Chapter Twenty Five: Achievements
The day was coming to an end. Jresh sat alone in the suite, until a firm series of knocks on the door broke his meditation. The Pureblood was quick to rise and answer the call. As the door rescinded, the warrior was greeted with the imposing sight of his master standing directly in front of him. More harrowing was the robed figure he had draped over his shoulder. It was Lorrik.
Without a word, Lord Syrosk unslung the unconscious apprentice and tossed him into the arms of his companion. Jresh deftly caught the inquisitor, and gently laid his limp body down a short distance into the suite. Looking up, the Pureblood found the cold stare of his master beating down upon him.
"Get some rest. You'll face the same tomorrow," Syrosk informed and retreated from view.
Jresh focused the entirety of his attention on his fallen partner. "Lorrik! Lorrik are you okay?"
A soft voice rung out within his head. "Never been better." It was Lorrik's. Jresh watched a smile crept onto the inquisitor's face, and matched it with one of his own.
The process continued with each new day. An apprentice would enter their master's chambers whilst the rest waited and planned for the future. Each day, a student would submit themselves to Syrosk's mental training, and each day a new student would emerge taking their place. Increased strength. Increased willpower. A new outlook. Each would face their master. Face themselves. Face their past, their future.
The initial round of training was complete, and the apprentices had begun construction of a potent tool in their arsenals. One that would not be alone. In the following months, the students would come to possess their own personal lightsabers. Proper implementation came with proper planning. The students weren't allowed to touch any more materials until they had presented their master a proper set of plans. Length, width, style. Power cells, handgrips, adjustors. Everything accounted for in their construction.
Each apprentice forged a weapon as much an individual as they were. Unique in their function and makeup. The result of one's pouring their heart and soul into their craftsmanship. Each lightsaber a manifestation of its wielders physical and mental capabilities. Each a symbol of their personality. A weapon as stern as its master. As stylish. As smooth. As brutal.
Training was kicking into high gear. With each new trial, Lord Syrosk pushed the limits of his students even further, edging them closer to exhaustion and death than the day before. And through their pain and anguish, the apprentices connected with their partners. Bonded. Shared knowledge and secrets. Pushed each other forward. Picked each other up when they faltered.
For months, they trained. For months, they endured. For months, they thrived.
Gone were the eight students, lost amongst the Academy workings. Nameless. Faceless.
Now, they had advanced to a state worthy of their hardships.
No more uniforms. No more hiding. No more fear.
They had achieved control. They had achieved freedom. They had achieved ascension.