The morning sun beat down on his bare back as Alex stood before the mirror in his room, examining his reflection. Snippets of morning news drifted from the speakers of his home system – the announcer's monotonous voice spoke of the state of the galactic economy.
"...the Republic's national debt has reached record highs in the last five hundred years, yet Chancellor Palpatine assures citizens that the economy is growing at an unprecedented rate. According to the head of state, current expenditures are directed towards investments in security and infrastructure development, which will bear fruit in the coming years..."
An irritated voice from the kitchen carried over:
"Complete nonsense," Kairen Korren grumbled, clearly addressing his wife. "The economy is growing, sure. Especially the prices for everything!"
"Quiet, Kairen," his mother replied softly. "Alex might hear."
"Let him hear. It's time he understood what galaxy we live in."
Alex let his parents' conversation wash over him, as he could see the galaxy was imperfect without their input. He turned away from the mirror. He had grown noticeably taller in recent months – he would soon be fifteen, and his childish face was beginning to take on more adult features. But what worried him most was what he had experienced the day before.
The image of the guy killed in the abandoned complex haunted him. He hadn't told his parents. They would most likely have forbidden him from doing anything, and it wouldn't have changed anything globally. Alex understood that sooner or later, life itself might lead him into conflict with dangerous people. And when that happened, he had to be ready.
"Alex, breakfast is ready!" his mother called from downstairs.
"Coming!" he replied, but lingered for another minute, studying his reflection.
It was time for a change.
The "Correll Arena" Military-Sports Center was located on one of the city's middle levels, in a district inhabited by workers and low-level employees. The building, made of gray concrete and metal, looked utilitarian – no frills, just functionality. A holographic sign blinked in red letters in Aurebesh.
Alex searched for a suitable place for a long time – most sports clubs were in wealthy neighborhoods and were too elite. They were expensive and would attract unwanted attention to his new hobby. Here, everything was simpler. No one asked questions if a teenager wanted to train in self-defense. Republic law allowed it.
Inside, it smelled of sweat and disinfectant. The walls glowed with holograms of motivational slogans and photos of famous athletes. In the corner stood a vending machine for energy drinks, which hummed periodically as it cooled its contents.
"Are you sure you want combat training?" asked the administrator, a middle-aged Rodian with faded green splotches on his skin. His large eyes studied Alex with undisguised skepticism. "We have excellent programs for gravball and swimming. For a guy your build, that would be more sensible."
"I'm sure," Alex replied firmly. "I need self-defense."
The Rodian shrugged, his antennae twitching slightly: "Alright, your choice. But first, you need an interview. We don't take just anyone – there have been too many problems with unprepared newcomers. You'll need to see Sergeant Kress. He runs the group for teenagers on Tuesdays and Thursdays."
Alex walked down the corridor, past the open doors of the halls where adults were training. In one, he saw a group of men practicing hand-to-hand combat techniques. Their movements were sharp, professional – clearly not amateurs. Two of them were quietly talking by the wall.
"...there's never been such a mess," said one, a stocky man with a scar on his cheek. "If things keep going like this, I'm for the secession of Corellia from the Republic. These corrupt bureaucrats in the Senate have had enough."
"And have you heard about the skirmishes in the Outer Rim?" replied his companion, a tall man with a military bearing. "I have a friend who worked for a transport company there. He told me things are happening there that I don't even want to retell to you, so as not to spoil your mood."
"Stop building suspense, just tell me," the first man grimaced.
"Alright," he said, "there are full-blown genocidal wars going on there. Entire systems are being wiped out. The man sighed heavily. "It'll reach us too... This can't go on any longer."
"And the Jedi? Where are these guardians of peace?"
"And what about the Jedi?" the tall man chuckled. "How many are there in the whole galaxy? Ten thousand? What can they do against trillions?"
