The days that followed blurred together in a rhythm I hadn't expected to find comforting.
Wake at dawn. Meditation with Master Yoda.
Breakfast in the communal hall, bland but nourishing porridge that tasted faintly of grain and something sweet I couldn't identify.
Then lessons: galactic history, Force philosophy, basic telekinesis exercises. Lunch. Martial art & Lightsaber drills. More meditation. Dinner. Free time in the dormitories or gardens. Sleep. Repeat.
It should have been monotonous. In my old life, I would have chafed against such rigid structure, craved variety, stimulation, freedom. But here, in this small body with its boundless energy and sharp senses, I found myself adapting faster than I'd thought possible.
Maybe it was the child's brain, wired for learning and growth. Maybe it was the adult discipline I'd carried with me, the ability to focus and prioritize. Or maybe it was simply survival instinct, the knowledge that every lesson, every drill, every moment of practice was preparation for the storm I knew was coming.
Whatever the reason, I threw myself into temple life with an intensity that didn't go unnoticed.
"Youngling Cain," Master Yaddle said one morning, her voice gentle as she knelt beside me during a meditation session. "Strong your focus is. But careful you must be. Balance, the Force requires. Rest, your body and spirit needs."
I opened my eyes, those strange golden eyes that still startled me when I caught my reflection, and found her watching me with concern. Her large eyes, so similar to Yoda's but somehow warmer, held a maternal quality that made something in my chest tighten.
"I understand, Master," I said, bowing my head. "I just... I want to learn as much as I can."
"Admirable, this is," she said, placing a small hand on my shoulder. "But remember: the journey of a Jedi, a lifetime it spans. Not a race, it is."
I nodded, but even as I did, I felt the weight of knowledge pressing down on me. A lifetime. For these younglings, for the Masters around me, that was true. They had time to learn, to grow, to make mistakes and recover from them.
But the galaxy didn't have that luxury. Somewhere out there, Palpatine was already laying his plans. The Clone Army was being grown in secret. Anakin was growing up on Tatooine, his power and anger building, his future darkening with every passing day.
I didn't have a lifetime. I had maybe a decade before everything started to fall apart.
But I smiled at Master Yaddle and said, "Yes, Master. I'll remember."
She studied me for a moment longer, then nodded and moved on to help another youngling who was struggling to maintain their meditation posture.
I closed my eyes again, but this time I didn't sink into the Force. Instead, I let my mind wander to the lessons we'd covered that morning.
The history lesson had been... illuminating.
Master Yoda had gathered us in one of the temple's smaller classrooms—a circular chamber with holoprojectors built into the floor and walls. We sat in a ring around him, maybe fifteen younglings in total, our training robes rustling as we settled onto cushions.
"Today, younglings," Yoda began, his gimer stick tapping against the stone floor, "learn about the great conflicts of our Order, you will. The schisms. The wars. The moments when Jedi turned from the light."
The holoprojector flickered to life, displaying a star map of the galaxy. Red markers appeared, scattered across the Outer Rim and Core Worlds alike.
"The First Great Schism," Yoda continued, "began nearly twenty-five thousand years ago. A philosophical divide, it was. Some Jedi believed the Force should be explored without restriction. Others believed in discipline, in the Code."
I watched as the hologram shifted, showing images of ancient Jedi, some in robes similar to what we wore now, others in armor that looked almost primitive. The images were stylized, artistic interpretations rather than historical records, but they conveyed the weight of what had happened.
"Those who left," Yoda said, his voice heavy, "became the first Dark Jedi. And from them, eventually, the Sith were born."
Seris raised her hand immediately. "Master Yoda, the Brotherhood of Darkness was finally defeated 1,032 years ago, during the Seventh Battle of Ruusan. Is that when the Sith were truly beaten?"
Yoda's ears twitched, and he was about to respond when I found myself speaking before I could stop myself.
"Master Yoda, can you be more specific? Are we talking about the Sith Order or the Sith species? Because those are two very different things that happened thousands of years apart."
The room went silent.
Every youngling turned to stare at me. Seris's silver eyes narrowed, her expression shifting from confident to confused. Derren, sitting to my right, leaned closer and whispered, "What do you mean, Sith species?"
Master Yoda's gaze fixed on me, and I felt the weight of it like a physical thing. Master Yaddle, who had been observing from the side of the room, stepped forward, her expression curious.
"Youngling Cain," Yaddle said gently, "how do you know of the Sith species? That history, we have not yet covered."
I swallowed, my small throat suddenly dry. I'd made a mistake, let my adult knowledge slip through without thinking. But I couldn't take it back now, and lying to two Jedi Masters who could sense emotions through the Force was pointless.
"I saw it in a vision, Master," I said carefully. It wasn't technically a lie. I had seen it, in books, in games, in youtube videos. Just not in the way they would understand.
