Setting: Jedi Temple – Eastern Terrace, Pre-dawn
Date: 24 BBY
The wind was sharp on the temple's east terrace, whispering through open archways as the first orange rays of light kissed the durasteel floor. Cain stood in quiet meditation, eyes closed, sensing the approach of his friends.
Anakin and Seris arrived silently beside him.
A few moments later, Master Plo Koon emerged from the shadows, his breathing apparatus faintly echoing in the morning air. He wore no robes—only simple tunic and gloves, the symbol of his humility and readiness for what was to come.
"You've come," he said. "Good."
He stepped before them, glancing at the skyline.
"Electric Judgment," he began, "is not a weapon. It is a response. It is the storm answering injustice. The hand of clarity—not rage."
The three nodded, listening.
"It is not Sith lightning. That technique is born from hate, from torment and submission. This," he raised his gloved palm, "is the Force answering your will when your will is in harmony with justice."
He turned to face them.
"You must confront yourselves first."
Plo Koon motioned for Seris to step forward.
She closed her eyes, focusing.
In her mind, she saw a thousand moments—her ambition, her pride, the times she had bristled with jealousy, her deep desire to prove herself better.
Suddenly, she was back in the sparring ring with Cain—losing.
With Anakin—being outpaced.
She clenched her fists.
"Let go," Plo Koon whispered.
"I want to be more than second," she whispered.
"You already are. But only if you stop trying to be first."
Seris's breath caught.
And the spark flickered at her fingertips.
Not lightning.
Yet.
Cain stepped next.
As he breathed in, the wind shifted.
And then… the Force pressed against him like water, warm and overwhelming.
He saw two paths:
The Jedi Order burning.A future he shaped. Filled with loss. A sanctuary—alone.
He saw a child fall in the darkness.
He saw himself standing in Revan's shadow.
Then Bastila's voice echoed.
"Clarity must come before conviction."
Cain's heart steadied.
"I will not burn the Order… I will heal it. Or rise from its ashes."
A soft glow shimmered across his palm—blue sparks dancing at his fingertips.
Balance. But still forming.
Anakin stepped forward, face tense.
Plo Koon waited.
Anakin's mind plunged into chaos.
His mother. Tatooine. The chains. The silence of the Jedi. The coldness of the Council.
"Let go," Plo whispered.
"No," Anakin growled. "I won't let go. Not of her. Not of anyone!"
"Then be honest. What do you want?"
Anakin's breath grew shallow.
"I want the power to stop people from being hurt."
"And if that power burns you?"
"I'll burn with it."
And then—
White lightning crackled across his hand.
Clean. Blinding. Controlled.
Plo took a step forward, startled… then nodded.
"White," he said softly. "Rare. Unfiltered will."
Anakin's eyes widened. "I did it?"
Plo nodded. "Yes. But it is not done. This is only the beginning."
Cain and Seris stepped forward again, surrounding Anakin as they breathed in the still-rising sun.
Each had tasted the storm.
Each had faced their deepest doubt.
Plo stood before them, calm.
"You have all touched it. But remember: it is not yours to command. It is yours to answer."
He turned to Cain.
"You are the balance. You must ensure they remain so."
Cain bowed. "I will."
Plo gave one final instruction: "You may train in secret. But never forget the lesson: Judgment is not destruction. It is discipline."
The wind carried his words through the arches.
Codex Entry 015: The White Storm
Anakin touched the storm first. And it was white.
Not because he is pure—but because he is honest.
He does not hide his attachments. His rage. His love.
That's why he's dangerous.
That's why he can still be saved.
Seris will reach it soon. I can feel it. Her ambition is growing lighter. Brighter.
And me? I see the storm on the horizon. And now… I carry a spark.
The high spire of the Jedi Temple was still in the dim light of morning. Clouds drifted lazily over the skyline, the air crisp and silent except for the hum of holoscreens and distant traffic.