"Don't say that. They can do a lot. I encountered one of them once..." The first man, who looked like a soldier, fell silent, choosing his words. "How can I put it... the feeling from him was strange. They're not human, you understand? They're smarter, stronger, faster... He wields the Force very well. One moment he's a kind soul, and the next he's a monster that gives you goosebumps. And his eyes were... cold, like ice. He single-handedly wiped out a pirate base. And there were four hundred people there. He even joked that he was conducting aggressive negotiations with them, but they refused to surrender. I don't feel sorry for those bastards, but I'll never forget that kind soul. He didn't even break a sweat, he could do that all day. Then, smiling, he patted me on the shoulder and told me to check everything there..."
"Yeah... And what about our Corellians?"
"Ours..."
Alex hurried past, not wanting to draw attention to his eavesdropping, but the words stuck in his mind. The Republic's problems were deeper than he thought.
The combat training hall was a spacious room with high ceilings. The walls were lined with soft mats, and the floor was covered with a special shock-absorbing material. Heavy bags hung around the perimeter, and there were training machines and mannequins for practicing techniques. There were also sparring droids. Full-wall mirrors reflected every movement, allowing no mistakes to be hidden.
In the center of the hall stood a man who immediately inspired Alex's respect. Sergeant Kress was a short but powerfully built man in his fifties. Short gray hair, deep wrinkles around his gray eyes, scars on his muscular arms – a typical retired soldier. His back was perfectly straight, and his gaze was hard and assessing.
"Newcomer?" Kress glanced at Alex with a look that seemed to see right through him. "What's your name, son?"
"Alex Korren, sir."
"Sir is good. Means your parents raised you right." The instructor nodded approvingly. "Tell me, Alex, why do you need self-defense? And don't lie – I can sense lies immediately."
Alex paused for a second. He couldn't tell the truth about what he had seen in the abandoned complex. But he didn't want to lie either.
"I want to be ready for trouble, sir. The city isn't always safe, and I understand I look like an easy target."
"Smart boy," Kress approved, and something akin to respect flashed in his eyes. "Most people think trouble only happens to others. They live in rose-colored glasses until reality slaps them. But you're right – it's better to be prepared and not encounter danger than to be defenseless at a critical moment."
The instructor walked around Alex, examining his physique:
"A bit thin, not enough muscle, but that can be fixed. The main thing is motivation. Now, a few interview questions. First: are you ready for it to hurt? I'm not a nanny, and the training here isn't for the weak."
"I'm ready, sir."
"Second: do you understand that self-defense isn't a game? The techniques you'll learn can seriously injure or even kill a person. Are you ready for that responsibility?"
Alex remembered the dead man in the complex:
"I understand, sir. And I'm ready."
"Third: do you have any problems with the law? Criminal records, connections to criminal groups?"
"No, sir."
Kress nodded and pointed to a group of teenagers warming up in the corner of the hall:
"Good. Join them. We'll start with general physical exercises. Today we're also studying the basics of avoiding confrontations. The first rule of self-defense is that the best fight is the one you manage to avoid."
Alex looked at the other trainees. Most were older than him – sixteen or seventeen. All looked stronger and more experienced. Some already had bruises and scrapes – traces of previous training.
"By the way," Kress added, "since you asked about safety in the city, you should know your rights. According to the self-defense law, every citizen of the Republic has the right to protect their life and health. This includes the right to carry and use weapons in case of immediate threat. But remember – with rights comes responsibility. Exceeding the limits of necessary defense is punishable by law."
The first few weeks of training were agonizing. Alex quickly realized that his physical condition left much to be desired. While he spent hours at his workbench and computer, his peers played sports and developed endurance.
"Ten more push-ups," Kress commanded, standing over him with a stopwatch. "And don't slack off, Korren. Your life might depend on whether you can do another pull-up or run an extra kilometer when someone's chasing you with a knife."
Alex gritted his teeth and continued the exercises. His arm muscles burned like fire, sweat poured into his eyes, but he didn't give up. The image of the dead man gave him the strength to continue when his body screamed to stop.
There were other people training in the hall. Alex noticed that many adult visitors had the characteristic features of former soldiers – straight posture, scars, a peculiar gaze that saw danger everywhere. They trained in the next hall, and sometimes their voices could be heard through the thin walls.
