Private Remedial Education

[Drystan Creed]

JEDI TEMPLE: CORUSCANT

He was back in a place he once thought would push his progress forward—the training halls of the Jedi Temple.

Jedi of all ranks filled the space, sabers flashing, Force powers on display as they refined their craft. The hall was large enough for Drystan to carve out his own corner, and his smoldering gaze, paired with his aloof demeanor, kept most from approaching.

Before him, a holoplayer flickered to life on the floor, projecting the image of a faceless Jedi wielding a lightsaber.

Drystan stood across from it, his own blue blade igniting with a sharp hiss.

"Form I." A command.

The hologram took its stance, and Drystan mirrored it perfectly.

It continued through its motions, and he followed—seamless, precise, flawless to any observer. But in his own eyes, frustration brewed, his expression darkening as he moved.

"Form II." Another command.

The hologram shifted, transitioning into the refined, duelist's footwork of Makashi. Drystan followed, the abrupt change in form stark and jarring.

"Form III."

Another sharp transition. His stance tightened, defenses locking into the strong, deliberate movements of Soresu.

And so it continued—through all seven forms, each kata replicated with machine-like accuracy. Every motion, every technique, perfectly mirrored.

By the time the routine ended, Drystan exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling over as he let out a low growl. He turned, dropping onto a nearby bench, arms resting on his knees.

His mistake as a Padawan had finally caught up to him. He had built his foundation on observation, on replication, rather than internalizing each style as its own. It made him versatile, yes, but it also made him hollow. His forms were flawless—yet they weren't his.

He needed a way to fix this.

But he knew now—watching would never be enough.

Sighing, he wiped the light sweat from his brow, grabbed the canteen beside him, and took a swig of water.

Maybe a smoke break was in order.

Switching the holoplayer, he queued up recorded sparring sessions—Jedi Masters locked in combat.

Still, it did nothing to ease the frustration gnawing at him.

Valery Noble

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Training outfit
Weapons: Lightsabers

The training halls of the Jedi Temple hummed with energy — sabers clashing, voices calling out in instruction, the steady rhythm of bodies moving through their forms. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and exertion, and among those finishing their sessions, Valery stood, exhaling as she reached for a towel to dab at the sheen of sweat glistening along her collarbone.

She had just wrapped up an intense sparring session, her body still thrumming with adrenaline. The sleeveless black training top she wore clung to her toned frame, highlighting the defined muscles in her arms and shoulders. And her long hair, usually kept in a ponytail, was somewhat messier now.

But as she turned to leave, something made her pause.

A presence. One she recognized.

Drystan.

She felt his frustration before she even spotted him, a deep well of irritation simmering just beneath the surface of his otherwise controlled demeanor. Her amber eyes flickered across the room until they landed on him, sitting alone on a bench, his arms resting on his knees, watching recorded duels play out before him.

Valery studied him for a moment, taking in the way his shoulders carried a tension that wasn't just physical. This wasn't the exhaustion of training — it was the frustration of something internal, something gnawing at him from the inside out.

Instead of calling out, she moved toward him, her presence steady, unhurried. As she reached the bench, she grabbed a canteen from her own belt and took a slow sip before glancing at him with a knowing smirk.

"You look like you're about to put a hole through that holoplayer," she mused, her voice smooth but carrying an edge of quiet understanding. "Rough training session?"

She didn't sit just yet — giving him space, but making it clear she was here. Jedi struggled for all sorts of reasons, and Valery had seen plenty of frustration in students before. But Drystan wasn't a Padawan. He was a Knight. And whatever was eating at him, it wasn't just a bad day at practice.

Drystan Creed ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

CORUSCANT

Drystan kept his gaze locked onto the holoplayer, the glow of its projection reflecting in his dark eyes. The only acknowledgment he gave Valery was a brief nod, followed by a long, steady silence. He was lost in thought, weighing his words, struggling with the reality he had finally come to accept.

He felt trapped—caged by limitations of his own making. There was nothing worse than realizing you were your biggest obstacle. And that was exactly what he felt now.

Truth be told, he would have preferred to keep this to himself. But this was Valery. If she couldn't help him, nobody could.