"A vision?" Yoda's ears perked up. "Describe it, you will."
I took a breath, organizing my thoughts. "I saw... the Jedi committing genocide against the red-skinned Sith species. The first purge happened after the Great Hyperspace War, when the Republic discovered Korriban and the Sith Empire. Then again after the conflict with the Eternal Empire, though by that time, the Sith were already killing each other off."
The silence in the room was absolute. Even the younger children, who probably didn't understand half of what I was saying, seemed to sense the gravity of the moment.
Master Yaddle's expression grew troubled. "You are correct, youngling Cain. But that history... it is not one of the Order's proudest moments."
"Among other things," I said, and immediately regretted it.
Yaddle's eyes widened slightly. "What do you mean?"
I should have stopped. Should have bowed my head and said nothing more. But the frustration I'd been carrying, the knowledge of what this Order would become, the rigidity that would drive Anakin away, the emotional suppression that would leave so many Jedi vulnerable to the dark side, bubbled up before I could contain it.
"The Order doesn't teach emotional intelligence correctly," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "We're taught to master our emotions, but not how to feel them without being consumed. And when someone falls to the dark side, when they lose their way, there's almost no help to guide them back. Just... exile. Or death."
The words hung in the air like a blade. Master Yoda's expression was unreadable, but I could feel something shift in the Force around him, a ripple of surprise, perhaps, or concern. Master Yaddle looked at me with something that might have been sadness.
"Strong opinions, you have," Yoda said slowly, "for one so young."
I realized I'd gone too far. My hands were trembling slightly, and I forced myself to take a breath, to center myself the way Yoda had taught us. "I apologize, Masters. I didn't mean to speak out of turn."
Yoda studied me for a long moment, then tapped his stick against the floor. "No apology necessary. Question the Order, you should. Grow, we cannot, without challenge." He paused. "But careful, you must be. The dark side, it whispers to those who doubt. Seductive, it is."
"I understand, Master."
He nodded, then turned back to the class. "Continue with today's lesson, we shall. But remember, younglings: the past, we cannot change. Learn from it, we must. And strive to be better than those who came before."
The lesson moved on, but I could feel eyes on me for the rest of the session. Seris kept glancing at me, her expression a mixture of curiosity and something else I couldn't quite read. Derren looked worried, like he thought I might get in trouble.
And Master Yaddle... she watched me with an intensity that made me wonder just how much she'd sensed beneath my words.
The afternoon brought a different kind of challenge.
We gathered in one of the training halls, a wide, circular chamber with a high ceiling and smooth stone floors. In the center of the room, Master Yoda had set up a series of metal rings suspended in the air by repulsor fields. They hung at different heights and angles, some close together, others spread far apart.
"A test of focus, this is," Yoda announced, gesturing to the rings with his stick. "One ring, you will move. Then two. Then three. Use the Force, you must. But control, you must also have. Precision. Patience."
He demonstrated, raising one hand. A single ring lifted smoothly from its hook, floated through the air, and settled onto another hook across the room. The movement was effortless, like watching water flow downhill.
"Now," Yoda said, "begin, you may."
The younglings spread out, each choosing a ring to focus on. I watched as a Twi'lek girl, her name was Mira, I thought, reached out with trembling hands, her face scrunched in concentration. The ring wobbled, lifted an inch, then fell back onto its hook with a metallic clang.
Beside her, a human boy managed to lift his ring halfway to the target hook before it slipped from his mental grasp and clattered to the floor.
Derren went next. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached out. His ring lifted smoothly, not as gracefully as Yoda's, but steady, and after a moment of hovering, settled onto its hook.
"Good, young Derren," Yoda said, nodding. "Calm, you were. Focused."
Derren grinned, his blue eyes bright with pride.
Then it was Seris's turn.
She stepped up to her ring with the same cool confidence she brought to everything. Her silver eyes fixed on the target, and she raised one hand in a gesture that was almost dismissive. The ring lifted immediately, floated through the air in a perfect arc, and clicked onto its hook without so much as a wobble.
"Excellent, young Seris," Yoda said. "Natural talent, you have."
Seris bowed, but I caught the faint smile on her lips. She glanced at me, and I could feel the challenge in her gaze: Beat that.
I stepped up to my ring.
The Force came easily now, like breathing. I reached out, not with my hands but with that deeper sense I was still learning to understand, and the ring responded. It lifted, smooth and steady, and I guided it to its hook.
"Good," Yoda said. "Now, two rings."
I nodded and reached out again. This time, I split my focus, feeling for two rings at once. It was harder, like trying to write with both hands simultaneously, but I managed it. Both rings lifted, floated, and settled onto their hooks.
Around me, I heard murmurs from the other younglings. Seris's expression had shifted from confident to focused, her competitive nature clearly engaged.
