The Guardian cut through hyperspace effortlessly, leaving light-years and whole parsecs in its wake.
Personnel not on duty were resting and gathering strength according to the ship's internal schedule.
But unlike the ship, things were far from calm in my quarters right now.
"Your report is received, Agent Bravo-One," I said after Captain Inek finished his briefing on the situation in the Allied Tion sector. "How critical is the situation?"
"The military command is in disarray," the agent said bluntly. "The commanders of the remaining star destroyers intend to usurp power. One has openly sided with Mi-Ha Hutt, taking his crew with him. The assault legions purchased on Carida are only staying loyal to the command thanks to the initiative of 'Moff Gronn,' who has declared me his successor. The situation could boil over at any moment. Mi-Ha Hutt has switched to open defiance in the outer systems. He's about to gather enough strength to start destroying our legions one by one, conquering planets. Without sufficient fleet forces, I can't prevent all this."
In other words — Inek has nothing under his command capable of taking on even a single star destroyer.
If the garrisons still obey him, the commanders of the remaining capital ships no longer do.
Which means we could lose control of the Allied Tion at any moment.
And the plan for the eastern part of the galaxy — creating a pressure point behind Alliance lines — will fail before it even gets off the ground.
We need a rapid response.
"Activate our agents," I ordered. "Eliminate all pockets of discontent, as far as possible. Consolidate power in your hands. Help will be sent shortly."
"It will be done, sir," the agent said, cutting the hologram.
Well...
The enemy has made their move, no longer playing at trying to understand what's happening with "Moff Gronn."
It was expected, but not this fast.
Well, the response will be proportionately harsh.
I activated the hologram, contacting the Shadow Guard and the Noghri Overclan one after the other.
* * *
The distant stars, against which a darkened Coruscant loomed, had once been compared to jewels in a crown whose centerpiece was the Imperial Center itself.
A lone Lambda-class shuttle slipped out of hyperspace and, unperturbed by the presence of several dozen heavy Raider-class cruisers, headed straight for the planet.
The passenger, sitting alone in the spacious cabin, closed his eyes, completely immersing himself in the Force.
Distance or obstacles didn't exist for him; he could find the object of his search.
The Dark Side guided him.
It was the Dark Side, with the fire of seething hatred, that led the man toward the planet where a bright star of a Force-sensitive burned.
The very one he had sensed during his meditations.
The one who would become his victim.
A Jedi.
The Light Side he emanated teased, beckoned, and simultaneously burned the hunter.
It had been so long since he himself had used it.
That was in the past now.
As was the name he had used in another life.
The Dark Side was his long-awaited weapon.
The power that shatters chains.
That grants victory.
That grants supremacy.
The man sat with his eyes closed, pleased with the coming events he had seen in his meditations.
And he couldn't care less that his ship's pilots, soaked through with sticky sweat, hated the day they were born.
* * *
"We've stirred them up good," Afar reported into the comlink.
Explosions and the crackle of blasters sounded in the background.
"Fall back to the extraction point," Jahan ordered, glancing at the pensive figure in a brown cloak patiently waiting for the turbolift that would take him to the right floor.
I wonder what kind of bag he's holding?
"And you're already there?" the Zygerrian clarified.
"Not exactly," Cross answered evasively. "The Master needs a little more time, then we'll pull back."
"I'd advise hurrying," his partner admitted. "We're blowing up overpasses and surface highways, warehouses, arsenals, and a couple of barracks, but it turns out they have no problem demolishing buildings to move from block to block through them. I don't know why, but they're clearly upset. Looks like we shouldn't have sent that construction droid to their base, I guess. Oh, man, the way everything exploded and burned there was spectacular! No offense, Jahan, but something tells me you won't have much time to get out of there."
"It's fine," Jahan said. "Stick to the plan. The main thing is to get everything we found off the planet."
"I don't like your tone, buddy," the Zygerrian said. "I know a few holofilms that ended the same way..."
"End transmission," the Dominion agent cut off his friend, who had become oddly talkative. "Master, we should hurry."
"Get out of here," Umakk said decisively. "I'll do it myself. It's my duty to remind the Jedi of their conscience and their legacy."
"That's all well and good," Jahan stated. "But there's going to be a lot of angry stormtroopers here very soon. Afar apparently wrapped quite a few of their comrades around the construction droid's joints..."
"That's why you need to get out of here," Umakk commanded, just as the turbolift cab reached their floor. "I sense the approach of the Dark Side of the Force. This is my fight."
