A wave of shock rippled through the Jedi. Silence fractured—replaced with the crack of sabers igniting in unison.
Shaak Ti—still a Jedi Knight—stepped to Jocasta's side. Her voice was steady, her stance rooted. "You are not alone, Librarian Jocasta. And I will not allow a Chancellor to take our younglings."
Plo Koon moved next, mask reflecting the pale torchlight. Depa Billaba joined him with calm, lethal resolve. Yaddle stepped forward as well, mantle of serenity wrapped in something fiercer.
Yaddle's voice cut clean through the standoff. "Do not make this harder, Chancellor Tarkin. Turn away from this ambition before it drags you into suffering."
The Strong Republic soldiers raised their rifles. Jedi stances tightened. The air trembled between two powers that once called each other allies. More soldiers poured from the entrance of the Temple as Consular-class light cruisers hovered low over the stairs, their engines vibrating the stone.
Tarkin lifted a hand, signaling his troops to fan out. "Grand Master Yoda," he called, voice sharp and cutting through the tension, "if you let this ripple grow—if you resist, hesitate, or so much as raise a blade—I will brand you all traitors to the Republic. Execution will be immediate."
Windu stepped closer to Yoda, voice low enough only the Grand Master heard. "Master… what will be your decision? I'll follow it. All the way. No matter how bad it is."
Yoda didn't answer at once.
Guilt softened every line of his face. The weight of Dooku and aga Sadow. The weight of a Jedi Order paralyzed by a threat it failed to foresee. His cane shook just slightly in his hand from the understanding that one wrong word here would ignite a war inside their own capital.
Then Yoda inhaled, long and steady. He raised his head.
"Stand down."
The word rippled like a shockwave.
Windu's eyes widened, disbelief flickering through him. "Master—Tarkin will—"
"Lost, we are," Yoda said quietly. "No need to make the cracks further. The wound is deep enough."
Across the courtyard, Jedi slowly lowered their blades. Jocasta, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, Depa, Yaddle—all of them hesitated, but they obeyed. The hum of sabers died one by one.
On the opposite side, Tarkin's soldiers did not lower their rifles.
Tarkin stepped forward, boots echoing over broken stone. "Good," he said. "You made the correct choice. The Jedi will cooperate with the Strong Republic. You will hand over a selection of younglings, padawans, and knights to be retrained under our doctrine. A doctrine that actually understands survival."
Shaak Ti clenched her jaw, but Jocasta touched her arm, stopping her.
Tarkin's gaze moved down the line of Jedi, stopping on Yoda. "You have one chance to prove the Jedi Order still serves the gala—"
He never finished the word. Something stepped onto the Temple's grand stairway.
A presence like death itself—dense, cold, unmistakable. Anyone who had ever crossed paths with him felt it immediately..
From the entrance, the Strong Republic soldiers parted without being ordered. Boots scraped stone as they scrambled aside, forming a path down the center.
Jin-Woo walked calmly up the stairs. Dark cloak falling behind him. Hands in his pockets.
Step slow, deliberate, unhurried—like someone who did not see danger anywhere around him. Or more accurately, someone who knew danger came from him.
One captain reacted too slowly. He raised a hand. "Arrest that man—"
He didn't finish. Three rifles immediately snapped toward him from his own squad.
The sergeant nearest him hissed through clenched teeth, refusing to lower his weapon. "We agreed to fight Jedi. And trade federation . But not Jin-Woo."
Another soldier, voice shaking, added, "If you provoke him, we'll shoot you ourselves."
The captain froze. He understood what they meant. Everyone who had seen Jin-Woo once—only once—knew the truth. His morality was unpredictable. And Tarkin had no plan for unpredictable.
Jin-Woo walked through the parted formation. The soldiers didn't dare look at him; his eyes burned dark and violet, a pressure that prickled against skin like frost. Even the Jedi, who knew he wasn't here to fight them, instinctively shifted their stance, hands brushing the hilts of their lightsabers. Out of instinct. The man walking toward them was the strongest force in the galaxy, unbound by rules, untouched by morality.
Tarkin swallowed hard. Face to face with Jin-Woo again, he could feel it — that predatory aura, the weight of something that looked at him the way a storm looks at a lone tree. No bravado remained in him; only the strain of keeping his composure.
Jin-Woo stepped up beside Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, cloak brushing stone, his presence cutting the tension like a blade.