"Three rings," Yoda said, and there was something in his tone, curiosity, perhaps, or a test.
Three rings. I'd seen Seris struggle with this in our private practice sessions. Most of the younglings couldn't manage more than one, and even two was a challenge for all but the most talented.
But I had an advantage they didn't: an adult mind, capable of multitasking and spatial reasoning in ways a child's brain simply couldn't match yet.
I closed my eyes and reached out.
The first ring lifted easily. The second took more effort, a conscious division of attention. The third... the third was like trying to hold water in a sieve. It wobbled, dipped, nearly fell.
I gritted my teeth and focused harder, pulling deeper into the Force. The golden warmth I'd felt during my first meditation surged through me, and suddenly it was easier. The rings moved together, not as separate objects but as parts of a whole, connected by invisible threads.
I opened my eyes and guided them through the air. They wove between each other like dancers, each one finding its hook and settling into place with soft metallic clicks.
The room was silent.
Then Derren let out a whoop. "You did it! Three at once!"
I turned to find every youngling staring at me. Some looked impressed. Others looked envious. Seris's expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in her jaw, the way her hands clenched at her sides.
Master Yoda approached, his gimer stick tapping against the floor. "Impressive, young Cain. Very impressive." He studied me with those ancient eyes. "But tell me: how did it feel?"
I considered the question. "It felt... natural, Master. Like the rings wanted to move together."
"Hmm." Yoda's ears twitched. "Dangerous, that feeling can be. Easy, the Force may seem. But respect it, you must. A tool, it is not. A partner. A guide. Lose yourself in it, you can, if careful you are not."
I bowed. "I understand, Master."
But as I stepped back, I caught Seris's gaze. She was watching me with an intensity that made something in my chest tighten. Not anger, exactly. Not even jealousy. Something more complex, a mixture of frustration and determination and something else I couldn't quite name.
She turned away before I could say anything, moving to the next challenge with her shoulders squared and her chin high.
I had a feeling I'd just made things more complicated.
The weeks that followed settled into a new rhythm.
Mornings were for meditation and Force exercises. Afternoons for lightsaber training, Form I, Shii-Cho, the most basic of the seven forms. We practiced strikes and parries, footwork and breathing, the fundamental building blocks that every Jedi needed to master.
I picked it up quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. My adult mind understood the geometry of combat, the angles and leverage points, in ways that gave me an edge over the other younglings. But I was careful not to show off too much, to let others shine when I could.
Seris, though... Seris didn't hold back.
She threw herself into every drill with fierce determination, her movements sharp and precise. When we sparred, she came at me with everything she had, her silver eyes blazing with competitive fire.
"Again," she'd say after I disarmed her, ignoring the sweat dripping down her face. "One more time."
And we'd go again. And again. Until Master Yoda or one of the other instructors called an end to the session.
Derren watched our matches with a mixture of amusement and concern. "You two are going to wear each other out," he said one afternoon as we cooled down in the meditation gardens.
"She's good," I said, wiping my face with a towel. "Really good. She pushes me to be better."
"And you push her," Derren said, grinning. "I don't think anyone's ever challenged her like this before."
I glanced across the garden to where Seris sat alone, her back straight, her eyes closed in meditation. Even now, she radiated intensity, like a coiled spring waiting to be released.
"She's going to be amazing someday," I said quietly.
Derren followed my gaze. "Yeah. But so are you." He paused. "Just... don't forget to have fun, okay? You're both so serious all the time."
He seam's like a good kid.
I smiled despite myself. "I'll try."
But fun felt like a luxury I couldn't afford. Not when I knew what was coming.
The archives became my refuge.
Late at night, when the other younglings were asleep, I would slip out of the dormitory and make my way through the quiet halls to the great library. The Archives were vast, thousands of years of Jedi history stored in holocrons and datapads, ancient texts and holographic records.
Chief Librarian Jocasta Nu was usually there, even at odd hours, her stern face softened slightly by the glow of the reading lamps. She'd given me a curious look the first time I'd shown up after midnight, but when I'd explained I couldn't sleep and wanted to study, she'd simply nodded and pointed me toward the youngling-accessible sections.
I devoured everything I could find.
Histories of the Old Republic. Records of the Mandalorian Wars. Accounts of Revan's fall and redemption, though I noticed those accounts were carefully edited, stripped of the more controversial details. The story of Nomi Sunrider, the Jedi who'd saved the galaxy through love and compassion, was reduced to a footnote about "maintaining emotional discipline."
It was infuriating.
So much of the Order's history had been sanitized, rewritten to fit the current doctrine. The Jedi who'd loved, who'd felt deeply, who'd struggled with darkness and emerged stronger, their stories were buried or twisted into cautionary tales about the dangers of attachment.
