A soft hiss of the opening door.
And Mara Jade appeared on the threshold of my quarters.
The conversation with Agent Inek had completely knocked out of my head the report that she had docked with the Guardian shortly before our departure.
Thinking about the situation in the Allied Tion shifted my attention from the upcoming conversation with the Hand to more global questions.
"Grand Admiral," she said quietly. "I... I would like to confess."
Things keep getting better and better.
"I'm listening," I replied, dismissing the holograms of art objects from the peoples inhabiting the Tion Cluster.
"My message, about you being in danger," the girl, like an honor-roll student caught smoking in the bathroom, modestly lowered her eyes. "Well, I felt in the Force that something connecting us is under threat..."
"Connecting us."..
And what is that?
"Your service is not under threat," I replied.
The girl slowly, like a heavy tank rotating its turret, shifted her head to look me straight in the eyes.
A certain unpleasant gleam appeared in them.
"Glad to hear that," she said.
Barely by syllables.
I don't like her pauses between the component parts of that short sentence.
"As am I." A slight nod toward the sofa. "Have a seat. There will be another assignment for you."
"Of course," she said in a monotone, sinking onto the sofa. "I am always happy to obey your orders, Grand Admiral."
Some strange intonation in her voice. Unfamiliar. Very. Not. Standard. And I don't like it.
Having confirmed that Rukh had habitually lurked in the shadows behind the sofa where the Hand had settled, and the ysalamiri had blissfully stretched out in its cage a couple of meters from the living area, I relaxed somewhat.
I silently sat down on the sofa opposite her.
And looked the girl straight in the eyes.
"The assignment can wait. I want to hear the real reason you flew here, abandoning your plans." A slight, almost imperceptible squint of emerald eyes.
I had never noticed that in her before. Never.
"R7," I called my astromech. "Arrange to bring us some caf. And something sweet for Lady Jade."
The former R2-D2 beeped in confirmation and rolled toward the kitchen, to the food dispenser and caf maker.
The girl bit her lower lip slightly, looking me straight in the eyes.
In the days of my youth, this action was an unambiguous hint at...
Taking a deep breath, I looked down and ran my hand over my face, hoping to relieve the tension.
It didn't help.
I looked at Mara again.
The lip biting became more pronounced.
There could be no mistake now.
God damn it, women, what the hell is wrong with you?!
* * *
The Inquisitor first threw stormtroopers and infantry into the attack.
The Mon Calamari seemed not to react to the enemy's actions at all, not even moving from his spot.
It seemed as if he was bewildered by the multitude of enemies...
But that was not the case.
The white-blue blade came alive, turning into a blur that began to spin at mind-boggling speed, destroying any enemies that came near it.
The small-arms combat tactics taught in the Commonwealth, which involved gradually closing with the enemy while firing to kill, was now playing a cruel trick.
Commonwealth soldiers first approach one by one — an endless stream — warrior after warrior replacing each other from different sides, to confuse the target, distract attention, and hit unarmored spots at close range.
But this brings no success.
The Inquisitor can't take it — his nerves give way.
Commonwealth soldiers open fire with everything they have.
All.
At once.
By the time they start attacking in larger groups, they have to climb over the bodies of their dead comrades to get close to Bre'ano Umakk.
A mountain of corpses.
A mountain that becomes a wall, then a rampart.
The Jensaarai Master builds a fortress around himself from dead bodies.
He doesn't stand still.
He circles, as if in a dance of death, appearing now in one corner of the Vestibule, now in another.
The dusty chamber could explain the reason for the endless number of agonizing gasps and screams on the command frequency.
But that is no excuse.
Stormtrooper armor has enough vision spectra to detect an enemy in darkness and dust... They are simply weak.
From a safe distance — hidden behind the twisted sheet of durasteel that was once the gate — the Inquisitor watched the battle with involuntary admiration.
All that could be seen through the smoke and behind the backs of the warriors who rushed forward to distract the mad Jedi were shimmering blue flashes, sometimes illuminating the Jensaarai himself, who jumped and spun — always in motion, in endless attack, breaking and crushing, strewing the Vestibule floor with corpses and severed limbs.
"This is madness!" A young man in infantry armor appeared before the Inquisitor — the commander of the Commonwealth infantry. "Can't we just blow him up? Gas him? Something like that?"