"Did you eat something bad?" Jahan tried to joke, but the Mon Calamari left him unanswered, simply stepping into the cab, which carried him upward with a screech and a crash of falling plaster.
The Imperial agent stood for a moment, pondering the consequences, then activated the comlink.
"Alessi, listen carefully. The plan has changed."
* * *
The shuttle landed nowhere near where it was originally supposed to.
During the flight, the passenger had ordered the destination changed.
And now the Lambda, which had provided all patrols — orbital and atmospheric — with the necessary top-level access codes, was descending in the rear area of the Imperial deployment near the Jedi Temple.
The moment the boarding ramp touched the permacrete, a man swathed from head to toe in black was already running down it.
Black boots and trousers, a shirt and cloak with armored pauldrons, and a hood that fell over his eyes, hiding the upper part of his face.
His rapid stride made his cloak billow behind him like the wings of a giant hawk-mouse.
And because of this, the guards — both ordinary soldiers and stormtroopers — could see the lightsaber hanging from his belt.
As well as the dark Imperial uniform bearing a rank bar with the colors of the Inquisitorius.
The weapon, uniform, and demeanor of the individual made it clear that it was best not to get in his way.
But one of the young soldiers from the guard company of Coruscant's military commander himself clearly didn't know this.
And stepped into the stranger's path.
"State your name and..."
His words were cut short when a medium-sized cargo container, flying in from somewhere to the side, tore off the young soldier's head, smashing it against the armor of a nearby walker.
It also snapped one of the walker's legs, causing the machine to crash to its side with a roar, raising a cloud of dust.
And as if that weren't enough, the cracking of long-unrepaired permacrete under the machine's weight sent the soldiers scattering.
With a crash, the section of the landing pad that had been turned into an artillery position for a single cannon brought to the square before the Temple collapsed, promising nothing good for the walker or anyone who hadn't managed to escape it.
The second guard who tried to block his way, the stranger beheaded with his lightsaber.
A crimson blade flashed to life for a moment and then retracted back into the hilt.
The stormtroopers standing near the entrance to the mobile command bunker didn't even flinch at the sight of the dark-clad man.
And he entered unhindered.
Inside, he saw a large tactical table and two officers studying a holographic map of the Jedi Temple.
."..the third squad has been completely wiped out too," the duty officer was telling the commander. "The mines react to metal and..."
The one he was speaking to frowned in displeasure.
But he frowned even more when he saw the owner of the lightsaber enter.
"Who are you?" he demanded sternly, leaping to his feet.
An invisible strike to the back of his knees sent the commander crashing to the floor, hitting his face on the edge of the table.
"I'm the one who asks questions here," the newcomer cut him off harshly. "Why isn't the Jedi in the Temple dead yet?"
"There's a Jedi in there?" the duty officer gasped.
At the same instant, when the stranger thrust his hand forward, fingers clenched as if in a grip, the officer dropped dead with a broken neck.
"Useless," the Force-sensitive spat, looking back at the Coruscant commander, who was trying to staunch the blood flow with his hands. "I asked a question, General!"
"We're looking for a way in..."
Another crack of a broken neck.
The commander's body hit the floor.
"No wonder Kaine lost," the man in black spat on the floor. "Useless biomass."
Without another word, he turned and left the command post.
Stopping beside the stormtroopers, he looked at the soldiers scurrying in the distance, trying to save their lost equipment and comrades, and casually tossed to one of them:
"Inform all commanders that I'm now in charge of the assault and Coruscant," his voice carried a threat and a promise of retribution.
"Yes, sir," the faceless soldier in white armor replied impassively.
Though even he was trembling slightly.
* * *
With a soft creak, the doors of the Jedi Temple's communication center slid open, letting out a modest figure clad in the traditional Jedi robe, with a cloak thrown over it.
But, as far as Agent Cross remembered, Jedi wore white tunics.
And brown cloaks.
Master Bre'ano Umakk was dressed in black robes.
Racking his memory, Jahan recalled that the Jensaarai order — at least the ones he'd seen — had started wearing black tunics and black cloaks after joining the Dominion.
Over which they wore armor made of material resistant to energy weapons.
"Did he carry those clothes with him?" Cross thought, meeting the former Jedi's gaze.
"You should have left the Temple, Agent Cross," the Mon Calamari's voice was hollow.
And carried a note of doomed resolve.
"I should have," Jahan agreed. "But I'm not obligated to. The Temple is surrounded by thousands of Commonwealth soldiers. Stormtroopers, infantry — they'll all be here soon."
