and the flow of the Force, not by conscious decision."
She stopped.
"But Soresu requires complete trust in the Force. Complete letting go of control. It is meditation through movement."
Then Kreia exploded into motion.
She jumped, spinning in the air, the blade describing impossible trajectories. In the virtual space, she ignored gravity, attacking from above, from the side, from below—from all directions simultaneously.
"Form four—Ataru!" she shouted, landing and immediately leaping again. "The chaos of kinetics!"
It was stunning. Kreia moved so fast that her figure blurred. She attacked from directions that shouldn't exist in normal combat.
"The fourth form is the philosophy of chaos," she explained, continuing her acrobatic maneuvers. "You don't just change intentions—you change the very physics of combat. The opponent is used to predicting movements in two dimensions. You add a third—verticality, rotation, impossible trajectories."
She did a backflip, attacking at the moment of rotation, then landed and immediately jumped to the side, striking from a completely unexpected angle.
"Ataru overloads the opponent's foresight. Too many variables, too fast. Too many probabilistic branches to process."
Kreia landed and stopped. Her virtual body was breathing slightly heavily—an impressive detail of the simulation.
"But this form consumes energy. A minute of combat—and you're exhausted." She straightened up. "Ataru is a sprint. Kill quickly, or die tired."
Verena watched with her mouth open. It was incredible—and completely unattainable for her. At least, not now.
Kreia changed her stance again. Now she stood heavily, rooted, holding the blade with both hands. Her entire posture exuded power and immovability.
"Form five—Shien." She raised the blade above her head. "The philosophy of domination."
She delivered a powerful vertical strike, and even the virtual air seemed to tremble from the force of her intention.
"You don't dodge probabilities—you impose your own. Suitable for those with great strength in the Force. Each of your strikes carries such a force of intention that the opponent is forced to react." Another strike, horizontal, with the same crushing power. "You create the future with the force of will and force the opponent to live in it."
Kreia turned to Alex and attacked—slowly, telegraphing every movement. A powerful vertical strike, so obvious that Alex saw it a second before it began.
And yet, when the strike came, he instinctively blocked instead of dodging. The intention was so powerful, so overwhelming, that it was impossible to ignore.
The strike knocked him down with virtual force.
"Shien is psychological pressure," Kreia explained, helping him up. "You make your intention so obvious and powerful that the opponent cannot ignore it. They are forced to react, even knowing it might be a trap."
"Djem So is a variation for counter-attacks. You accept the opponent's strike, absorb its energy, and return it with doubled force." She demonstrated—a block transitioning into a powerful counter-strike. "This is the form of those who turn defense into offense."
Kreia lowered her blade.
"But if the opponent is strong enough not to succumb to pressure... you are open to a counter-attack. The fifth form requires absolute confidence in your strength. It is the form of domination—and if you cannot dominate, you lose."
Then her style changed again. Now her movements became balanced—a little from all the previous forms. A little of the first's breadth, a little of the second's precision, a little of the third's fluidity.
"Form six—Niman," Kreia said, and contempt could be heard in her voice. "The philosophy of moderation. A little precision, a little unpredictability, a little strength. You don't specialize in anything, but you also have no obvious weaknesses."
She made a few movements—competent, but not impressive.
"Niman is the form of diplomats. Those who learned swordsmanship because it was expected, but didn't intend to fight. " Kreia stopped. "It's a reasonable form for peacetime. For those who use a blade once a year, if ever."
She deactivated her blade.
"But when two masters meet, mediocrity is death. A specialist will always defeat a generalist in their field." Kreia looked at Alex. "But for you beginners, it's a reasonable choice. Until you find your own philosophy."
A long pause ensued. Kreia stood motionless, and her face became serious.
"The seventh form," she began quietly. "The most dangerous. Not for the opponent—for yourself."
She did not demonstrate the movements, only spoke.
"Juyo is the philosophy of accepting chaos. You open yourself to all emotions, all impulses, all the darkness within. You become unpredictable because you do not control yourself."
Verena felt a chill in her chest.
