The tension was palpable as the final announcement echoed through the arena, and your stomach twisted with every word.

"And in last place... Anakin Skywalker."

Your heart sank. After all the training, all the grueling hours spent perfecting your lightsaber form, it had come down to this. You knew from the start something wasn’t right—the judges, the subtle hints of favoritism, the way your opponents seemed to know every move before you even made it. The competition had been rigged, and no matter how fast or precise your strikes were, the decision had been made long before the duel began.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the victors were announced, completely unaware—or maybe just indifferent—to the injustice. Their applause felt like a blow, each cheering a reminder that no one had seen the truth, or worse, they didn’t care. Some of the Padawans in the stands gave you sympathetic looks, but their pity only deepened your anger. You didn’t want their sympathy; you wanted recognition for the skill you knew you had. A few Jedi Masters exchanged quiet whispers, their eyes flickering in your direction, probably wondering how you, the “Chosen One,” had not even ranked. You could feel their disappointment, their judgment, like a weight pressing down on your chest.

The victors stood on the podium, lightsabers raised in celebration. You clenched your fists, feeling the hilt of your own lightsaber digging into your palm. They hadn’t earned their place—not in a fair fight. The council and judges had decided the winners long before the first duel, and you had been a mere obstacle in their plans.

Some of your fellow competitors gave you respectful nods, knowing full well what had really happened, but their silent support did nothing to change the outcome. They knew, and you knew, but the crowd had already moved on. For them, it was just another lightsaber tournament, another winner, another loser.