Eli Kaen moved through the ancient halls of the Jedi Temple with a quiet urgency, the heavy silence pressing against his shoulders like a weight. His boots made no sound on the polished floor as he slipped past one of the clone patrols stationed near the Archive entrance—an unnatural sight that had become routine in every reset.
Thirteen times. Thirteen lives. Each ending in failure, flame, or silence.
He still heard their screams. Still felt their warmth fading from his hands.
Tavi. Niyala. Gone, again and again.
Not this time.
This time, he was starting early.
The doors of the Jedi Archives parted with a gentle hiss as he entered the vast chamber of knowledge. He half-expected to see Jocasta Nu frown at him for sneaking in during off-hours, but she was already waiting, her aged face serene as always beneath the low lights of the reading vault.
"Eli Kaen," she said calmly, peering over her shoulder. "Twice in a cycle. That's rare. Most younglings don't show this kind of… desperation."
He hesitated. "Curiosity, Master Archivist."
She gave him a long, patient look before nodding. "Curiosity is healthy. But curiosity laced with fear often leads to obsession."
He didn't reply. He couldn't.
Instead, he followed her as she guided him to a section of the archives few initiates ever accessed—ancient texts and philosophies tucked beneath layers of restriction tags. She keyed in an override and stepped back, allowing him access to select files on Jedi combat forms and meditations long fallen out of style.
"These are not forbidden," she said. "But they are not often taught. Many find their philosophies... conflicting with modern doctrine."
"Then maybe I need a different doctrine," Eli muttered.
The first holotext flickered to life in his hands. Shii-Cho. Simple. Foundational. It wasn't enough.
He skimmed it. Studied the stances, memorized the words, let the philosophies flow into him. Then he pulled up another. Makashi—precise and controlled. Then Soresu—defensive. Resilient.
Then Djem So.
His heart caught at the name.
It felt different. A form born from response, not retreat. Focused not just on surviving—but turning the tide. Turning fear into purpose.
"Victory without domination. Strength without rage," Eli murmured aloud.
The words settled in his chest like a seed waiting to sprout.
He continued to read, pulling fragments from each style. He wasn't trying to master them all. He didn't have that kind of time—not in one life. But he could piece together something. A foundation.
If he couldn't protect them with power… maybe he could with understanding.
He took the memory of each step, each philosophy, and began to write them into himself—not with ink or data, but through repetition. His muscles mimicked the forms in slow, deliberate movements in the shadows of the Archive's training alcove.
Shii-Cho's wide swings. Makashi's precision. Soresu's tight defenses. And Djem So's counters—turning a blow back into its source.
Every move etched deeper into his body than the last.
He couldn't carry the holotexts with him through the loop. The moment death came, everything physical would vanish. But knowledge—that stayed. It always stayed.
He'd proven it thirteen times.
Jocasta Nu's voice drifted back to him as he prepared to leave. "Remember, Eli Kaen: Knowledge is strength, yes. But wisdom is survival."
He bowed deeply, silently, then turned and disappeared down the corridor.
By the time he returned to the youngling dormitory, the sun outside had begun to dip below the Coruscant skyline. The golds and purples of evening reflected against the curved windowpanes, casting long shadows on the floor.
He spotted Tavi and Niyala sitting near the corner—Tavi grinning as always, balancing a fruit on the tip of his finger with the Force, while Niyala sat calmly nearby, hands resting in her lap, eyes half-closed.
They were always there. Always alive until the moment it began.
He clenched his fists at his sides and turned away. He would join them soon. But not yet.
His path was his own now.
He returned to the empty chamber where he had trained earlier, closing the door behind him, breathing deep. The tension in the Temple air had grown thicker, like a storm just past the horizon. It always did, near the moment.
And then, the tremor.
Barely there.
The subtle shift in the Force.
He stepped to the window. The light of thousands of city-speeders and cruisers lit the sky like stars—and in the distance, the slow rise of transport gunships circling closer to the Temple. In this loop, he knew what came next. When. Where.
The 501st would breach the Temple gates in minutes.
And at their center—Anakin Skywalker.
He didn't have a plan to stop it. Not yet.
But this time, he would meet the darkness with something more than fear.
He picked up the training saber from the rack. He knew it wouldn't come with him to the next loop. It wasn't about the weapon—it was about memory. Form. Flow.
The blade ignited, humming quietly in the chamber.
He took the opening stance of Djem So. Focused. Rooted.
A slow breath. Then the first move.
This time, he wouldn't just die.
He would learn.
He would endure.
And when the end came again… he'd be ready to try one more time.