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be here by now," the Mon Calamari said, heading toward the turbolift.
Strangely enough, after thirty years of neglect, the Temple's systems were still working.
Of course, thanks largely to the work of agents from Jahan and Alessi's squad.
"I'm not in the habit of leaving behind the soldiers I go on a mission with," Jahan replied.
"Really?" the Mon Calamari inquired.
Cross wondered what exactly Umakk knew about the former Imperial agent's past.
Probably not much.
Including how Jahan had treated Ellie.
Promising her a great future after killing Iaco Stark, but then abandoning her to run off for Imperial service.
And coming back...
So many years later.
For revenge.
"Now — yes," Jahan said honestly. "We came here together, and we'll leave together, Master."
"That's wrong," the Mon Calamari said — he had no eyebrows, but somehow Cross felt he was frowning. "What's coming is my fight. Not yours. They're here because I wanted to reach the minds and hearts of my former comrades. I sent them a message. And I took the opportunity to record it and put it on a loop. Sooner or later, one of them will respond."
"One Jedi against a battalion or two of soldiers armed with everything from blasters to portable missile launchers?" Cross clarified.
"I am not a Jedi," the Mon Calamari replied hollowly. "Not anymore."
He fell silent and just walked.
Jahan walked a little behind, trying to stay one step behind his left shoulder and maintain a solemn, majestic demeanor, just to hide his very justified fear.
He forced himself to think about something else.
Anything.
If he didn't stop thinking about how bad their situation was, he'd drop to his knees right here and spill his guts.
The Commonwealth soldiers, as expected, had triangulated the transmission source and moved toward the Temple.
They surrounded the ancient structure, brought up heavy equipment, and set up field command posts.
The commanders had little desire to venture into the unknown, preferring to send reconnaissance squads into the half-ruined building.
Which inevitably hit the mines and tripwires set in the least obvious entry points to the Temple.
This fact made the enemy hesitate — they were looking for a safer way inside.
Using numerous reconnaissance droids.
And very soon, they would realize there was no army or even a combat squad inside.
Soon, the assault would begin.
The turbolift doors slid open.
"And I was starting to think you'd decided to stay for a cup of caf," a voice greeted them.
Afar was sitting opposite the exit on a chunk of ancient permacrete that had fallen out of the nearest wall.
He had a couple of blasters, several carbines, a string of thermal detonators laid out beside him, and was whittling a piece of rebar with a combat knife.
Strangely enough, he was managing.
And had been for a while.
At the Zygerrian's feet lay a good hundred ten-centimeter-long sharpened dura-steel rebar pieces.
"Agent Sagaal Shan," Master Umakk greeted him. "You're here too... This is wrong. I ordered everyone to retreat."
"Yeah, I heard," the Zygerrian said flatly, examining a sharpened piece of rebar.
He seemed satisfied, because he set it aside with a good dozen more like it.
"And, like Agent Cross, you disobeyed."
"I'm allowed to," Afar sighed. "I'm an independent contractor. The job is done — we found everything we could. The Jedi beacon — judging by that delegation outside," he waved a hand behind him, where the ruins of the Vestibule, torn apart during the Jedi purge thirty years ago, lay, " it's working too. I'm a free being. Contract fulfilled. The cargo and personnel are safe a hundred kilometers from here."
"Then what are you doing here?" Umakk asked.
"Sharpening rebar," the Zygerrian answered simply.
"Why?" the Mon Calamari inquired.
"So you'd ask," Afar sighed wearily.
He looked up from under his brow at the two men standing before him and pointed a crooked vibroknife at one, then the other.
"You two decided to stop three battalions of soldiers?"
"Oh," Jahan responded. "Three now?"
"Another battalion of stormtroopers showed up about five minutes ago," Sagaal Shan explained. "In Juggernauts. I figure they'll use them to break into the Temple. As soon as it gets dark. Take advantage of the armor. Since the magnetic mines thinned out their speeder scouts, they'll act for sure. And they'll clear it floor by floor."
"I don't recall my people setting any magnetic mines," Jahan shook his head.
"I haven't been sitting here for ten minutes either," the hired spy chuckled grimly. "So, what's the plan?"
"Both of you — leave the Temple through the Lower Levels," the Mon Calamari declared. "I'll face them alone. That is my path."
"So," the Zygerrian summed up, setting aside another piece of rebar, "there's no plan. Nothing new, I guess. Just a regular day at the office with a crazy boss. I'm in."