A quiet sigh left him before he finally spoke.

"Yeah, rough." His voice was low, laced with frustration. "Rough realizing you've spent your whole life training, learning, doing everything… wrong."

His fingers tightened into a fist before he forced them to relax.

"I always thought my ability to copy any move I saw would be an advantage—a tool that would make me a better Shadow. A better Jedi." A pause. His jaw tensed. "But now I see it's been nothing but a cage."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"You know, I don't think anyone in the Order—not even my master—ever caught on. But I used it to skip through everything. Not just combat. Everything."

His words came faster, almost venting now.

"Back when I was a Padawan, I cheated on tests by copying the wrist movements of the smartest kid in the room. Never studied, never needed to. If I got in trouble and was confined to my room, I'd sneak out—walking, talking, being another kid to slip past the guards."

Another sigh. His hand raked through his dark hair, frustration bleeding into every movement.

"I think this gift of mine has turned into a curse. And it's my fault."

His voice dipped, quieter now, laced with something heavier.

"I'm a fraud. Just a copy of everything I see. I never stopped to learn the meaning behind what I did—I just did it. And because it worked, I never questioned it. Never took the time to understand. I really am a Shadow in the worst ways imaginable. Just a trick of the light, mimicking anything underneath it without a care."

His fingers curled around the hilt of his saber, thumb brushing against the ignition switch, but he didn't activate it.

His thoughts raced, the weight of realization settling in. He had spent his life conforming, shifting seamlessly into whatever the moment required. Adapting. Blending.

He was everything at once—yet nothing at all.

Valery Noble

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Training outfit
Weapons: Lightsabers

Valery didn't respond right away.

Instead, she exhaled softly, lowering herself onto the bench beside Drystan with a quiet, measured movement. Close enough to be present — close enough to make it clear she wasn't brushing him off — but not so close as to crowd him. She let the silence linger for a moment, allowing his words to settle between them. The weight of his frustration, his regret, his realization — it all pressed into the air like a thick fog. And Valery understood. More than he probably realized.

Finally, she tilted her head slightly, her fiery gaze flicking to his clenched fingers, the way they brushed against his saber, the tension in his frame. "A shadow," she mused, voice smooth but contemplative. She let that thought sit for just a second before her lips curved into something small, knowing.

"Maybe. But have you ever stopped to consider what a shadow actually is?" Her amber eyes met his gaze now, steady and unwavering. "It's not just a trick of the light. It's a reflection of something real. A presence. It may shift and change depending on its surroundings, but it's still tied to the source. It still exists because something solid, something true, is casting it." She let that sink in before she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against her knees, her hands loosely clasped.

"Your ability to copy… yeah, I get why it feels like a curse right now. I understand why it's limiting you. If you've always relied on it, then adapting — being creative when faced with something truly new — is going to feel impossible. But that doesn't mean you're lost. And it sure as hell doesn't mean you're a fraud." Her smirk softened, something warm and resolute beneath it.

"Everything you've copied? Everything you've learned? It's still yours. It's in your muscle memory, buried in your movements. It's a toolbox, Drystan. Right now, you just haven't been using it the right way. You've spent your life collecting tools, but never actually building anything of your own."

She shifted now, turning her body slightly toward him, her expression more serious.

"That's what you focus on now. Learning how to create. How to take what you know and make it your own. You've been surviving on instinct — now it's time to bring in intent." A slight pause.

"And you don't have to do that alone either." Her tone wasn't soft, wasn't pitying — because she knew he didn't need that. What he needed was understanding.

And what she offered was truth.

Drystan Creed ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

CORUSCANT

Drystan remained silent as Valery spoke, his expression unreadable, listening intently.

"I just don't know if it's too late to steer my ship off this path."

He lifted a hand, staring at it, eyes dark with thought.

"It's hard to stop relying on something that's kept you standing for so long. It's like asking someone to stop breathing—it feels that natural. Knowing I can just watch someone move and do it myself has, ironically, made me stop wanting to learn. It's made me ignorant to how much learning I needed to do. Need to do."

When was the last time he had truly practiced? He trained, sure, but only to keep his body in shape. He never drilled technique, never refined skill—just took what worked and left it at that. The only thing he'd ever developed naturally were his Force abilities.