Inside the circular chamber, Cain, Seris, and Anakin stood spaced apart in silent focus. Across from them stood Master Plo Koon, arms folded, cloak fluttering softly in the breeze cutting through the open archways.
He had guided them for weeks, emphasizing control, emotional clarity, and alignment with the Force. Today, however, he said nothing. Today… he watched.
"Begin," he finally said.
Cain stepped forward first. His breath was calm, but his heart beat like a war drum. In his mind, he heard Revan's voice echoing:
"Control is not restraint. It is choice."
He extended his hand—not with aggression, but with intent. His eyes flared gold.
The Force surged.
A sparkling arc of golden lightning erupted from his palm—lancing into the air with a smooth, humming vibration. It danced like a solar flare—bright, precise, noble.
Cain exhaled slowly and lowered his hand.
Plo nodded once but said nothing.
Then Seris stepped forward.
Seris didn't close her eyes. She didn't need to.
Her mind was sharp. Focused. Her emotion wasn't wild like Anakin's or philosophical like Cain's—it was purposeful. Clean. Honed.
She raised both palms and rotated her wrists slightly.
The air snapped.
Yellow lightning crackled from her fingertips—tight, controlled, like a dance of sunfire woven into the air. It didn't lash out chaotically—it formed patterns, serpentine and looping, flowing like a river of concentrated will.
Plo Koon tilted his head, intrigued.
"I taught the fundamentals," he muttered. "But she… she's making it into a language."
Seris smirked and dispersed the energy with a flick of her hand.
Anakin stepped forward last. His breath hitched for a moment, and then he found his rhythm.
Don't think about power.
Don't think about pain.
Think about purpose.
His eyes closed.
And then—
The room lit with a blinding flash as white lightning surged from both of Anakin's hands, crackling through the air in long arcs. The power was immense, like a sky tearing open—but what was more impressive was the control.
He didn't let it flare uncontrollably. He focused it. Shaped it. Like water through a narrow pipe.
The bolts met above his head and curved down like twin wings of pure energy.
Plo took a slow step forward.
"…That is not talent," he said aloud. "That is will."
Plo stepped into the center, motioning them to lower their hands.
All three stood at attention, sweat on their brows, hearts racing.
"You are not ready to use this in battle," Plo said. "But… you are more prepared than I ever imagined."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"To wield Electric Judgment is to embrace part of the Force the Order fears. It is not darkness—but it is not serenity either. It is the lightning of truth. The blade that only strikes when justice has no voice."
He placed a hand on Cain's shoulder.
"You three may be the only Jedi in generations to understand that."
Cain bowed his head respectfully. "Thank you, Master."
Plo turned toward the chamber exit.
"Continue practicing. I will report nothing to the Council. But if they learn of this… know what you will be forced to defend."
He paused, turning back one last time.
"And be ready."
Once Plo had gone, the three stayed in the spire, breathing in the silence.
"That was intense," Anakin muttered. "I didn't think I could control it."
Seris rolled her shoulders. "Yours looked like a Force storm. Mine felt more like threading a needle."
Cain smiled at them both. "And mine?"
"Like looking at a sun going nova," Seris said dryly.
Anakin grinned. "Yeah. Pretty terrifying."
They sat down, back-to-back, legs crossed in a loose triangle. For a moment, there was no mission, no war, no Council.
Just them.
And the knowledge that they had stepped beyond the old ways—and found something worth preserving.
Codex Entry 016: The Lightning of Three
We each manifest differently.
Seris—Yellow. Precision. Intellect guided by emotion.
Anakin—White. Raw will refined by purpose.
Me—Gold. Light sparked by belief.
This is not power for battle. It's understanding made manifest.
And the Order fears understanding more than war.
Master Plo says nothing, but I can feel it in him—hope.
That maybe this time… someone will listen before it's too late.
We will keep training.
And if the time comes, our lightning will not fall in rage.
It will fall in justice.