The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Aaron met the rest of Clan Ukk—six other younglings, ranging from four to seven, all with varying levels of confidence, talent, and energy. There was Kael, a loud-mouthed Zabrak who talked more than he listened. Nira, a quiet Mirialan girl with an intense stare. And little Jovi, a Rodian who kept tripping over his own feet but always got back up smiling.
Aaron kept his head down, said as little as possible, and watched. He mirrored their movements, their speech patterns, their body language—fitting in just enough to avoid attention. Inside, though, his thoughts churned.
Six months until Order 66. Six months until the clones turn on the Jedi. Until Anakin—no, Vader—storms the Temple with the 501st.
He glanced at the Masters. So many of them. So kind. So doomed.
It was a bitter truth to carry, even more so knowing there was no easy way to stop it. He didn't have power yet. He didn't have influence. He was a child in a sea of legends, and the clock was already ticking.
But he had time. And now, he had the Gift.
—
That night, while the rest of Clan Ukk slept, Aaron sat cross-legged in a quiet corner of the Initiate quarters. The lights were dim. Silence stretched through the ancient halls.
He closed his eyes. Focused on the breath. In. Out. Calm. Present.
Let's see if this multiplier is real.
He reached into his memory—not just of this life, but the last. Years of martial arts. Sword forms. Movement drills. His old body had known them well. Could he translate them to this one?
He stood slowly and assumed a ready stance. He imagined a training saber in hand—lightweight, humming, dangerous. He ran through a basic kata: grip, strike, withdraw, guard. Again. And again.
His balance was off. Limbs awkward. But after five minutes, something clicked.
His muscles began to respond with unfamiliar speed. Movements that had started shaky became fluid. His body—smaller, lighter—adjusted.
This should've taken days. Weeks, even.
He trained for an hour in silence, sweat building on his brow. When he stopped, he noticed his breathing had slowed—controlled. His mind was clear. His stance was steady.
He could feel it. Power.
Ten times faster. Maybe more. This changes everything.
He sat again, crossed his legs, and reached into the Force.
It was like wading into a pool of stars.
He felt the temple walls—ancient and humming. The trees in the gardens outside. The flicker of dreams from sleeping younglings nearby. The Force was there, waiting. And now, with purpose, he called to it.
Not like a Jedi yet. Not like a Master. But like someone who remembered the idea of the Force—someone who believed.
The energy surged.
A datapad nearby rattled slightly. Just a tremor. But enough.
Aaron opened his eyes, wide with wonder. He had moved it. Not by accident. Not in a moment of fear or instinct.
"Okay," he whispered. "This is real. It's all real."
Then he heard footsteps.
He scrambled back into his sleep mat just as the door opened. A soft silhouette appeared in the doorway—Heera again.
She looked around slowly. "Hmm."
Aaron lay still, pretending to sleep, heart racing.
She didn't say anything, just watched for a moment, then quietly stepped out and sealed the door.
Aaron let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He stared at the ceiling.
Six months until the galaxy burns. Six months to train like no one ever has. I don't know if I can stop it—but I'll be ready.