"No," the Inquisitor admired his old teacher against his will. "He must die by my hand."
"Then go and kill him!" the infantry commander shouted. "I lost a company in a minute!"
With a hiss and characteristic hum, the crimson lightsaber blade severed the foolish head of the useless man.
"And in an instant — of life," the Inquisitor found such a pun over his subordinate amusing.
What did he care how many of them died there?
One, two, squad, company, battalion?
Even a whole legion.
If it weakens the enemy, who has suddenly become so strong and powerful, then it is worth it.
And it doesn't matter how many soldiers die in the process.
They are all expendable material that must serve their masters exclusively.
They live to satisfy their masters' desires and ambitions.
The rest — who cares.
* * *
Life not only presents surprises, but can itself be presented as a surprise.
Seeing the Mon Calamari in the far part of the Vestibule destroying the enemy, Jehan suddenly realized that all the enemies had retreated, rushing at the Jensaarai.
"We live!" he shouted, rushing forward and grabbing a pouch with energy cells and gas cartridges.
Afar, realizing exactly the same thing, rushed after him.
Ducking behind another piece of cover, the partners divided the weaponry between themselves.
Weapons reloaded and ready for battle.
But judging by the fact that the Mon Calamari alone kills dozens of fighters every second, and unit commanders are unanimously shouting for help, calling for new formations, begging for all available forces to be thrown here without exception, Bre'ano Umakk is doing a perfectly fine job of exterminating the enemy on his own.
"Remind me to never joke about him again," Afar muttered, firing his carbine at the nearest enemy soldier.
Yes, the Jensaarai is strong, but help won't hurt him.
"And have you ever said anything funny about him?" Jehan inquired, using fire from his repeater to destroy a squad of grenadiers who intended to blow up the Mon Calamari from behind.
"Not out loud, of course," the Zygerrian justified himself, shooting another one. "I'm not suicidal. Look!"
Numerous pieces of building structures began to rise into the air, swirling around the Force user in a local tornado.
Providing him protection. From everything.
"Is it normal that I'm scared?" Jehan asked quietly.
"If we get out of here alive, I'm getting drunk," his partner promised. "I've never seen such a massacre!"
Yes, this is not a fight. Not a battle. This is total annihilation.
And Jehan was immensely glad that he was on the right side.
There is no cowardice in that. Just a healthy sense of self-preservation.
* * *
The enemy loses fighters faster than they can bring in fresh reinforcements.
Because of the blocked entrance to the Temple, stormtroopers and infantry cannot march here in close formation.
They are forced to break in through narrow gaps between walls and armored vehicle hulls, through holes in ceilings and ancient vaults.
They advance from everywhere.
But Bre'ano Umakk does not notice this.
His attention is completely riveted to the emptiness in his chest.
This emptiness rings with anger, hostility, and greedy triumph: the emotions of the former student, to whom his former mentor has fallen into the tentacles of a trap.
The Mon Calamari feels no enmity or anger toward him.
For him, he represents nothing more than just an enemy.
He no longer perceives him as his failure.
He is simply a former friend who was trusted, and who betrayed that trust.
And now the former student has flown here to destroy his former mentor.
Every killing by Sith and their followers is perceived as a moment of triumph.
As confirmation of their strength, their power, the correctness of their chosen path, and the unshakability of their philosophy.
They kill children, women, civilians, and military with equal indifference — any crime is justified by faith in the Dark Side, which supposedly demands more victims.
All of this is wrong.
A tool cannot demand anything.
It has no mind. It has no desires.
What sentients pass off as needs and sacrifices in the name of the Dark Side of the Force are actually nothing more than their psychological needs.
Certain steps that must be taken to overcome their inner foundations and worldviews.
No one is born evil or good. No one is born a righteous person or a villain.
All of this is the result of a lived segment of life, communication with sentients, the results of victories and mistakes on life's path.
Sith do not renounce their loved ones, killing them, for no reason.
They cut off their way back.
They strive to sever all ties with their past.
Because they are ashamed of who they were before.
Before they obtained their own power.
Like a child who fears a whipping at home for a bad grade in a diary, they seek ways to erase from their memory everything and everyone that might remind them of the past.