Valery's words stirred something in him, his mood lightening slightly as he continued.

"I suppose you're right. A shadow without light—without something to cast it—is just a part of the dark."

His fingers tapped against his knee, thoughtful.

"I've been away too long. Ever since my master passed, I cut myself off. Figured I'd handle things on my own. And sure, I've done some good, but looking back… it wasn't healthy. I probably should've leaned on the Order more."

A short scoff left him. His need for autonomy, his desire to be a self-sufficient crusader, had done more harm to himself than good for others. And only now was he realizing it.

"There's… something in my head I need to work through. It's made it hard to get close to people. I talked to Aadihr Lidos about it a little, but I still haven't figured it out. Maybe it's a defense mechanism. Maybe paranoia. I don't know."

The thought lingered, but as he worked through his issues with Valery, another question surfaced—one that struck deeper than all the rest.

Drystan sat up, voice steady, but laced with uncertainty.

"How do I build something of my own with the tools I've taken from others? How do I make something that isn't mine… my own?"

The question settled heavy in the air, weighing on him even as he spoke it.

He hated to admit it.

But for the first time in a long while, he needed someone to nudge him in the right direction.

Valery Noble

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Training outfit
Weapons: Lightsabers

Valery listened in quiet understanding, letting Drystan voice his doubts, his frustrations, his regrets. She didn't interrupt, didn't try to rush him through it — she let him sit in the weight of his own words. Let him feel them, fully, because that was the only way forward.

When he finally asked his question, when his voice dipped into that quiet, uncertain space, she exhaled softly.

Her amber gaze locked onto his, unwavering. "You've spent your whole life copying things that already exist — patterns that have already been created, moves that have already been tested. You've built a foundation, but you've never really had to struggle to figure out what works for you. You've never been forced to adapt in a way that wasn't just mimicking someone else's solution."

She leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees, a smirk tugging at the edge of her lips. "That's what you need now. A challenge. Something unpredictable. Something that forces you to think on your feet, to create instead of replicate."

Valery straightened, rolling a shoulder as she considered him for a moment. "And lucky for you, I'm very good at making things difficult," she teased, though the glint in her eyes made it clear — she was absolutely serious.

She shifted slightly, stretching out her legs before turning back to him with a knowing look. "Let me help. Train with me. Spar with me. Push yourself in ways you haven't before. I'll throw things at you that you can't just copy, that you have to find your own way through."

A slow, confident nod.

Drystan Creed ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

CORUSCANT

"Yeah, the more I think about it the more right you are."

Drystan mulled over Valery's words, dissecting them piece by piece. Maybe instead of relying on the tools he had taken, he could use them—forge something new. Something that was his.

A culmination—not of what he had taken, but of what he had lived. His gift wasn't just about copying movement. There was more to it. He just needed to find it. To push beyond imitation. To discover what would take his skill to the next level. She was right. He had spent years watching, copying, adapting—but never building. And like any skill, like any gift, his should be able to evolve into something beyond what it was.

"I haven't sparred properly in a long time. I got too comfortable watching instead of doing. And the battles I fight… they're no place for development."

His jaw tightened, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"If I push myself in the right space, maybe I can break through—find what's mine. I just need to throw myself into it and see what my body and mind create."

His resolve hardened, his posture shifting as he stood. He was already warmed up, but now, something inside him clicked. His eyes sharpened, laser-focused on Valery.

"I accept."

His voice was firm, unwavering.

"Push me beyond my breaking point. I want to learn to hold my own in a fight where imitation won't save me."

A nod. Then, a question.

"How do you want to do this? Lightsabers?" He gestured to the practice sabers mounted on the wall.

"Or just martial arts?"

Valery Noble

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Training outfit
Weapons: Lightsabers

Valery watched the shift in Drystan, the way his posture straightened, the way his gaze sharpened with new resolve. This was what she had been waiting for — not just his acceptance, but the moment something clicked inside him. The willingness to push past his limits, to create instead of mimic.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Good," she murmured, pushing herself up to stand. Without another word, she reached for her lightsaber, the familiar weight settling into her palm. A snap-hiss echoed through the air as the violet blade ignited, casting a sharp glow across the training hall.