"Master, you can't argue with us," Jahan smirked crookedly. "We survived Palpatine. And Isard. And Pestage. And half the government and heads of the Imperial bureaucracy."
"Then try to live a little longer," the Mon Calamari replied. "Leave while you still can."
"No," Jahan answered. "Only with you. Fighting stormtroopers alone is a stupid idea."
The Mon Calamari looked at Afar.
"What about me?" the Zygerrian feigned surprise. "I'm just sharpening rebar here, minding my own business. By the way," he pointed the knife at the thermal detonators. "New toys, fresh off some grenadiers. Pretty powerful — we blew up a tank with one and collapsed an overpass with another. So be careful."
"This is wrong," the Mon Calamari shook his head. "Someone needs to lead the survivors. And take everything we found here out."
"Alessi will handle it," Jahan said confidently. "We'll join them later."
"We won't join them," Umakk said firmly. "Anyone who stays here after sunset won't make it out. You have a different fate, agents."
Jahan pressed the edge of his palm to his forehead and looked toward the entrance to the Jedi sanctuary.
Through the holes in the walls, he could see the rays of the setting sun.
"So we're not dying today," the agent concluded, looking at the Mon Calamari. "The Force just said we have a different fate, right?"
"The future is mutable," Umakk reminded him. "And you, Agent Cross, still have an unfulfilled obligation. Only death awaits us here."
Yes.
He had an obligation to himself.
Find and kill Cronal.
"Just another reason to come out of this mess victorious," the special agent grinned.
"And I'm free all night anyway," Afar declared, finishing another piece of rebar. "Well, since the sappy motivational speeches are over, is anyone going to help me set up a couple of surprises?"
* * *
He was undoubtedly afraid of death, but he had felt that fear before... and without the crippling nausea.
Jahan clenched the grip of his blaster rifle, glancing at Afar, who was hunkered down fifty meters away.
The Zygerrian looked calm, but the agent knew it was just a front.
Cross looked again at the enemy soldiers who had appeared at the far end of the Vestibule.
As his friend had anticipated—they didn't bother with further reconnaissance—they sent the Juggernauts forward, which breached the walls enough to land troops inside the building.
Not the best solution for centuries-old architecture, but something told him the Jedi weren't likely to come here to figure out who was right and who was wrong.
Jahan took another deep breath, calming himself.
Only the feel of the smooth, reliable surface helped him keep his composure and not vomit all over his clothes.
No, he'd been through plenty of scrapes, but three of them against three battalions of soldiers…
With heavy armor support…
His mouth filled with saliva, his ribs heaving. To keep from throwing up, Jahan squeezed his eyes shut.
"Cross?" Afar's voice, muffled and worried, came from somewhere below. "Don't tell me you're having a panic attack!"
"Don't hold your breath," Jahan gritted out, adjusting his blaster grip. "When do we start?"
"You'll know when," the Zygerrian said mysteriously. "The main thing is—don't stick your head out. And turn off the external audio pickups on your helmet. Their lead Juggernaut is almost…"
Yeah, the lead vehicle, with a grinding, screaming screech of permacrete on metal, moved forward, deeper into the Vestibule.
On either side of it, squads of stormtroopers advanced.
Jahan followed his friend's advice.
Now, no matter what happened outside, he simply wouldn't hear it.
For a while, the massive-wheeled vehicle moved unopposed—until what Afar had been so casually lounging around the turbolift controls for finally happened.
The explosion was so loud Cross nearly burst his eardrums.
The blast echoed off the Temple walls repeatedly, turning into a real acoustic weapon.
Which, along with a deadly cloud of sharpened rebar fragments spraying across the vestibule, literally mowed down the enemy's forward stormtrooper squads.
Jahan activated all his helmet's systems just as one of those very rebar pieces rang off the stone above his head, embedding itself there.
Having punched through nearly twenty centimeters of duracrete, it stuck halfway out of the ceiling slab Jahan was using as temporary cover.
"Son of a bitch," he hissed, more from surprise than real fear.
Peeking out from cover, he saw he'd slightly misjudged the situation.
Not just the lead Juggernaut had been blown up.
The bombs had been laid along the path of each one—Afar had apparently guessed the enemy's entry point and prepared wonderful "surprises" for them.
But judging by the cries of the wounded and the death rattles of the dying, they clearly didn't like them.
From what he could make out through the dust cloud, the combat vehicles had been blown in such a way that they completely blocked the vestibule and the entrance from outside.
Moreover, the vehicles were stuffed with rebar scraps even more thoroughly than some animals nature allows to wear such "decorations" for protection from stronger predators.