All this is wrong.
You cannot forget who you were before you achieved something.
You cannot lose touch with reality.
Jedi took children at a young age, depriving them of maternal love and parental care.
Grown Jedi did not know what fatherly upbringing was, did not know that someone could comfort them when they experienced grief.
Sith, on the other hand... act almost the same way.
With the only exception that... But what exceptions are there?
Both teachings raise their followers so that they do not know and do not want to know anything about their past, family, the life they had before training began.
They are all the same. No one is right.
Truth is somewhere between these ossified dogmas.
Bre'ano Umakk did not flatter himself with the thought that the revelation that had opened to him was the ultimate truth.
There is no end to self-knowledge.
There is only a path as long as life.
Overcoming failures, making mistakes, striving to care about something more than food on the table and water from the tap.
To live and strive, not just exist, one needs a dream.
An idea. Something greater than simple truths and comfort.
The Force and the real world are inseparable from each other.
Otherwise the Force simply could not influence reality, and all abilities of the gifted would be limited to non-material techniques.
But everything is different. Everything will be different.
The Mon Calamari smiled, realizing that he was fighting for a just cause. The cause of his life.
He did not regret at all that he learned this at such a moment.
Better late than never.
But understanding must come before irreparable mistakes are made.
Bre'ano destroyed opponents one after another.
From the emptiness in his chest, he pours out compassion for the deaths he causes, reflected in the Force in a continuous echo.
He exudes absolute empathy. Perfect understanding.
He accepts the pain he causes with his actions; and shares the pain he causes.
He shares with those he has killed absolutely all memories of the multicolored life: the inexpressible whiteness of suffering, the red tide of rage, the black hole of despair, the blinding radiation of irreplaceable loss... And faith in their own rightness.
He understands and acknowledges the necessity of action for each side.
And is firmly convinced that it is impossible to act otherwise.
This is not just a struggle of blasters and lightsaber.
This is a clash of ideas.
The idea of giving a second chance to bring something new, good, bright, WORTHY into the galaxy.
Against blind faith in the necessity of eradicating dissent.
He does not hide, despite the enemy not being able to understand this, how much he loves all this, for all these phenomena are one: pain and joy, separation and reunion, life and death.
To love something means to love everything at once, for no thing, no emotion, no thought in the galaxy can exist by itself, but only together with all the others.
All-encompassing universe. The Force. All in one.
He knows that among the Force-insensitive enemies who seek to kill him, there is still one who will understand.
Maybe. Or maybe not.
That is his right.
His will — to act as he deems right.
His freedom. Which cannot be limited.
But only as long as one sentient's freedom does not mean infringing on another's freedom.
He projects his thoughts into the Force, hoping that they will reach their recipient, that they will be received and understood.
He draws the Force from the very depths of the Temple.
He sips it in gulps of purest energy, which, like a sip of spring water, refreshes him and gives him new strength to fight.
He absorbs into himself the pain and suffering, joys and accomplishments that have occurred in this Temple over thousands of years of its existence.
He uses all this as fuel for his message into the Force.
He feels a response call in the Force.
He understands that his message has reached the minds of his brothers and sisters of the Jedi Order, hiding in various corners of the galaxy.
They are confused, angered, worried, scared, interested...
Different views, different worldviews, different degrees of understanding of his messages and intentions.
But he was heard.
Now the task is small.
It remains to make a sacrifice and prove that the new view of the Force is worth fighting for.
Bre'ano Umakk does not fear this.
He understands and accepts the necessity of the step that he must take alone.
And he smiles.
Perhaps this is some elaborate joke of the universe — to be blind all one's life, only to learn the truth at the end of the path.
Perhaps this is the very trial for which he has been preparing all his life.
Yes. Undoubtedly. That's how it is.
Bre'ano Umakk smiled.
He was ready for the final trial.
And so, crushing enemy soldiers, he began to move toward his opponent, who was impatiently waiting for the former teacher to tire out and become an easy target.