"We'll start with blades," she said, rolling her wrist slightly, letting the weapon hum through the air. "But if you want to throw in strikes, footwork, grapples..." she smirked, tilting her head slightly, "I won't stop you." Her stance shifted, sliding smoothly into a defensive guard. Not rigid, not overcommitted — fluid. Prepared to adjust in an instant.

Then, she simply… waited.

Her fiery gaze locked onto him, unwavering, but she didn't make a move.

The message was clear.

"Your move."

Drystan Creed ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

CORUSCANT

Before humans learned to write, they spoke. Before they spoke, they gestured—using their bodies, voices, and expressions to convey meaning.

And before all of that, when a human is first born, they are not given the ability to read, write, or even speak.

They are born with only one thing—the ability to imitate.

Infants learn through mirroring, absorbing the world by watching and copying. It is their first and most primal tool, the foundation of learning, of social bonds, of communication itself.

And even as they grow, imitation never truly leaves them. It becomes subconscious. A mimicked gesture here, a borrowed speech pattern there. A phenomenon known as the chameleon effect—humans, by nature, adapt to those around them.

For Drystan, imitation was not just one way of learning.

It was his only way.

In a sense, he had never truly left infancy.

Where others learned through experience, through failure, through repetition—Drystan had relied on his gift to copy. Instead of nurturing his own techniques, he had funneled everything through imitation, letting it passively feed into the rest of his skill set.

Now, he had to break that cycle.

He had to break the dam.

The Force pulled his saber from the bench, the azure blade igniting with a sharp hiss as his gaze locked onto Valery.

Today had to be different.

Bringing copies to a master would assure his defeat.

Even if he hadn't, she was the Grandmaster for a reason. The gap between them was too vast, too insurmountable for anything stolen to bridge.

No.

This was not a fight he would win.

Nor should he.

Drystan exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

For this spar, he would not just taste defeat.

He would let it consume him.

All his life, he had avoided it.

The pain of failure. The sting of loss.

And in doing so, he had unknowingly reinforced the very flaw that held him back.

His refusal to lose had stunted him. Where others had struggled, adapted, and grown, he had copied—always grasping for victory, always relying on what he thought would bring him success rather than what would develop him.

Not this time.

He launched forward, blade in hand.

Deliberately. Purposefully.

His opening strikes were not his own. They were hers.

A flurry of attacks, perfectly replicated, adjusted only to fit his own physique. Valery would recognize everything—every slash, every movement.

They were the same strikes he had stolen from her across hours of observation—watching her fight side by side with him, seeing her spar with others, committing her every motion to memory.

And now, he would wield them against her.

So that she could break them.

So that he could be broken.

And from that ruin—something new would be born.

Valery Noble

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Training outfit
Weapons: Lightsabers

Valery watched. She had expected him to strike, but when he did, when she recognized every motion, every flicker of movement — her own strikes thrown back at her — something inside her sharpened. Ah. So that was his approach. For anyone else, it might have been unnerving, seeing their own techniques turned against them with such precision. But for Valery? It only confirmed what she already knew. He wasn't here to win. He was here to be broken. To change.

The moment his first strike came down, she met it — her violet blade snapping up in a precise parry, the impact ringing through the training hall. He was good. Of course, he was. The technique was clean, execution near-perfect. But near wasn't good enough. Because Valery knew these strikes. She had made them. Lived them.

And she had spent her life perfecting how to counter them.

She pivoted, turning the angle of his own strike against him, slipping through the briefest opening and forcing him to adjust. The next flurry came, faster, harder — again, movements stolen from her own combat history. And again, she adapted. She didn't just deflect — she overwhelmed.

Her movements became something else entirely. Not her own style, not a simple shift in tactics — she became fluid, slipping between techniques, adjusting between forms in an instant. The deliberate control of Makashi, the unrelenting pressure of Djem So, the speed of Ataru — she knew them all. And she wielded them with a seamless mastery that only a true Battlemaster could.

She did not let him breathe. Where he had spent his life imitating, she had spent hers evolving. And she forced him to keep up or fall apart trying.