And not one of them showed any signs of life.
Looking closer, he could see why—the viewports showed punctures in the transparisteel.
The crew—at least the drivers—were dead.
But it was unlikely that sharpened rebar, detonating under an armored hull, could have traveled that path.
The huge, blown-out wheels—yes, that was possible.
But not the armor.
Probably their Jedi Master was responsible for that, with his Force and Jedi tricks.
"How many did you have prepared?" was all Jahan could murmur, targeting a surviving soldier through his helmet visor's HUD.
"None left," the Zygerrian said cheerfully, opening fire on the enemy first.
Jahan joined in.
Stunned by the explosion and their comrades' deaths, the enemy soldiers were perfect targets for two sharpshooters for the first few minutes.
One by one, hit in various parts of their bodies, stormtroopers and infantry fell to the floor.
Never to rise again.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jahan saw the cannon barrel on a Juggernaut's armor twitch.
All he had time to do was leap aside and crawl behind another piece of cover before a green flash turned his previous cover into shrapnel of permacrete rubble.
And the next moment, a bluish-white blade of pure energy cut through the dust.
Without any unnecessary shouts or movements, Master Umakk jumped from an inner balcony of the Vestibule straight onto the roof of the Juggernaut and cut through the cannon barrel with his lightsaber.
Then he leaped onto another and decapitated a stormtrooper climbing out of a hatch.
At the same time, he deftly tossed a thermal detonator into the troop compartment.
The first and second vehicles blew simultaneously.
Apparently, the gunner of the damaged cannon never understood what happened.
The faulty cannon systems detonated and tore open the side of the vehicle, while its neighbor was blown open from the inside.
Like a blossoming bud.
And the Jedi Master didn't stop.
While the shooters were picking off one or two enemy soldiers at a time, he was busy destroying a couple of squads, adding their bodies to the other unlucky soldiers from the Alignment.
He was literally mowing down enemy soldiers, not forgetting to deflect their blaster shots and redirect them back.
After leaving his second cover, Jahan noticed Afar had done the same.
A blaster burn was visible on the Zygerrian's shoulder, but he didn't even notice it, changing his power cell.
"See that?" his partner shouted. "Looks like the old man's getting into the groove! He's taking those stormtroopers apart for spare parts! No registration, no short-code texts!"
Jahan grabbed the heavy repeater he'd stashed at that cover and leaned out with it.
Despite its weight, the heavy repeater fully lived up to its purpose.
The streams of plasma it poured out merged into one.
Like a long green beam of light that melted everything in its path that had the misfortune of being there.
Armor, bodies, permacrete, more bodies…
Stormtroopers were dying before they could even get a clear picture of what was happening inside the Temple.
They pushed through the breaches in the walls and between the smoking, burning vehicle hulls in small groups.
And as soon as their armor came within reach, they became prey for three predators—two shooters and one seemingly peaceful Mon Calamari…
Who had just caved in a stormtrooper's chest plate with his bare hands in one blow.
"You know," Afar shouted, "I think the Empire was bending the truth a bit when they said they handled the Jedi easily here. And the 501st boys didn't tell the whole story either. If one old man can do this, imagine what it was like when there were hundreds of Jedi here."
"There weren't hundreds!" Jahan yelled back. "Just students and wounded Jedi! All the others were scattered to the fronts."
"Ah!" An enemy soldier appeared next to Afar, who hadn't noticed him in time.
Jahan blew off the upper half of his body.
"Thanks!" the Zygerrian called out, grabbing the fallen E-11 from the dead soldier. "My rifle just overheated."
What's your rate of fire? Jahan thought, seeing the repeater's barrel glowing red.
But a repeater is one thing, a rifle another.
Mechanically impossible…
A blaster shot clicked nearby, and the man switched priorities, taking down an unlucky shooter.
But the enemy kept coming.
And clearly had no intention of stopping.
Jahan and Afar were retreating further to the last improvised defensive line.
Even the fact that several tripwire explosions had brought down massive columns, crushing dozens of enemy soldiers, didn't cool their attack fervor.
They were still managing to pick off the more zealous grenadiers who intended to bury both agents under the Temple ruins.
But Jahan knew this couldn't last forever.
They needed to retreat.
To get out.
He understood that Bre'ano Umakk wanted to buy as much time as possible to feel secure about his mission.
He wanted to be heard by all the remaining Jedi.
And, in principle, Cross understood him.