* * *
A lightsaber strike against an energy staff, an invisible loop lashing with destructive energy across the skin between the thumb and index finger of a stormtrooper who stands out from his brethren. He is armed and prepared for battle with a Jedi. But that does not save him. He dies before he sees the white-blue blade rapidly approaching him. A whirlwind of a dashingly twisted somersault over the heads of two warriors fighting side by side... and their helpless fall when the lightsaber cuts the bases of their necks with one stroke and severs limbs... The astonished blinking of the eyes of another Commonwealth warrior, when the energy tip plunges into his open mouth, burning through the hard palate down to the bones of the skull... In these brief flashes is the death that Bre'ano Umakk brings to his opponents... A sharp smell of burnt milk with metallic additives — that is the smell of human blood coagulating from the heat of the blade... a fringe of burning ice — strips of his flesh, lacerated by blaster shots... The cold flame of controlled rage, poisoning consciousness... These are just weak interferences in the symphony of the Force that the Jensaarai Master is performing. The Force not only supports him, not only lifts and carries him: the Force flows into his veins so that his heart beats in rhythm with the rhythm of the surrounding universe. He has become the Force, and the Force has become him. He does not even suspect the inevitability of death: causes and effects disappeared along with fear, and doubts, and pain in that same endless second when he consciously deprived himself of composure. He had a goal that he had been pursuing for thirty long years. And he was comprehending it.
At one moment, the enemy stormtroopers and soldiers simply ran out.
The Mon Calamari paused for a moment, looking around.
Yes, he had killed all the enemies who were in the Vestibule of the Jedi Temple.
All those who tried to kill him. Except one.
The very one who had been waiting.
And now he was slowly moving toward him, raising his blade in the characteristic Soresu stance.
Having stood until now under the arch of the remains of the Temple's main entrance, he walked toward his teacher.
Without ceasing to cultivate rage and anger within himself, strengthening himself with the Dark Side of the Force.
Desiring power and victory. Drying himself from within. Burning himself clean.
Bre'ano Umakk smiled, seeing what was coming toward him.
He realized unmistakably that this — right here, right now — is the very thing he had lived his life for.
His feet stepped onto this path on the day he was born; every success or tragedy, every stupid prank and humiliation, every inexplicable twist of cruel fate added a drop to that stream inside him that gathered behind the barriers of self-discipline.
Those barriers were created by Jedi trying to smooth the sharp edges of his arrogance and fear; by the ruthless jokes of friends mocking his attempts to impress them; and even by training with his mentor...
"A Jedi does not put on a show, Bre'ano. Battle is not a game. For a Jedi, a fight is a predetermined loss. A tragedy. If blood must be spilled, a Jedi does it quickly, with surgical precision, with all due respect. With sorrow."
That's what they told him. They told him, repeated it, drilled it into his head. And they did not believe it. They did not accept it.
Umakk tried so long, so painfully, to be what everyone wanted him to be; tried to restrain his fear, his caustic jokes that were out of place and out of time; tried to be a good student, a good friend, a humble sentient, a true Jedi...
But under the arch of this gate, the attempts came to an end.
There is no reason to keep denying the truth about himself.
Playing the hero is not just permissible... it is necessary.
To hold this threshold, it is not enough to wound and kill, it is not enough to be restrained, surgically precise, and sorrowful. To hold the threshold, he must not merely strike, but strike without effort, without fear, with laughter. With joy.
To hold the threshold, he must dance, spin, and leap, drawing in his opponents. Victims.
He must force them to consciously hesitate before moving against him. He must make them afraid.
He spoke the words: a magical incantation that destroyed the barriers and released a violent stream.
A stream that washed away all the chaff, leaving only that for which he lived and was ready to die.
The idea of a better future for his brothers and sisters. The living and those who will come to replace them.
None shall pass.
In his hands is the blade of a fallen hero — his teacher, which he obtained with incredible effort, but now he himself is a hero, and he is not the one to fall.
He is ascending.
The Force thunders in him, and he thunders in the Force.
Having removed restraints, setting aside all conscious thoughts, listening only to his passion and joy, controlling them in this battle, he gains a power he never dreamed of.
He himself became the fight.
He does not know about the corpses littering the tunnel floor, which his feet nimbly avoid on their own. He does not know about the twisted durasteel plates that he himself tore from the gate debris, rising and spinning around him to deflect blaster bolts that snipers and new doomed fighters approaching for another attack fire at him. He does not know about the half-destroyed statues from the atrium, which the Force drew into a dance; about the giant figures of Jedi of many races inhabiting the galaxy, which seemed to come alive and act on his side, clanging, spinning and falling, crushing dozens and hundreds of enemies under them, turning the atrium into a slaughterhouse. And he is utterly unconcerned with the outlines of the destroyed ancient walls, the lighting, or the number of attackers.
