The diplomatic summit hall had long since emptied, but the air still hummed with tension and ideas unspoken. Deep in the Concordia station's secure training wing, a high-ceilinged chamber flickered to life—lit by ambient starlight and low white panels set into polished floors.
Cain stood in the center of the room, calm but focused, his black and gold robes exchanged for dark Jadaii sparring attire. His saber, modified for training with a stun intensity emitter, rested on his belt.
Across from him stood Depa Billaba, her posture elegant, her green saber already activated in a glowing arc. Behind her, seated at the edge of the chamber in observation, was Chancellor Palpatine, his hands clasped beneath his chin, face unreadable.
Master Mace Windu stood nearby with his arms crossed, a deep furrow in his brow. "I still don't understand," Mace said. "Why spar us?" Cain bowed to both masters.
"Because you're the only two alive besides me who see the Force this way—through Shatterpoints. I do not ask to fight you I ask to learn. To test what I learned and improve with the help of those who have more experience."Depa narrowed her gaze, looked to Mace and then back. "Very well, Cain. Let's see what your convictions look like in motion."
Cain vs. Depa Billaba
Both ignited their lightsabers and took their stances. The two eyed each other as they focused. The moment came with Depa making the first move. Cain knew this would not be a graceful dance. She was relentless—her strikes fast, sharp, flowing using Vaapad's, each move was polished through her years experience and tempered by Mace's wisdom.
Cain responded with adaptive motion—a hybrid born from his training with Anakin and Seris, and his experiences. His blade intercepted her flurries, absorbing them and rebounding with soft redirections, like a pendulum shifting with a whisper of danger.
Their movements built momentum like dueling waves. Depa moved like a hurricane.
Cain like a tide reading its rhythm. Then came the clash of Shatterpoints.
Every time Depa committed to a sequence, Cain saw the fracture point—the place where her movement would falter, or shift. He didn't strike there. Instead, he let her moves expose themselves and folded into them, reading, learning, calculating.
Palpatine's eyes gleamed slightly with interest from the observation bench. Mace said nothing, arms folded, unmoving.
Depa leapt high, blade flashing. Cain moved into her arc, caught her saber in a tight bind, and reversed direction—only to freeze when her hilt locked under his arm. "You had opening," Depa said with a smile. Cain panted, then laughed. "I know they were traps you set to lure me in." They disengaged for a moment while circling each other.
The second round was even more fluid—this time Cain pressed forward, testing Vaapad's limits, matching Depa's aggressive flows with angled redirections. He used Force-assisted footwork to outmaneuver, his golden saber cutting into air and intercepting each lunge.
Then came the final clash.
Blades locked. Sparks burst. Eyes met.
And they both stepped back.
The duel ended in a draw.
Depa nodded with slow approval. "Your technique lacks formal structure—but your intent is precise you have the right foundation so grow and make it your own just dont get consumed by it." Cain bowed again, sweat on his brow. "Thank you."
Cain vs. Mace Windu
Then the air changed. Mace Windu stepped forward, removing his outer robes, revealing his dark tunic and clipped lightsaber. "Let's see your convictions, Cain. Your words carry weight. Let's see if your blade does."
Cain's hands tightened slightly. "I'm honored, to learn from you Master Windu."
Their sabers ignited—purple and gold—and the room grew still.
Then, without a word, Mace moved.
From the first step, Cain understood the chasm between them.
Mace moved like intention given form—every motion purposeful, powerful, precise. His Vaapad wasn't just a form—it was a conversation between control and danger, a dialogue Cain wasn't fluent in yet.
Cain countered with his own form—reading Mace's movement, identifying shatterpoints, but never able to land a decisive blow. Every time Cain adapted, Mace changed the tempo. Every time Cain found an opening, Mace twisted it into a trap.
In five minutes, Cain was sweating.
In seven, he was breathing hard.
But then—Cain slowed his mind.
He stopped trying to win, and started listening.
Not to Mace's blade.
To the Force.
And suddenly… the fight became a conversation.
Mace's footwork… spoke of years watching others fall into fear.
His counterattacks… were formed from his rejection of failure.
His transitions… a reply to Cain's philosophy of balance.
Cain's counterstrike told Mace: I believe there's another way.
Mace's follow-up replied: Prove it.
Their blades sang across the chamber. Sparks. Crashes. Force bursts rattled the floor. They moved like two warriors in dialogue—not enemies, but ideologies clashing in rhythm.
Then finally, Cain disengaged, falling into a defensive stance, chest heaving. His blade lowered.
He bowed.
"I've seen what I needed to see."
Mace stopped, slowly deactivating his saber.
For a moment, no words passed between them.
Then Windu gave a simple nod.
> "You're not done yet. But your conviction is real."
Cain sat on the edge of the platform, breathing slowly, lightsaber resting beside him. Depa knelt across from him, handing him water.
Plo Koon watched in silence. Palpatine stood to leave, his expression unreadable, but his voice calm:
> "An impressive display, Cain. You give them… hope."
Cain glanced up, replying softly.
> "And you give them reasons to fear that hope."
Palpatine's smile was faint. "That is balance, isn't it?"
Then he was gone.
Mace placed a hand on Cain's shoulder.
"You didn't win. But you listened. That's more than most ever learn."
Cain nodded, still catching his breath.
"Thank you, Master."