"Your strikes are born from rage, fear, hatred—from pure emotional energy. The opponent cannot predict your actions because they are irrational. Because you have let go of control and allowed darkness to rule you."
"But isn't that..." Verena began.
"The Dark Side?" Kreia finished. "Yes. Juyo is an invitation to the parasite. Anyone who practiced this form either fell or balanced on the edge their entire lives."
She looked at both of them.
"I will not teach you this form. Not because you are not ready. Because no one is ready." Pause. "Juyo is the path to power through self-destruction. It is a gamble that you will destroy the opponent before you destroy yourself."
Kreia activated her blade again.
"Seven forms. Seven philosophies of working with probabilities." She looked around at them. "Now let's try it in practice."
"Alex," Kreia called. "Stand opposite me."
He approached, holding his blade in a defensive stance. A year of training with Master Kellan had given him basic technique, but this... this was something else entirely.
"Attack me," Kreia commanded. "But first, form an intention—clear, distinct. Decide where you will strike, and strike there."
Alex concentrated. A strike from the left, horizontal, at shoulder level. He visualized the trajectory, felt the intention crystallizing in his consciousness.
He stepped forward and struck.
Kreia was already retreating. Her blade hadn't even moved to block—she simply wasn't where she was supposed to be.
"I saw your intention a second before you struck," she explained. "It was glowing in the probabilities like a beacon. Strong, clear, unwavering."
Alex frowned and tried again. This time, a diagonal downward strike. The same result—Kreia retreated before the blade even began to move.
"Strong intention gives power to the strike," Kreia said. "It's the basis of the fifth form. But it also makes it predictable. The paradox of dominance."
"Then how?" Alex asked.
"Now try to attack without deciding where," Kreia said.
"How?"
"Start the movement and let the blade choose its own trajectory. Blur the intention. Keep several options in your mind simultaneously."
Alex tried. He began to move, keeping three possible trajectories in mind—left, right, above. The blade moved... and the movement was sluggish, uncertain.
Kreia blocked it easily.
"You didn't blur the intention—you simply didn't have one. This isn't Soresu, it's confusion." She lowered her blade. "Intention must be there—but flexible, fluid. You keep three options in mind and choose at the moment of contact, based on the opponent's reaction."
She demonstrated. She began an attack on Alex—he saw the strike coming from the left, began to block—and at the last moment, the trajectory shifted to something completely different, attacking from the right.
"See? I started with one intention, but kept other options open. When I saw you reacting to the first—I switched to the second."
Alex nodded, beginning to understand. It was like multithreaded programming—keeping several processes active simultaneously and choosing the right one depending on the conditions.
"Now you, Verena," Kreia called.
Verena approached, gripping the hilt of her blade. She was more tense than Alex—for her, all this probability theory was foreign, abstract.
Kreia attacked her slowly, telegraphing the strike. Verena saw it, blocked—Kreia stopped her blade before contact.
"You saw my intention and reacted," Kreia said. "I made you react."
She repeated the attack—the same slow, obvious strike. Verena blocked again—and at that moment, Kreia touched her shoulder with her free hand.
"The real attack was here," Kreia explained. "I created a false intention. You saw a future where I attacked with my blade, and prepared for it. But the real attack was different."
Verena blinked, processing.
"You... lied to the future?"
"No," Kreia shook her head. "I created two futures—one bright and false, the other dim and true. You chose the obvious one." She retreated. "This is the basis of deception in the combat of precognitives. You create probabilistic traps—futures that look real but lead the opponent to a dead end."
Alex watched, his mind working at full capacity. It was a game, an incredibly complex game. Creating intentions, reading the opponent's intentions, creating false intentions, hiding true ones...
"Now, with each other," Kreia said. "I will observe."
Alex and Verena stood opposite each other.
Alex made the first move—a cautious lunge, trying to apply the blurred intention. Verena retreated, her blade rising into a defensive position.
"You're thinking about technique, not the opponent," Kreia commented.
Verena counterattacked—a horizontal strike, too wide, too obvious. Alex blocked it easily.