A dozen? A hundred? A thousand?
How many enemies were carried to safe places after receiving non-fatal wounds?
And were there any wounded in this battle at all? Unlikely.
He did not seek to disarm them and take them out of the fight. He stood for his ideals. And killed for them.
How many enemy soldiers now lie dead in clouds of dust amid the ruins and remains of two Juggernauts?
He does not remember, for memory does not exist as such.
No past. No future.
He does not even perceive himself.
He does not perceive the Commonwealth soldiers and the former student who has now become a sworn enemy.
He has become the warriors he fights, bleeding together with every one who falls from his blows.
There is no more Bre'ano Umakk; there are no soldiers of the Pentastar Alignment, no Jedi or Sith minions.
There are only dancers and the dance.
In this dance, all existence: from the spin of quarks to the slow rotation of galaxies, everything is in motion.
Everything is in the dance. Everything is in being.
* * *
The Inquisitor approached his opponent.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, pointing at the bodies of the slain soldiers, mangled into pulp.
He didn't care that his former teacher was controlling construction debris, using it for both defense and attack without the slightest harm to himself, hurling chunks of columns and floor slabs to wipe out entire squads of soldiers that he, the Inquisitor, had sent to the slaughter.
"There is no beauty in these deaths," the Mon Calamari replied loudly. "You sent these men to the slaughter to weaken me. You sacrificed them in vain, because you only made me stronger. Your pettiness and mania have opened my eyes. You, who wanted to kill me for my weakness, have made me stronger."
"You will never survive this fight, old man," the Inquisitor promised him. "I never rely on luck. And that is precisely why I always manage to survive. I always have a backup plan to avoid any trouble..."
"Always?" There was something in his voice that made the Inquisitor freeze in place. "Any trouble?"
In an instant, the stone defense around the Mon Calamari turned into a stream of deadly projectiles that ground new stormtroopers approaching the top steps of the main entrance into bloody smears.
The Inquisitor watched as an entire battalion was reduced to chunks of bodies, streaks of blood, and paste of brains.
He didn't even have time to fill his lungs with air to ask what his former teacher, who was acting in a decidedly un-Jedi-like manner, was talking about—but he didn't manage to do so.
His unspoken question was answered by a sickeningly familiar sound... a click... a hiss... a hum.
Slowly, gracefully, afraid of seeing something he couldn't tear his eyes away from, the Inquisitor turned toward the new source of pale light in this ruined place.
He turned toward the light that itself sparkled with blueness and cast whitish highlights on the curves of the remnants of what was once a magnificent interior.
And found himself staring at the tip of a lightsaber barely a centimeter from the tip of his own nose.
"A lightsaber is a very interesting invention," Bre'ano Umakk said amiably, now only a couple of meters away from him. "Nothing like it has ever been created in all of military history. A paradoxical weapon, much like the Jedi who use it: peaceful warriors who kill in the name of life. Have you ever noticed? The blade is rounded; it has no cutting edge. But it is a lightsaber—and it itself is nothing other than a cutting edge. No matter how you turn the blade, it always cuts. Curious, isn't it? One might even say symbolic."
"What?" The Inquisitor opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
He wanted to ask what this senile old man was doing.
Why wasn't he killing him with the same ease he'd shown with the stormtroopers and infantry?
He wanted to ask many more questions, but all he could manage was:
"What?"
And again, the Mon Calamari, who called himself a master of the Jensaarai, seemed to read his thoughts.
"You didn't understand anything," he said, and it was somehow terrifying that the Mon Calamari, whose body practically glowed in the darkness of the night, spoke in a cheerful tone. "Sith use a lightsaber to kill. Jedi claim they need it for defense, not attack. But in battle, both sides use the lightsaber for both attack and defense. The same is true of the Force."
"You're a crazy old man..."
"Think what you want, my former student. I will give you only one chance. You can accept a new truth—and join me. Cast aside dogma and become the best version of yourself. Or else, you will not leave here alive."