Gradually, he began to grasp the basics. How to fall correctly to avoid injury – to tuck and roll, to distribute the impact. How to dodge blows, using the opponent's movement against them – a step to the side, a twist of the torso, moving out of the line of attack. How to deliver precise strikes to vulnerable points – the solar plexus, the throat, the knees, the groin.
"Self-defense isn't a fight," Kress explained, demonstrating a technique on one of the older students. "It's an art of survival. Your goal isn't to defeat the enemy beautifully, not to show how cool you are, but to stay alive and unharmed. Sometimes the best way to win is to run away. No one will give you a medal for heroism if you end up crippled."
The instructor was demanding but fair. He never humiliated his students, but he didn't let them slack off either. His methods were proven by years of military service and working with youth.
"See this scar?" he showed Alex an old mark on his forearm. "Got it when I served in planetary defense... on one planet. I thought I knew everything about combat. Turns out – I didn't. The opponent was faster and smarter. If it weren't for luck and the help of comrades, I wouldn't be sitting here with you now."
But Alex understood that hand-to-hand combat might not be enough. In that complex, everyone had blasters. And if he wanted to be truly prepared, he needed to learn about weapons. He mentioned this.
"Blaster training?" Kress raised a gray eyebrow when Alex asked about it after another training session. They were alone in the hall – the other students had already gone home. "Seriously?"
"Yes, sir. I know it's dangerous, but I want to be ready for anything."
The instructor studied his face for a long time with his perceptive gray eyes. The hall was quiet, only the air conditioner hummed and water dripped somewhere.
"How old are you, Alex?"
"Fourteen, sir."
"Legally, you can. At fourteen, I was already serving in the militia on the lower levels of Corellia," Kress said thoughtfully, looking somewhere into the past. "Times were tough, a war with gangs from the Corellian underbelly. They used to raid the middle levels then. Boys took up weapons because otherwise their families wouldn't survive. Maybe you're right – it's better to know how to handle a blaster than to be defenseless when you need it."
He paused, rubbing the old scar on his arm, then nodded decisively:
"Alright. But I have strict conditions. First, written consent from your parents. Second, you continue hand-to-hand combat training – weapons are a supplement, not a replacement for basic skills. Third, strict adherence to safety rules. One mistake, one violation – and you won't touch a weapon again."
"Agreed, sir."
"And one more thing," Kress placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Blaster shooting isn't a holofilm game. It's deadly serious business. Every shot can take someone's life. Are you ready for that responsibility?"
Alex thought of the dead man, of the criminals in the complex, of how his research might lead to dangerous encounters:
"I'm ready, sir."
Getting his parents' permission turned out to be easier than Alex expected. His father, who worked on ships for all sorts of riff-raff, encountered different people and understood the importance of being able to defend oneself. And his mother was too busy with her work to delve into the details.
"If Sergeant Kress thinks it's safe and necessary, then I don't object," Kairen Korren said, signing the documents. "But be careful, son. A weapon is not a toy. One wrong shot can ruin your whole life."
"I understand, Dad."
"And remember – you can only use it in extreme cases, when your life is truly in danger. Not for intimidation, not for settling disputes. Only for defense."
The shooting range was located in the basement of the sports center. Thick walls of reinforced transparisteel, professional soundproofing, automatic targets with holographic projectors – everything was set up to military standards. The air here was dry and cool, smelling of ozone from energy discharges.
"The first and most important rule of handling a blaster," Kress said, holding a training model with the power cell disabled, "is to always consider it charged and ready to fire. Even if you just unloaded it yourself a second ago, even if you saw someone else do it."
Alex listened attentively, examining the device in the instructor's hands. A standard DL-44 blaster pistol – a popular model among civilians, smugglers, and mercenaries. Reliable, easy to maintain, powerful enough for self-defense.
"The operating principle is relatively simple," Kress continued, disassembling the weapon. "The power cell supplies power to the focusing chamber, where the focusing field is formed. Tibanna gas is pumped into it under pressure, where it is ionized, turns into plasma, and is then ejected by a magnetic field. This creates a plasma ball heated to millions of degrees in a focusing field, capable of burning through most known materials."
