It was called the Way of the Krayt Dragon. Pure power, raw strength, and a whole lot of physically demanding techniques and maneuvering. Not to mention the sheer focus on required when tapping into the vast reserves of the Force, letting the energies flow through them to strengthen their blows and slashes against the enemy in an unrelenting assault of blades and power. It was frowned upon by many Jedi who followed the teachings of Form V, mainly because of its emphasis in controlling the opponent and dominating the battle. Power was a very sensitive virtue in the Jedi way of life and could lead to anger, hate, and corruption. It was more so a tenet of darkness than a skill that could be used for the Light, but that was only the case for an unskilled being.
"This time, imagine something that angers you. Release it." Master Kaast commanded, circling the Padawan in the training room. Lok sat in the center of it, sat crisscrossed on the floor. "Release it with everything you've got." Even though a much more inexperienced Jedi, Lok knew that anger was against the Jedi code. He opened his mouth to question the order, but shrugged and assumed it was a part of his training. At that very moment of silence, Lok closed his eyes and rested his fingertips upon his knees, inhaling and exhaling in a rhythmic fashion.
His parents were lying facedown in the thick snow of the harsh frozen tundras of Midvinter. Pools of crimson drenched the frost, the snow soon became saturated with the very liquid that gave life to any being in the galaxy. Everything was still. No snow fell, no breathing could be heard from anyone, not even the seven year old Lok. The little boy, with a tear streaked face, could still hear their last words: "We love you, Lok. We always will." The little figure crumpled to his knees, burying his face in his hands with a painful wail. They were so strong, so valiant, so brave. Why couldn't he have been like them and at least helped? Why wasn't he strong enough to save them? Why was life so cruel? Through sniffles and tears, a new voice arose in the distance.
"You are weak, boy. You were never meant to save them. You were a burden."
The monstrous, cool voice resounded from the dark end of the valley of death. The child rose his eyes, full of hatred towards the massive, looming figure approaching. The Hrothwurm slithered near, its demeanor and behavior unlike anything he'd ever heard of. Red eyed, the little Valkyrian boy stood up. With balled fists by his side, he turned to face the darkness that surrounded the very essence of the dragon-like monster before him.
"I am not weak!"
"Yessss, you are, child. They are dead and you are alive, coward." It snickered, swooping around his form to circle him.
More tears flowed forth in frustration. "I-I tried to help them!" His voice was drowned out by a sudden roar of the mighty beast. Sharp, sparkling teeth flashed before the boy's eyes, stricken with fear.
"And now, you will perish just as your loooooved ones did." The stretching of the word love almost made the boy cry out in anger at the mocking of his parents final words. That is, until he caught a glimpse of a flash in the distance near their bloodied bodies. His Father's sword. Golden and gleaming with the dried blood of the Hrothwurm. As the Wurm rose to a greater height, preparing for a strike, Lok weaved to the side and started off into a full sprint for the weapon.
"Come back here, my little snaaaack!"
Lok wiped his eyes whilst running, sliding down to his knees to easily whip the sword from its ice-covered lair beneath his Father's form. Nearly delving into a full panic, the child finally yanks the heavy piece of metal from under the corpse, the blood still there.
"What've you got there, little boy? A toothpick for me?" The beast almost laughed, had it been able to.
At that very moment, the boy was no longer a mere boy. But a warrior. Hatred flooded his entire being, soul, and heart. The visage of him shifted into the full-grown man that he would later become, charging at the beast with a war cry worthy of the Gods.
And just like that, he was off of his feet, heaving the saber at the Jedi Master circling him. The blue blade shifted mirages repeatedly in a matter of seconds, changing between the golden sword to his lightsaber. "You shall perish!" His voice deepened and rose in volume. Not only had his voice strengthened and rose, but the sheer power behind his blows. The raw strength and untamed fury smashed back the Master's efforts in blocking, constantly setting the more experienced fighter on the defensive. In the flurry of blue and yellow sparks, the Master did something the frenzied warrior didn't expect: surrender.
"Halt." Master Kaast ordered, snapping off the yellow blade in liquid movement. Had Lok been trailing behind on his footwork, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from throwing a wide-arc swing meant to cleave the man's form in half. Lok stopped immediately in mid stride, panting. Sweat poured form his form, his tunic was drenched with it. More so than that, every single muscle ached as blood flew into them with lightning speed. "Master, I am s-sorry." He admitted, his red face contorting to one of disgust at his own behavior. He dropped back to his knees, silencing the blue blade.
"Now you know how it feels." Lok's eyes rose from the ground. "You have the potential to challenge the Weapons Master. You only need control and practice. Constant practice and the steeling of your emotions." The man cast a wispy, exhausted smile to Lok. "I see myself in you, Padawan. I expect many great things."
"I expect you to become a Guardian of peace and virtue."