"You're afraid to hit him—that's readable," Kreia said.
They continued, exchanging blows. The movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. Alex tried to calculate five steps ahead and got lost in the probabilities. Verena tried to act intuitively, but her instincts told her contradictory things.
"You're trying to predict five steps ahead—that's too far," Kreia told Alex. "The horizon of predictability is two, three moves at most. Beyond that, everything blurs."
They tried again. Alex reduced the depth of foresight, focused on the next moment. Verena stopped thinking and simply began to move.
And something changed.
Their movements became smoother. Alex attacked, Verena blocked—but not mechanically, rather as if they were dancing a practiced dance. Verena counterattacked, and Alex was already retreating, not thinking about how.
Kreia watched in silence.
They moved faster. Blades met with a characteristic sound, bounced off, converged again. Alex felt his foresight begin to synchronize with Verena's—he saw not only his own probabilities, but hers as well.
Verena felt the same. She knew where he would strike, not because she predicted it, but because... she just knew. As if they were parts of a single organism.
Their movements accelerated even more. Now it was a real fight—fast, fluid, unpredictable to an outside observer, but completely natural for them.
"Stop," Kreia said.
They froze, breathing heavily. Virtual bodies didn't tire physically, but the mental load was immense.
"There," Kreia said, and there was something akin to satisfaction in her voice. "This is what's needed."
She walked closer.
"You stopped fighting each other and started fighting the probabilities together. You synchronized." She looked them over. "Remember this feeling. It's rare to find someone with whom you can achieve such resonance."
Alex and Verena exchanged glances. They both felt it—a connection that had formed during the sparring. Not romantic, not friendly—something else. Combat synchronicity.
"The Order trained individualists," Kreia continued. "They trained Jedi as individual warriors. Master and Padawan, one on one. But true strength lies in the ability to synchronize with another."
She activated her blade.
"Now attack me. Together."
Alex and Verena exchanged a look and moved. Without words, without a plan—they simply moved, relying on the synchronicity they had just found.
Alex attacked from the right, blurring his intention. Verena attacked from the left, with a powerful, obvious intention. Kreia blocked Verena—the obvious threat—and Alex almost reached her.
Almost.
Kreia stepped back—the first time in the entire training session.
She smiled.
"Better. You created a probabilistic fork." She pointed her blade at Verena. "You were the bait—a bright, obvious future." Then at Alex. "And you were the real threat—dim, but real."
Kreia lowered her blade.
"You used different philosophies in combination. That's what makes synchronized fighters dangerous. Two can create probabilistic configurations that one cannot. Every action of one opens up possibilities for the other. Every defense against one creates a vulnerability for the other."
She deactivated her blade.
"Two synchronized fighters are more dangerous than ten master individualists. Because they create probabilities that the opponent cannot resolve. Every action of one opens up possibilities for the other. Every defense against one creates a vulnerability for the other."
Alex felt his engineering mind construct a model. It was like parallel computing—two processors working on the same task, but from different sides.
"But it's still an illusion," Kreia said, and her voice became serious.
She waved her hand, and the virtual blades in their hands deactivated.
"In virtual space, there is no real danger, no real pain. Foresight works differently when the stakes are real. When a mistake costs a life."
Kreia looked at both of them.
"A real blade cuts off limbs. A real strike kills. Here you can experiment, make mistakes, learn. There—you cannot."
"So, all of this was useless?" Alex asked.
"No," Kreia shook her head. "It's the foundation. You've studied the philosophies, understood the principles, felt the synchronicity. But a house isn't built from the foundation. A house is built *on* the foundation."
She began to walk around the platform.
"When you get real blades, don't rush to use them. A lightsaber is the most dangerous weapon for its wielder. There's no weight, no inertia—one wrong move, and you've cut off your own hand."
Verena paled.
"Start with minimum power," Kreia continued. "Train slowly. Let muscle memory adapt to the lack of weight. Speed will come on its own when the body learns."
She stopped in front of them.
"And remember: the blade is a chain. Beautiful, deadly, but a chain. The more you use it, the deeper you integrate into the system. The stronger the connection becomes."
