[b]A[/b]rcas fell into the semi-daily routine of his intense and radical workout. It was easy to give in to the mindless calling that distracted him from his inner doubt. He could still hear them; the voices of two very different people, speaking on two very different views. Firion was soft spoken and calm, gentle almost, but his voice was like echoing in his head. Centa’s was more savage but was just static noise in comparison to Master Colossus. 

The vivid hum and red shine of his lightsaber arced, turned, and slashed the stale air in the large room. He twirled in aggressive sequences that his old master had instilled in him. Brutal downwards hacks and horizontal decapitations that cleaved any droid, beast, or human clean in two. It made him feel empowered and immortal. Too strong to be held back or even remotely hindered. 

He continued his unique sequences until his body was more at work than his mind and he ached from the burn. The heat from his blade created sticky sweat on his body and a grim smile on his lips. It wasn't until he heard Mex’s return that he snap out of his Rancor-like rampage. His thumb automatically deactivated the lightsaber and with its descending plasma the world returned . 

The large room was aged, dusty, and now held the peculiar smell of sweat and plasma in the air. Arcas swept aside the bangs of his blonde hair and grabbed his shirt from off the floor. He held it in his hand as he went to greet his senior in the Gray Order. 


“[b]How’d it go? Any luck out there?[/b]”