I made notes on my datapad, careful to keep them encrypted. Names. Dates. Events that had been glossed over or omitted entirely. Revan's teachings about balance. The Corellian Jedi's acceptance of marriage and family. The ancient Jedi who'd walked between light and dark without falling. The lesson of redemption always being possible from Ulic Qel-Droma's story.
It was all of it hidden. And by extension the Jedi making their stories and the powerful lesson's behind them forgotten.
"Youngling Cain."
I jumped, nearly dropping my datapad. Jocasta Nu stood behind me, her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
"It's past midnight," she said. "Even dedicated students need sleep."
"I'm sorry, Master Nu," I said, bowing quickly.
"I just... I wanted to finish this section."
She glanced at the holographic display I'd been reading, a heavily redacted account of the First Great Schism. Her expression softened slightly.
"You're curious about the parts they don't teach," she said. It wasn't a question.
I hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Master."
She was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "The Order has its reasons for what it chooses to preserve and what it chooses to... contextualize. Not all knowledge is appropriate for younglings."
"But how can we learn from history if we don't know the whole truth? Won't we be doomed to repeat the same mistakes?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Jocasta Nu studied me with sharp eyes. "A fair question. One that many Jedi have asked over the centuries." She paused. "But wisdom, young one, is knowing not just what to learn, but when to learn it. Some truths are dangerous without the proper foundation to understand them."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that hiding uncomfortable truths was exactly what had led to so many Jedi falling in the first place, that ignorance wasn't protection, it was vulnerability. But I was five years old, in a child's body, with no authority and no standing to challenge a Master.
So I bowed and said, "Yes, Master. I understand."
She didn't look convinced, but she nodded. "Go to bed, youngling Cain. The archives will still be here tomorrow."
I left, but I didn't go back to the dormitory. Not yet.
Instead, I made my way to one of the temple's outer balconies, a wide platform that jutted out from the eastern wall, overlooking the endless cityscape of Coruscant.
The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the faint scent of ozone and exhaust from the speeder traffic far below. The city stretched out in every direction, a sea of lights that seemed to go on forever.
Somewhere out there, billions of beings lived their lives, unaware of the darkness gathering at the edges of the galaxy.
I sat on the edge of the balcony, my legs dangling over the side, and let myself feel the weight of it all.
My biggest concern was if this world was going to follow the events of the Legends continuity or the Disney Canon. Disney Canon was still being written last I remembered, and was no where nears as bad as Legends.
Stopping the Empire from forming was actually the easiest part. But it had to be done in a smart way to fill the void of the power vacuum. Since many people are dissolution with the Republic.
The real problem is what happens in the next sixty plus years. The Yuuzhan Vong invasion that would come decades later, bringing death and destruction on a scale the galaxy had never seen. Abeloth, the Mother of Chaos, waiting in the depths of the Maw. The Sith Remnants, scattered but not destroyed, biding their time.
Since I'm a half Sephi, I should have no problems with my life expectancy. Since Sephi's are basically the elves of the star wars universe. They are very long-lived, commonly living for over 200 years, with some reaching up to 400 years. With my force abilities even being half that might not change for me.
But there are so many threats and catastrophes. How am I supposed to stop them all?
I'm only five years old and I'm stuck in a child in a child's body, so no matter what memories I carried. There was nothing I could possibly do against forces that had brought down entire civilizations?
The thought was crushing and paralyzing.
I closed my eyes and reached for the Force, seeking the calm I'd found in meditation. The golden light was there, warm and welcoming, but beneath it I felt something else, a shadow, dark and cold, whispering that it was hopeless, that I was foolish to even try.
You can't save them all, the shadow whispered. You can't even save yourself. Your not him.
"No," I said aloud, my voice small against the vastness of the city. "I have to try."
Why?
The question stopped me cold.
Why? Because I had knowledge? Because I'd been given a second chance? Because I couldn't stand by and watch it all happen again?
Or was it something else? Something deeper?
I thought of Derren's easy smile. Seris's fierce determination. The way Master Yaddle's hand had felt on my shoulder, warm and reassuring. The other younglings, laughing and playing in the gardens, innocent and unaware of the darkness to come.
I thought of Anakin, a bright star in the void, his future not yet written.
"I want to be free," I whispered, the words I'd spoken to the Force during my first meditation.
But freedom wasn't just about me. It was about all of them. About giving them the chance to choose their own paths, to live without the weight of destiny crushing them.
The shadow in the Force recoiled, and the golden light surged forward, warm and bright.
I opened my eyes as the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. The city below began to wake, speeders multiplying, lights flickering on in windows across the endless towers.
A new day. A new chance.
I took a deep breath and stood, my small body steady despite the exhaustion pulling at me.
"One day at a time," I said to the sunrise. "I'll take it one day at a time."
And for the first time since I'd awakened in this strange new life, I felt something like hope.