"Wear it, if you must. Use it, if you need to. But don't let it define you."
Kreia waved her hand, and a holographic star map appeared above the platform. Dozens of systems, hundreds of planets.
"To create a blade, you need a crystal," she said. "A natural kyber crystal."
She pointed to several spots on the map.
"Ilum—the traditional place. A frozen world with caves full of crystals. The Order controlled it for millennia."
Another point lit up.
"Jedha—a sacred world. Recently destroyed, dangerous, but crystals remain in the depths of the temples."
A third point.
"Dantooine—a wild world on the Outer Rim. Natural deposits in mountain systems. Sparsely populated, weakly controlled by the Empire."
Kreia lowered her hand, and the map disappeared.
"Or you can synthesize a crystal yourself."
Alex frowned.
"Synthesis is more logical. Controlled conditions, predictable result. No need to fly to the edge of the galaxy and risk..."
"Yes," Kreia interrupted him. "And that's precisely why it's a trap."
She moved closer.
"A synthetic crystal is created through coercion, through imposing structure. You take raw material and force it to take the desired form. It's an act of domination over matter."
"But isn't engineering about imposing your will on matter?" Alex countered.
"Good question," Kreia nodded. "The difference is in the intention. When you build a ship, you work with the laws of physics, not against them. You use the properties of materials, their natural characteristics."
She paused.
"When you synthesize a crystal for a red blade, you break its natural structure. You don't create—you enslave. And the parasite feels it. It comes to those who have already chosen the philosophy of domination."
Alex pondered. There was logic in her words.
"A natural crystal forms over thousands of years," Kreia continued. "Under pressure, under geological processes, absorbing randomness, chaos, the very life of the planet. When you find it, you don't coerce—you resonate."
"The choice between synthesis and searching is a choice between control and acceptance. Between imposing your will on reality and accepting what reality offers."
Verena listened silently. For her, the choice was obvious—she had always relied on intuition, on feelings. The idea of searching, traveling, resonating with a natural crystal seemed right.
Alex, however, hesitated.
"We will go search for crystals."
Verena nodded.
"Together."
Kreia smiled—a real smile, rare and precious.
"A wise choice. Or a foolish one. Time will tell."
She pointed to the map that reappeared in the air.
"Dantooine is the least dangerous option. Wild nature, but no Imperial patrols. Mountain systems on the northern continent—that's where the natural deposits are."
"When you return with the crystals," Kreia continued, "I will teach you to assemble the blades. Resonance tuning, focusing lens calibration, all the technical details."
She deactivated the map.
A pause.
"And what color was your blade? After you understood all this?"
Kreia froze. A long, heavy pause.
"I had three. Purple."
Verena raised an eyebrow.
"But you teach us that it's for those who are always on the edge," Verena remarked.
"It is," Kreia replied. "When the time comes, I will tell you why. It wasn't my choice."
She looked at both of them.
"Create a blade. Use it. Understand it. Feel how it connects you to the Force." A pause. "And then decide if you need it."
Kreia began to walk away, and the virtual space began to change. The columns flickered, becoming transparent. The starry sky dimmed.
"Go," she said, and her voice echoed through the necropolis. "And remember—every choice has a price."
The space dissolved around them.
"Even the choice to live."
Alex and Verena opened their eyes simultaneously. The real world flooded their consciousness—dense, slow, tangible. They were sitting before a holocron in a small room.
Their bodies were stiff. Hours had passed in the virtual space—perhaps more. Time flowed differently there.
Verena groaned, massaging her neck.
"I can feel every muscle I used in there."
"Virtual space affects neural pathways," Alex mumbled, stretching his fingers. "Muscle memory forms, even if there was no physical movement."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, processing the knowledge they had gained.
He stood up, stretching his stiff legs, and walked to the terminal. Star charts, routes, time calculations...
"All these planets are under Imperial control. But there must be other planets with crystals," he muttered, entering coordinates. "In unexplored regions or somewhere else."
Alex realized he needed to find his own solution.