Alex nodded, but his mind was already analyzing the design. He saw several ways to improve the system's efficiency by using more expensive focusing matrices, which were currently used in speeders. They just needed to be reprogrammed. He had already learned to copy programs onto different crystals.
"Now try it," Kress handed him the unloaded blaster. "Remember the correct stance – feet shoulder-width apart, body slightly tilted forward. Aiming – align the sights with the target. Breathing – take the shot during a natural pause. Trigger – smoothly, without jerking."
The first shots were inaccurate. Alex hit the target, but far from the center, the bright flash of the plasma beam blinded his eyes. But gradually, he began to understand how the weapon worked, how to breathe correctly during shooting.
"Not bad for a beginner," Kress approved after the first session, examining the results on the target. "You have potential. Your hand is steady, your eye is sharp. The main thing is not to rush and to observe safety regulations. Speed will come with experience."
Other people were training in the range. Alex noticed several men and women shooting with professional accuracy. Their movements were honed, their shots clustered. Clearly former military or law enforcement personnel.
"Who are they?" Alex quietly asked the instructor.
"Different people," Kress replied. "Former soldiers, security guards, traders who work in dangerous sectors. In our time, many have to know how to stand up for themselves. The Republic is large, and there aren't enough law enforcement officers for everyone."
At home, Alex studied technical documentation on blaster weapons. In the archives, he found detailed schematics of various models, including military-grade ones used before the Ruusan Reformation. Blueprints, specifications, theoretical treatises – all of it was quite detailed, although it required the work of an automatic translator. It was surprising that this was stored in open access, though it was difficult to find.
He was particularly interested in the developments from the Old Republic era. At that time, weapon manufacturers used crystalline focusing systems that allowed for much greater power with lower energy consumption. Technologies that, for some reason, ceased to be used. Most likely for economic reasons.
"Interesting," he muttered, comparing the schematics on the holoprojector. "If I replace the standard synthetic lens with a crystalline matrix made from an Adegan crystal..."
The idea was tempting, but also dangerous. Modifying weapons without proper authorization was illegal. But Alex couldn't miss the opportunity to apply the knowledge he found in practice, especially if it could save his life in a critical situation.
In his workshop, he began working on an improved focusing system. Using the principles found in the archives, he created and selected a crystalline matrix that could replace the standard chamber. The work was meticulous – crystals had to be processed with micron precision, and the resonant frequency adjusted. Fortunately, he had the necessary equipment.
Testing had to be conducted with extreme caution. Alex chose a deserted section of the industrial district, far from his workshop, and set up a makeshift target from metal sheets. He pressed the trigger with a rope, which he had pulled from a distance, fearing the blaster would explode.
The result exceeded expectations. The modified blaster shot more accurately, further, and consumed thirty percent less energy. The shots were more focused, which significantly increased their penetration power. After testing, he disassembled it and carefully checked all components for wear. Everything was perfect.
"Most likely, the method is used in modern military models," Alex said thoughtfully, studying the test results. "But I have no way to verify this."
Months of training gradually began to change him. Alex became stronger, more resilient, more confident. His movements acquired precision and economy, his reaction quickened, his coordination improved. He learned to control fear and make decisions in stressful situations, analyze threats, and plan actions.
His body also changed. His muscles became more defined, his posture straighter, his gaze harder. His classmates began to notice the changes, but Alex preferred not to talk about his activities.
"You're progressing well," Kresh said after another session, when Alex flawlessly executed a complex combination of moves. "But remember – skills need constant maintenance. If you stop training, progress will quickly disappear, and you'll have to start all over again."
"I understand, sir. I will continue."
"And one more thing," the instructor placed his hand on his shoulder, looking seriously into his eyes. "You must always be aware of the consequences of your actions. Promise to use these skills only in extreme cases, when your life is threatened. In other cases, these abilities are not needed."
"I promise, sir."
Alex was sincere in his promise. He didn't want to become like those people in the abandoned complex – cruel, heartless, ready to kill for profit. But he also understood that in this world, one had to be prepared to defend oneself.