"Show me everything you got."

So she could break it down.

Drystan Creed ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

CORUSCANT

As Drystan continued his relentless flurry of borrowed strikes, something clicked.

It was as if he had stepped outside himself, watching the duel from above—like an unseen observer monitoring a combat feed.

With each attack taken from the Grandmaster's book, microscopic adjustments began to form. His body, almost instinctively, attempted to mold the movements to fit him. The shifts were incomplete, rough, but progress was there.

Despite failing to break through Valery's defenses, something inside him was shifting.

But still—he couldn't even make her parry.

Every strike was blocked, deflected, met with effortless precision. It was infuriating.

Not because this was unexpected—he knew this would happen.

But because this was the apex of his skill.

A ceiling he had unknowingly built—one shaped not by his limits, but by others'.

And because of that, it was a ceiling he could never surpass. How could one break through limits meant for someone else's path.

Frustration burned in his strikes, in the edge of his blade.

Then—Valery turned the tide. He was forced back.

His mind—once brimming with self-analysis—was wiped clean, the desire to win in the back of his mind taking over.

Survive. Defend.

He adjusted, shifting into a defensive stance, parrying each blow as his eyes narrowed, focusing on nothing but survival.

Valery would notice it immediately.

The way he moved. The way he deflected her attacks. The way he stood.

It was uncanny. Because it wasn't his stance.

It was Kahlil Noble 's. The Shield of the Order.

Drystan had, without thinking, fallen back into his old habit. It was as if his body, grasping for survival, reached for the only thing it knew could withstand the Grandmaster's assault—another facsimile.

Copying. Not out of intent—but out of pressure.

Instinct had guided him back to what he had always done. And while it kept him in the fight—it wasn't his own.

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Training outfit
Weapons: Lightsabers

Valery saw it immediately. The shift, the adjustment. The way his stance hardened into something familiar — not his own, but Kahlil's. Oh, she knew that posture well. The slight bend in the knees, the balance centered, the way the saber moved with practiced efficiency to deflect and absorb rather than dominate. She had fought against it countless times. Sparred with it. Danced through battles beside it.

And she knew exactly how to break through it, simply because it wasn't him.

"Clever," she murmured between strikes, her voice steady despite the relentless onslaught she was pressing upon him. "But you're missing something." Her husband, the Shield of the Order, could withstand her blade because he was never alone. The Dyad bound them together. His defenses were impenetrable because he had her, because he could predict and feel everything she'd try to throw at him.

Drystan was just a strong, defensive fighter to her now but defenses alone wouldn't be enough. Her next strike lashed out — not to wound, not to overpower, but to force him to react. To lock him in that defensive stance. And the moment he did, she moved. A burst of Force energy snapped toward his side, an attempt to throw him off-balance just as her blade followed, aimed to strike low if he stumbled. If he adjusted, she was already in motion, sweeping forward with precise efficiency, pushing him back.

Another push. Another strike.

She wanted to see it — the moment he realized. That if he kept reaching for others' strengths instead of finding his own, he would never be more than a shadow.

Drystan Creed ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

CORUSCANT

It didn't take long for Valery's bladework to shatter Drystan's imitation of the Shield's form.

He could only hold onto it for so long before the footage in his head ran out—and then he was done.

Unprepared.

The Grandmaster's flurry of strikes unraveled his stance, forcing him further and further back. He had no answer, no foundation of his own to fall back on. Then—

Impact.

His body crashed into the bench, landing hard. He slumped into the seat, saber slipping from his grasp, rolling uselessly across the floor.

Heaving breaths. Sweat dripping.

For the first time in a long time...Defeat.

And not the kind he could cheat his way out of.

No last-ditch self-destructive gambits. No dirty tricks, no improvised ways to drag his opponent down with him.

Because this wasn't a fight meant to be won.

It was one meant to break him, so that something better could be built in its place.

So then, why?

His eyes flickered. Why?

He had the what: His body was a chassis forged in battle, sculpted to its physical peak. Power, speed, agility—pushed to human limits and beyond. His Force potential was prodigious, a cut above the average knight, yet still untapped.