The Inquisitor struck the white-and-blue blade with his own weapon without much difficulty and deflected the threat from his face.
"Whatever you've cooked up in your head, old man, the only one who will die here is you. I have the full power of the Dark Side with me!"
"So be it," the former Jedi replied modestly. "But you will not achieve what you desire. Because I have the Force with me. The Unifying Force."
The master of the Jensaarai stopped smiling.
He took a step forward, shifting into a combat stance.
And turned into a killing machine.
* * *
"This is getting too drawn out," Afar said, watching the battle of two titans.
Though each was of ordinary height, one look at them was enough to understand—it was best not to get close.
The speed at which the blue and red lightsaber blades flashed made the hair stand on end in all the wrong places.
"We need to figure out a way to retreat!" Cross said. "And how to get the master out of here before he does something that will have me waking up in a cold sweat at night!"
"You mean what we've already seen isn't enough?" Afar asked.
"I think this is only the beginning," Jahan admitted. "We need an exit, we need an exit..."
But saying it was one thing.
Understanding and finding it was quite another.
His gaze darted across the Vestibule, which had turned into a battlefield, but his brain, fixated on the confrontation between two sentient beings, simply couldn't grasp how to escape from here.
And then something warm, friendly, bright, beautiful, like the rays of a sun, touched him.
He was surprised to feel his mind clearing of extraneous and intrusive thoughts.
Concentrating on how to leave the battlefield.
Together with Afar.
Something inexplicable, without malice or the imposition of its own will, was telling him that only the two of them needed to escape.
That the master of the Jensaarai had found his path.
Which he had accepted and was following to the end.
Along with this came the understanding that this mental contact was coming from the Mon Calamari.
Jahan had never been sensitive to the Force, had never contacted them, and couldn't say what it felt like.
He only felt a friendly advice, projected directly into his head: "Leave. You have your own goal."
He didn't hear a voice, but for some reason he believed that the author of these lines was currently conversing with the man in pompous black robes with an Inquisitorius command badge on his chest.
And then they began their battle, and the Mon Calamari started to retreat.
The warmth inside didn't disappear, but it seemed to begin pushing Jahan Cross somewhere.
His gaze fell on the smoking wrecks of two Juggernauts.
But three machines had crashed into the Temple...
"Afar... I have an idea."
"And how are we supposed to get Umakk out of this maelstrom?" the Zygerrian asked.
"No way," Jahan shared the revelation quietly. "He's doing everything so we can leave. Master Umakk is staying in the Temple."
"What makes you think that?"
"He told me," Cross replied just as quietly, taking a deep breath. "He planned it from the start. He just didn't think we'd be such idiots who almost ruined his entire plan by staying."
The Zygerrian looked at the red and black lightsaber blades flashing in the darkness.
He looked at the breaches in the walls, through which a little night light seeped inside.
"Then we should get out of here," he concluded. "If the old man has something planned, it's clearly something big."
* * *
His weapon began to move with such incredible speed as the Mon Calamari had never before demonstrated during training sessions on Dantooine.
Parrying the first sequence, the Inquisitor realized that his former mentor had always held something in reserve...
Or else all his talk about the Unifying Force wasn't just the empty ramblings of a madman, and he had indeed learned something that made him stronger.
More aggressive.
More ruthless.
Only now, having refused to follow the fool, did he see Umakk's true abilities, and realized that he could hardly protect himself from imminent death.
Though a chance for victory still remained.
There is always a chance.
The opponent didn't even react when the Inquisitor deflected his attack and stepped back to regroup.
He had started the fight fiercely, raining a flurry of multidirectional strikes on his former student, hoping to end their skirmish quickly.
Now he had to reconsider his strategy.
"You've gotten better since the last time we fought," the Inquisitor said, clearly impressed and not even trying to hide it.
But he didn't do it out of kindness.
Or to show respect.
He needed a breather to rekindle the fire of the Dark Side within him, which had faded during the short conversation.
His former mentor didn't react.
He lunged forward again, and the area before the main entrance to the Jedi Temple filled with the hiss and crackle of lightsabers, which had clashed several times in the span between two heartbeats.
The Inquisitor could have long since lost his life if he'd tried to react to each movement individually.