If even a dozen or two Jedi emerged from hiding and joined the Dominion, then…
It would be clearly better than now.
But sacrificing his life for that wasn't worth it.
They'd bought all the time they could.
It had been about forty minutes since the assault began.
Soon the mountains of corpses would start piling up.
"Empty," Sagaal Shan declared, ducking into cover next to him. "Any power cartridges?"
"Check my load-bearing vest," Jahan said, sweeping the repeater across the exposed enemy infantry and turning them into corpses.
"Empty!" Afar replied grimly, having finished patting his comrade's pouches.
Jahan swore.
That couldn't be.
He'd had a good supply—enough for a small war!
Unless…
A second's breather was enough for him to spot a torn-off pouch lying just ten meters from his current position.
It looked like a stray shot had cut it off when he was running from one cover to another.
The repeater had a hundred shots left—then things would get tough.
Cross ducked back behind cover.
"Cartridges and power cells are ten meters away," he said. "If we don't get them back, we won't last long."
"But we'll go out bright," the Zygerrian chuckled, showing a thermal detonator.
Jahan understood without words.
There was no way they were getting captured.
You could be as ready for torture and interrogation as you liked, but there was always someone who'd get you talking.
And they knew too much to fall into enemy hands sane and without a hole in their skulls.
"So the old man was right after all," Afar summed up. "No one's walking out of here alive."
"Yeah, that's for sure," Jahan agreed.
Then a realization struck him.
"Where's Umakk?"
* * *
Everything fell into place.
He understood what he hadn't been able to grasp his entire life.
Until now.
There is nothing to fear.
Unfortunately, he only now realized what it meant to be in control of who you really are.
He didn't even need to know who he was.
He could decide that for himself.
He could choose, and act.
Suddenly his life was filled with meaning.
The former uncertainty stopped tormenting him.
Not even a memory of it remained.
No weakness.
No doubt.
He had seen the unconcealed doubt on Agent Cross's face when he'd recited that mantra of self-reassurance.
The reasons why he supposedly feared confronting Falon Grey's assassins.
Why he feared Darth Vader when he visited Dantuin.
Old doubts and fear had vanished along with his indecisiveness, which he'd cast aside while recording his message to his brothers and sisters of the Order hiding across the galaxy.
He had found that key element that he felt had never fit into the concept he'd developed over decades of fleeing from the Jedi legacy.
Ideology is worth nothing if you're not ready to give your life for it.
Not just to kill enemies, but to spare yourself nothing.
The Sith didn't understand that.
The Jedi lived by it.
But one side was ready to do anything to achieve their goals—except sacrifice themselves.
The second went to the chopping block without complaint, heads held high, but weren't ready to cross the boundaries of self-imposed rules to achieve their goal, to eliminate the cause, instead of running around the galaxy like a fire brigade, dealing with consequences.
That was exactly why he had to do what he was doing.
This was a test of his faith, his teachings, everything he had taught the Jensaarai Order.
Master Umakk felt a burning impact on his shoulder where a blaster bolt he'd missed had hit.
It was sobering.
The weight of many years fell from his shoulders; his eyes lit up as if sparks were dancing in a reddish heat.
He felt polished to a shine, no worse than a brand-new battle droid, and as strong as a pair of such droids.
He felt anger and pain streaming through his body.
Giving him strength.
The weapon of the Dark Side of the Force fell into his hands.
He had taught that one should not fear showing emotions.
That this was part of any sentient being.
That the Jedi were wrong to reject them.
And that even the Code itself prescribed not renunciation, but control of emotions by the intelligent.
But until now, those were just words.
Because until now, he had been nothing more than a theorist who was afraid to take up the weapon he spoke about.
He had trained Jensaarai who grasped this truth before him and used it for good.
He had taught Dathomirian witches, who were used to controlling the Force and the Dark Side.
And their training had only boiled down to mastering the "Jedi" part of the new teaching.
But to teach someone both sides of the new science, to demonstrate it all in practice…
That had never happened.
Because he was afraid of himself.
Afraid of falling to the Dark Side.
But now he realized he had effectively turned his own work into a stillborn fruit.
And now he had only one chance to correct that omission.
Otherwise, the Jensaarai Order would never become what he envisioned as the future of the Jedi.
Umakk released his anger through his body, turning it into a deadly Force Wave.
He hadn't learned this technique, considering it unnecessarily destructive.
And again he concluded that he had trapped himself.
What difference did it make whether your tool was destructive or not, if you were fighting for a just cause?
The Force is a tool.
