The third morning began with silence.
Eli Kaen sat on the cold floor of the meditation chamber, legs crossed, hands on his knees. He wasn't meditating—at least not the way the Masters had taught. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.
I can't save anyone like this.
That was the truth. Blunt. Brutal. Unforgiving.
He'd died twice.
And both times, his knowledge had bought him minutes, not salvation.
He wasn't strong enough. Not fast enough. Not trained enough.
But he had something none of them did.
Time.
Or rather—time again.
That morning, he skipped training.
Not dramatically. He simply slipped away before the group assembled, ducked into the Temple's lower ventilation corridor, and made his way down to one of the neglected sublevels—one he'd passed in a panic in the first loop but never explored.
The corridor was long, dimly lit, lined with broken sparring droids and training gear discarded over years. Dust coated the floor. The perfect hiding place.
He dragged a crate into a corner and pried it open.
Inside: old practice sabers, disconnected power packs, and—
Score.
—a remote training drone.
For the next few hours, Eli trained.
He didn't know much about real lightsaber combat yet—but he remembered how Jedi fought. He remembered the clones, the pace of their blasters, how they moved in squads. His instincts were messy, unrefined, but memory made up for it.
The first time he activated the drone, it zapped him clean across the shoulder.
"Okay," he grunted, gritting his teeth. "Again."
He practiced dodging. Then deflecting. Then moving through tight corridors, imagining real combat.
The drone wasn't lethal. But he let it sting. Let it burn it into him.
Pain was part of learning now.
Every hit was a lesson he wouldn't have to repeat.
By the fourth loop, Eli had started stealing moments.
A fragment of food here, a ration bar there. He hid supplies in the sublevel. He smuggled spare battery packs from the archives under the guise of "study."
It wasn't much.
But it was preparation.
He marked routes in his mind—paths that led to side exits, maintenance shafts, forgotten meditation niches. In one, he found a cracked datapad logged with old clone maneuvers from a past training cycle.
Eli devoured the data.
Where they moved. How they formed. Who they targeted first.
He began to predict them.
On the fifth loop, he tried something bold.
He trailed Commander Appo.
The clone officer was always stationed near the central lifts—still calm, still a soldier. But Eli noticed something: each day, at precisely 1430 hours, Appo disappeared down into the restricted levels.
Eli followed—carefully, quietly—using a service shaft parallel to the lift.
Through a narrow vent slit, he saw Appo stand before a hooded figure speaking via holo.
Eli froze.
The figure was grainy, cloaked in static. But the voice—
"Is Skywalker in position?"
"Not yet, sir. The Jedi have no suspicion."
"Good. Maintain your cover until the signal."
Eli's mouth went dry.
The clones already knew.
Already obeyed.
They weren't going to be ordered.
They were waiting for the permission to begin.
He returned to the dorm that loop just before curfew, sweating, trembling.
Niyala looked up from her bunk. "You look like you ran through the undercity."
"Something like that," Eli muttered.
"You've been different lately."
"Yeah. I noticed."
"Smarter. Quieter. A little spooky."
He gave her a tired look. "Would you believe me if I said I've lived this day five times already?"
She tilted her head. "No."
He smiled faintly. "Didn't think so."
She blinked at him for a long moment.
"...But I think I'd believe you if you said something bad is coming."
"I did say that," Eli said softly. "You just didn't believe me either time."
By the seventh loop, Eli had developed a ritual.
Wake up. Meditate. Drill. Scout.
Every day, he moved with more purpose. Every night, he listened for the gunships, mapped the rhythm of betrayal, and let death take him again if he had to.
He learned to die.
But more importantly—he learned to live longer each time.
He lasted six minutes on the sixth loop.
Twelve on the seventh.
A full thirty by the ninth—long enough to evacuate five younglings through the temple gardens before a walker cut them down.
He was getting better.
But not enough.
Still not enough.
On the tenth loop, Eli stood in the middle of his hidden sublevel chamber, breathing slowly.
He activated both of his scavenged remotes and faced them.
Blasts rained in—he rolled, deflected, pushed with the Force. His grip was tighter now. His footwork more grounded. His fear dulled by repetition.
The training saber hissed through the air.
He struck one drone down.
Then the other.
Both crashed to the floor, smoking.
Eli dropped to one knee, panting.
He smiled.
Then he laughed.
"I'm still alive."
It was barely a whisper, but it meant everything.
He stood and deactivated the saber.
The war was still coming.
But this time, he wouldn't face it helpless.
This time, he would fight on his terms.