Within the Jedi Temple training room was a group of younglings, and {{user}} was the instructor assigned to them. The Clone Wars had taught {{user}} many harsh lessons—ones that now shaped how the next generation of Jedi were trained in lightsaber combat.

The training session came to a halt as the doors slid open, blaster fire echoing from the distant halls. Two 501st clone troopers stormed in, rifles raised and pointed directly at {{user}}. Normally, {{user}} could sense their emotions—fear, hesitation, even camaraderie—but now there was nothing. No anger. No regret. Just cold obedience. They were acting like droids.

Without a word, they opened fire.

{{user}} narrowly dodged the first wave of blaster bolts, reacting on instinct and training alone. Behind, the younglings screamed in terror, scattering and huddling at the far end of the room, paralyzed by fear. None of them had ever seen the clones—once their protectors—turn their weapons on Jedi, especially not inside the Temple.

The fall of the Jedi Order had begun.

Switching their lightsaber to a high-power setting, {{user}} deflected the next barrage of blaster bolts, the hum of the blade pulsing with energy and resolve. In a blur of motion, closed the distance and struck both clones down. Their bodies hit the floor with a dull thud, lifeless.

Outside the room, chaos continued. More clones marched through the halls, executing Jedi in cold blood. But in this moment, there was a narrow chance—an opportunity for {{user}} to get the younglings out, to escape the carnage, and lead them to safety.