Instead, he simply called upon the Dark Side, letting it flow through him and guide his hand.
He surrendered to it completely, unconditionally.
His weapon became an extension of the Force, and he answered the Mon Calamari's relentless attack with an impenetrable defense.
Then he went on the offensive.
In the past, the Inquisitor had feared subordinating his will to the raw emotions that fed the Dark Side.
But since then, he had grown wiser.
Stronger.
More powerful.
He no longer had such shortcomings; for the first time, he was tapping into his full potential.
Even feeling the fire of hatred consuming him from within, he would not let his former teacher win.
Yes, he had grown stronger, but the Dark Side would still triumph.
Whatever Umakk possessed.
On the contrary, defeating such a powerful opponent would only make the Inquisitor stronger than his former self.
And no one would stand in his way.
Perhaps not even the Emperor himself.
He drove the Mon Calamari back, under the Temple's archway, with fierce, sharp strikes, forcing his old teacher to retreat.
Performing a backflip, Umakk flew through the giant breach where the Temple's main doors had been, out into the Vestibule, but the Inquisitor was relentless in his assault, lunging forward sharply and nearly landing a slashing blow on his opponent's leg.
His blade was deflected at the last second, but he quickly followed up with another series of powerful thrusts and stabs.
The master of the Jensaarai continued to retreat, steadily driven back by the fury of his student's mad attack.
Every time he tried to change tactics or switch to a different form, the Inquisitor anticipated it, reacted, and seized the advantage.
The denouement was inevitable.
The Dark Side within the Inquisitor was too great, prevailing, as it turned out, even over the tricks his opponent had demonstrated in his fight with the stormtroopers.
Only some unexpected maneuver could save Umakk, but for that he needed an opening.
And that opening was precisely what the Inquisitor was not giving him.
Throughout the entire course of his training, the former student had seen every possible sequence, series, movement, and trick of Soresu and knew how to parry and neutralize it all.
The master of the Jensaarai was clearly in despair.
He jumped, spun, dove: he was wild and reckless in his retreat, seeking only to preserve his own life.
This only fueled the Inquisitor's bloodlust.
He continued to advance, driving his opponent deeper into the ruins of the Jedi Temple.
The rubble underfoot would hamper him.
One mistake was all it would take—and the crimson blade would sever that mad, stubborn head.
Realizing what was happening, the Mon Calamari began using the Force to hurl chunks of columns, walls, and floors at him.
None of it helped.
Filled with rage, the Inquisitor cast it all aside, continuing his advance.
At the edge of his perception, he felt more and more armed units of the Alignment converging on the Jedi Temple.
He felt the transport shuttles landing troops directly on the roof of the ziggurat.
He sensed movement inside each of the half-ruined and collapsed towers of the Temple.
As if thirty years ago, Imperial forces were once again storming the Temple without compromise.
Floor by floor.
And this fact only heightened the Inquisitor's triumph.
Now he understood what his former mentor had been trying to achieve.
To stir the Jedi's conscience.
To make them raise their heads and come out to fight.
It wouldn't work, not for a Hutt.
Now the communications center would be destroyed.
And the Jensaarai would be annihilated.
The Inquisitor had practically cornered his prey at the far end of the Vestibule.
And, triumphant, savoring the moment, he watched the Mon Calamari, who stood a couple of meters from the wall.
On the wall, ancient scorch marks from countless blaster shots were visible.
Perhaps someone had been executed here thirty years ago.
If so, it would be extremely symbolic.
"This is your end, former teacher," the Inquisitor said, not hiding his triumph. "You are trapped. Your Temple, which you fight for—I have occupied it with two legions of soldiers who will find and destroy everything you fought for. Here. Now."
He looked at the Mon Calamari, who appeared frightened.
But the smile on his lips suggested that the former Jedi seemed to be playing some kind of game of deception with him.
"You still haven't understood anything," he said softly.
The Dark Side was practically bursting from the Inquisitor.
The words reached him as if through cotton.
A fire of hatred burned in his eyes, and the edges of his vision were clouded by a bloody haze of bloodlust.
"What are you talking about, old man?" he snarled impatiently.
How dare this wreck ruin his moment of triumph?
But a worm of doubt gnawed at the Inquisitor from within.