He had the how: His gift, his ability to replicate any movement he saw. The secrets of combat were his to unravel with a single glance. Not just battle—but everything. Speech patterns, mannerisms, even the delicate artistry of a pianist's fingers dancing across ivory keys. He could see it. He could copy it.

So then, why? Why was he still hitting a ceiling?

Why wasn't he enough?

And then—

His mind drifted back.

A memory, long buried but never forgotten.

The underbelly of Coruscant. One night, his father had taken him to see a boxing match.

Two unproven fighters. Men overflowing with skill and talent, pushing each other to their limits—twelve whole rounds, neither giving the other an inch. He remembered every strike. But what he remembered most was their faces. As the final round approached—battered, bruised, barely able to stand, they smiled. Not just for themselves. But for each other.

As a child, he had never understood why. Why smile after beating each other bloody?

But now. Now, sitting here in defeat. He understood.

"I understand it now."

The words left him through labored breaths. Slowly, he stood.

His saber snapped back into his hand. A flick of the switch—azure light ignited once more.

He locked eyes with Valery, nodding.

"I understand it now, Master."

A pause.

"Please—let's continue."

His grip tightened.

"I won't be disappointing myself any longer."

Valery Noble

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Training outfit
Weapons: Lightsabers

Valery watched and saw the moment it happened — the realization, the shift. Not just in his stance, not just in his breathless, sweat-drenched exhaustion. But in his eyes — Understanding. He sat there, slumped against the bench, saber rolling uselessly across the floor. His body had given out before his spirit had, but that wasn't what mattered. It was the look in his eyes.

A slow, quiet exhale left Valery as she straightened, lowering her blade as she took a single step back. She didn't help him up. Didn't reach for him, didn't offer a hand. Because this was something he had to do on his own.

And he did. His saber snapped back to his palm. The blade ignited. And when he lifted his eyes to hers, there was something new behind them. A quiet, burning certainty. Valery's smirk returned.

"Good."

She took her stance again, shifting smoothly, letting the moment settle between them. "If you understand..." she raised her blade, the violet glow casting sharp shadows across the floor.

"Then go again."

Drystan Creed ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

CORUSCANT

Fighting. Conflict. Battle.

To test one's mettle against another. One's will against another.

In nature, conflict is constant—driven by competition: For food. For water. For territory.

This primal struggle exists at every level—from the grandest space battles, where armadas clash over entire planets, to the smallest microscopic wars, fought within our very bodies.

Our cells battle to keep us alive, consuming nutrients, warding off sickness, adapting, evolving.

Since the dawn of time, conflict has been the force that keeps nature in balance.

Some call it survival of the fittest.

As life evolved, so did conflict. It took new forms: A promotion at work. A test in school. A fight in the ring.

Some might say competition is no longer necessary.

But the truth?

It has never been more prevalent. To fight. To compete. To improve.

To fight for the sake of fighting. For the challenge. The growth.

Perhaps that was why those two boxers had smiled.

Because this was their nature.

The nature of warriors.

To test themselves. To push themselves. To become more.

—PAGE BREAK—​

Drystan understood now.

He stared down Valery, breath heavy, body burning, but something inside him had changed.

His stance—entirely different from where they had started.

Then—

He lunged.

His blade sang, striking forward—not just with raw strength, but with intent.

This time, when he borrowed her techniques, they were not the same.

No. He was molding them. Twisting. Adapting. Shaping them as he fought.

Making microscopic adjustments, sculpting each movement to fit him.

He no longer borrowed. He took.

He seized each move, clawing at it, bending it, breaking it—until it was his.

Before Valery stood a completely different warrior.

Not one desperate to win.

Not one driven to break his opponent at any cost.

Not one who fought to dominate, impose, or destroy.

No. A warrior who fought for the sake of it.

Who fought not to defeat others—but to push himself.

Who fought not for victory—but to find his limits… and surpass them.

His heart had cleansed itself, no longer poisoned by the need to conquer.

Instead, he embraced defeat.

Because defeat was a teacher.

Because failure was a lesson.

Because growth—true, honest, powerful growth—only came from embracing the struggle itself.

Valery Noble