You can't drive nails with a hyperdrive.
But you can't cross a galaxy on repulsors.
The scale of Force used must be proportionate to the threat and the goal before you.
And in that case, there is neither Dark nor Light, nor yellow nor red side of the Force.
There is only the sentient.
And their ability to channel the Force for good.
Or for harm.
The Sith are right.
It's not the Force that rules you, but you rule the Force.
The Jedi are right.
Uncontrolled power is the path to destruction.
There should be no petty revenge.
No greed.
No desire to dominate others.
No extremism.
Killing in anger does not make you a monster if you did it for a valid reason, not because someone stepped on your sore spot.
You can't be a hypocrite, saying the Jedi can't kill anyone after the Order hunted the Sith, bombarded worlds, destroyed the Mandalorians on Galidraan…
It's absurd and foolish to go into battle and behave like a droid, cutting yourself off from awareness of the deaths you cause.
Only control and responsibility for one's actions separate the sentient from the monster.
And nothing else.
Deflecting another shot from a doomed stormtrooper, he stole a glance at the blue-white blade of his sword, piercing the enemy soldier's body.
He looked with interest, as if the glow of the elegant weapon could reveal the future.
And he smiled at what he saw.
He felt a disturbance in the Force, a push from the depths, an impulse: the moment had come.
As if on command, the enemy fighters stopped shooting.
They didn't run, didn't take cover.
They just froze, weapons still trained on him.
They were waiting.
The Jensaarai Master tore off his black cloak, scorched in dozens of places, left only in his robe and the light armor of his Order.
Armor and robe he hadn't worn until now, carrying them like a reminder of his cowardice.
His arteries, burning with dark fire, contracted, spreading the blackness of rage and anger around him.
The same kind that drove him.
His black cloak settled gently to the floor, becoming a death shroud for several enemy fighters.
Bre'ano Umakk was no longer afraid.
He was no longer a hypocrite.
He had chosen his fate and was ready to meet it face to face.
The time had come to test his teachings in battle.
* * *
The Inquisitor was about to clip his comlink to his belt.
He had just stopped the assault on the Temple, knowing the Jedi was now more exhausted than ever.
It was time for him to appear.
But unexpectedly, the comlink chirped.
The device showed a call from Inquisitorius headquarters in the Pentastar Alignment.
Such calls were not to be ignored.
"I'm listening, Chief Inquisitor Dras."
There was no deference or awe in the Inquisitor's voice.
Even though he was well aware of what his direct superior could do to him.
The man who had become Olo Dras after the entire Inquisitorius learned of their Emperor's resurrection.
They had been reassigned by branches, turned for the most part into overseers and elite spies to replace the Ubiqtorate, ingloriously lost last year.
Chief Inquisitor Dras had become the senior over the Inquisitors operating within the Pentastar Alignment forces.
"No, I'm listening to you, Inquisitor," the Chief's voice held undisguised irritation and unrestrained rage. "Why do I have to learn about the failure of Kaine's campaign not from you, but from the HoloNet?"
Good question.
"I arrived on Coruscant to report in person and—"
"And since when is my headquarters in the Imperial Center?" the Chief Inquisitor inquired.
His voice stopped emanating any emotion whatsoever.
Which meant he knew absolutely everything.
And the fact that the Chief Inquisitor didn't even use his name when addressing him spoke for itself.
He'd screwed up.
So the Inquisitor remained silent.
He simply walked toward his fate.
"What are you doing in the Imperial Center, Inquisitor?" his superior rephrased the question.
"I detected the presence of a powerful Jedi on the planet. And I intend to destroy him. Here and now."
A chuckle came from the comlink.
"And can you?"
The Inquisitor didn't answer.
He crushed the communicator in his hand and used the Force to shove aside a wall fragment blocking his way into the Vestibule.
Glancing at the body-strewn floor of the former Jedi home, the Inquisitor looked at the soldiers who were carrying out his orders.
Then he looked around, searching for the target he had come for.
The one he had survived so long for.
And behind him marched stormtroopers from the second battalion.
The first, apparently, had been nearly wiped out here.
Squad after squad slid past the twisted durasteel, which hummed and screeched as it cooled.
The soldiers disappeared into the smoke- and shadow-filled atrium, weapons ready, watching for any hint of enemies.
One squad immediately rushed to the only undamaged vehicle—to check if anyone was alive inside.
Five minutes had passed since they left.
Five minutes since he had stood here, waiting for answers.
Not a single one of those who went to the Juggernaut had returned.