There were less than five meters between them, but the Mon Calamari had enough room to calmly assume an attacking stance.
The terror that had proven to be feigned disappeared from his face.
The dimmed radiance of the Force emanating from him flared up again with bright flame.
"You didn't corner me against the wall," the former teacher replied. "I lured you and your army into a trap so that my friends could get away."
"Friends?" The Inquisitor frowned.
Suddenly, the sounds of blaster fire reached him.
Turning around, he saw the squad guarding the only undamaged Juggernaut fall to precise shots from two figures in black.
Who were already inside the cockpit of the armored vehicle.
The wheeled giant coughed with its engine and slowly began to roll out of the breach...
"Let them escape," the Inquisitor growled, "but you won't get away."
"I never intended to," the master of the Jensaarai smiled at him. "I will die here, in the Temple that was my home..."
"Don't doubt that," the Inquisitor snorted.
"And you will die here," the Mon Calamari said with the same smile. "And everyone you brought here. The entire Coruscant garrison. And my friends will escape not just from the Temple that became a trap. They will leave the planet. And after the Pentastar Alignment loses the elite of its ground forces, all of you—every one of you who survives this—will be hunted down like wild animals by Palpatine's servants. And destroyed for your failure. My death will only be the beginning of the collapse of everything you serve, former student."
The lack of a name in this context was as humiliating as from the Chief Inquisitor.
The Inquisitor hesitated.
He understood there was a rational grain in the Mon Calamari's words, but he simply couldn't believe he had been outwitted so easily!
But wasn't cunning a weapon of the Dark Side of the Force?
How was this possible?!
"The Force is just a tool," the master of the Jensaarai said with a smile. "There are no Sides. The Force is Unifying. And it is with me."
Waves of the Force began to emanate from the Mon Calamari, literally warping the ancient Temple.
Centuries-old ceilings crackled with fissures, the remains of columns crumbled and crashed noisily to the floor of the Vestibule.
The death of several thousand people—Alignment stormtroopers—echoed in the Force like a thunderous roar.
One of the corners of the Jedi Temple collapsed all the way down to the Lower Levels, burying several battalions of unsuspecting Alignment soldiers beneath it.
Then part of the facade collapsed, blocking the exit from the Temple.
Complete darkness reigned inside, barely broken by the light from breaches and the lightsabers.
"This is your home!" the Inquisitor roared, rushing into the fight, but the Mon Calamari easily parried his attack, throwing the former student aside like a pesky insect.
A huge section of the ceiling crashed down from above, followed by a rain of screaming beings who shattered upon falling from the great height.
"You're destroying the legacy of your own teachings!"
The Inquisitor realized he couldn't get out.
Couldn't fight his way through, couldn't survive the Temple's collapse.
Couldn't slip from death's embrace.
He threw several stones at his opponent, but they seemed to hit an invisible barrier and missed their target.
The Inquisitor lunged to attack, but his foot got caught in a crevice between two slabs of flooring.
With a distinct crunch, his leg broke.
Then another stone fell from above, pinning him to the floor and breaking his spine.
The Inquisitor wanted to scream in pain, but couldn't.
The air left his lungs.
The weight of his own defeat prevented him from breathing.
He seethed inside and couldn't control it.
"The Jedi need to be put to an end," the Mon Calamari's voice echoed. "The Temple is a symbol of the ignorance into which they have degenerated. Its collapse will mark the beginning of a new era."
It couldn't be!
It couldn't!
No Jedi would destroy their own sanctuary, just to make others understand...
The Inquisitor stopped short.
And at the same time, the Dark Side began to devour him from within, melting his bones and tissues.
The Darkness demanded fuel that he could not give it.
Now, seeing the cruel and cunning expression on his enemy's face, the Inquisitor understood the real truth.
The Force truly was just a tool.
And then the Jedi Temple on Coruscant finally collapsed.
The transmission, broadcast to every corner of the galaxy, the echoes of emotion and understanding of the master of the Jensaarai's ultimate truth, reached the ears of those who wanted to hear it.
When the last vaults fell, they buried beneath them the robes and lightsaber of Bre'ano Umakk.
But not him.
Having achieved enlightenment at the very end of his path, the master of the Jensaarai became one with the Force.
With the Unifying Force.