Only the crash of falling wall sections—it echoed everywhere.
The Inquisitor hurried over.
He had detected traces of the Dark Side, so he had to check what was happening there.
He wouldn't have survived this war so long if he underestimated the Jedi.
And he found the one he was looking for.
A lone silhouette, holding a lightsaber blade aloft, showing a ready stance from the arsenal of Form III: Soresu.
The Inquisitor looked at the being, whose appearance was hidden from him by a swirling dust cloud.
He was dangerous: like a sand panther out hunting.
A soft but springy stance.
Poised.
Ready to turn into a predator's pounce in an instant.
A chill of superstitious horror ran down the Inquisitor's spine.
No, this wasn't what he was looking for.
Not a broken Jedi, mired in his own thoughts about the future of the Order.
Durasteel tempered in a forge.
A fight with such a rancor promised nothing good.
The Inquisitor gave an order.
Stormtroopers appeared to his left and right.
In the same instant, the rank-and-file soldiers were blown backward as if by a gust of wind: the opponent had used the Force to gently hint that someone who came for a duel should start it.
Not hide behind the backs of those who wouldn't change anything anyway.
The officers glanced at their commanders, who in turn looked at the Inquisitor.
"You! Hey, you!" the latter called out nervously to the figure. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"
The answer was a low, mockingly cheerful rumble.
"Don't you recognize me, base apprentice? It is I—Bre'ano Umakk. The one who has stood and stands in your path."
It seemed he could relax.
After all, this was supposed to be the one he was looking for to put to death.
The one who had found and taught him the art of weakness—the Jedi teaching.
The one he had dreamed of killing ever since he entered the Inquisitorius.
And the one whose Force signature had drawn him to Coruscant.
But this wasn't him.
There was no more weakness in his voice, no more foolishness expressed in convoluted speeches that meant nothing.
Did the former apprentice want a fight with SUCH a former teacher, who, after thirty years of stagnation, seemed to have caught a second wind?
But be that as it may, the entire contingent assembled at the Jedi Temple had one goal—to find and silence the Jedi transmitter forever.
Because it would bring nothing good.
"Surrender! I have hundreds of warriors with me! You don't actually think you can stop us alone, do you?"
"I don't need to stop you."
There was something more in that statement.
Something fundamental.
That which had once drawn the Inquisitor to train with this being.
But much more powerful, weightier.
Indestructible.
Something to be feared.
"We'll get what we want anyway," the Inquisitor said, somewhat uncertainly, feeling a pang of panic, like back on the Reaper. "Get out of our way and you'll stay whole!"
"You want me to step aside?" The Mon Calamari swung his glowing blade. "Come on, then. Push me aside."
The dust was clearing, and it turned out that the Inquisitor was facing exactly the one he had wanted to find.
But this being was clad in black robes, and his blade, like a deadly arrow, was aimed straight at the Inquisitor.
His stoop was gone.
His dulled eyes burned with righteous fire.
And he wanted a fight.
And this was definitely no longer a Jedi.
This was… something more terrible than a Sith in his usual form.
Unstoppable, like the elements themselves.
Something that couldn't be undone, couldn't be ignored, hoping it would just go away.
Before the Inquisitor stood an OBSTACLE that wouldn't budge.
It could only be knocked down.
"Thousands of warriors are already on their way," the Inquisitor repeated, shaking his fist helplessly. "And you're alone, Jedi!"
"Alone… Jensaarai!"
"You're insane, old man!"
For some reason, the Inquisitor was terrified of this being.
The answer was a light, loud laugh, full of joy and freedom.
"No. I am Jensaarai Master Bre'ano Umakk." The shimmering blade came alive and traced a series of magnificent figures in the air, illuminating the entire vault and surrounding the Mon Calamari's body — full of unrestrained bestial grace — with a rainbow halo. "This Temple," he declared with a joyful smile, "is my home. And I will not leave here until I have called all my timid brothers and sisters back. You have hundreds of warriors? Good. Tonight is a good night to die. Attack: one by one, or all at once. Makes no difference to me." Finishing the spin, the blade swayed near Umakk's chest, and his white-toothed grin flashed in the darkness. "As long as I live, the beacon will work. Neither you nor your pack of rabid jackals will turn it off while I live. None of you shall pass."
Now that sounds like a challenge.
The Dark Side called for establishing who was the strongest.
It burned from within like molten metal.
The Inquisitor unclipped a lightsaber from his belt and activated it.
"Let's begin, old man."
Teacher and student rushed into the attack.