Obi-Wan let out a breath. "Nice save, Jin-Woo. If you hadn't come, we would've lost a lot of friends today."
Qui-Gon managed a faint, tired smile. "You're late. But I'm glad you came."
Jin-Woo said nothing, only nodded—a quiet acknowledgement to the two Jedi who stood as close to friends as he ever allowed himself. Windu watched him with cautious tension, shoulders rigid. This man clashed with Jedi beliefs more than Dooku or even Qui-Gon ever had. Jin-Woo had no moral compass the Jedi could predict—only a will that bent everything around him. Windu's hand hovered near his saber, not to strike, but because instinct demanded respect for a predator that walked like a man.
Yoda's gaze stayed fixed on Jin-Woo's unreadable face. Behind the calm mask, the old master felt a ripple of gratitude. Without Jin-Woo's arrival, many younglings—and more than a few beloved apprentices—would have been dragged away by Tarkin's ambitions. Relief softened the grief in his chest.
Jin-Woo stepped forward. His dark cloak whispered over cracked stone. From his pocket, he withdrew a single white flower—a small Korean bloom he carried only for funerals. He placed it gently atop the wooden coffin. In another timeline, Dooku had died a traitor. Here, he died defending his Temple, his comrades, his home. And perhaps—still fighting Naga Sadow from within .
Jin-Woo spoke, in Korean — a language none of them understood .
Jin-Woo:
"두쿠… 처음 만났을 때, 당신은 결국 타락할 거라고 생각했어."
(du-ku… cheoeum mannasseul ttae, dang-sin-eun gyeol-guk ta-rak-hal geo-ra-go saeng-gak-haesseo.)
"Dooku… when I first met you, I believed you would inevitably fall."
"정해진 이야기처럼, 정해진 길을 따라갈 거라고…"
(jeong-hae-jin i-ya-gi-cheo-reom, jeong-hae-jin gil-eul tta-ra-gal geo-ra-go…)
"Like the canon path. Like the stories foretold."
"하지만… 내가 틀렸어."
(ha-ji-man… nae-ga teul-ryeoss-eo.)
"But… I was wrong."
"그리고 그걸 몰랐던 내가… 미안하다."
(geu-ri-go geu-geol mol-lat-deon nae-ga… mi-an-ha-da.)
"And for not seeing it sooner… I'm sorry."
"여기서… 갚을게."
(yeo-gi-seo… ga-peul-ge.)
"Let me repay you here."
He closed his eyes. Darkness gathered—not oppressive, but calm. A shift, a soft pulse, the air bending like silk. Jin-Woo's power changed shape, becoming something gentle. Something reverent.
When he opened his hand, light blossomed.
"Garden of Avalon."
The world answered. A wave of shimmering mana rippled outward, soft as breath, bright as spring. The floor around Dooku's coffin erupted in blur-white flowers that glowed faintly, petals drifting upward like tiny stars. Miniature pink clouds floated low, brushing the stone with warm light. The ruined ceiling above faded into a painted sky—colors shifting like dawn over an endless horizon. The air hummed with peace, ancient and clean, as if the Temple itself was being allowed to breathe again.
The Jedi stiffened in instinctive alarm… then froze.
A serenity washed over them—warm, absolute, impossible to resist. Not mind-control. Not magic. Just… calm. Hope. A purity the Jedi had not felt since childhood. Even Windu's rigid posture slackened, Vaapad's storm dimming into still water. The younglings in the back exhaled, fear dissolving from their faces. Yaddle lowered her head, tears falling silently.
For the first time since Dooku's fall, the Temple felt whole. Jin-Woo stood at the center of Avalon's glow, quiet as a stone in a river. The blur of flowers drifted around the coffin, pink clouds rolling like a dream sky. Soft colors shimmered across the ceiling—Avalon's horizon painted over the ruined Jedi Temple.
Palpatine watched it all with a tightening jaw. This should be impossible…
He kept his smile small, respectful, appropriate for mourning. But his thoughts cut through the moment like a blade.
I know the dark side. its shape and weight. Even Plagueis can twist life using midichlorians, revive the dying, break nature with sheer will. But this… this is not the dark side. It is not light either.
His gaze slid across the flowers, the clouds, the living murals of impossible sky.
Is this an illusion? No. Illusion does not alter the Force around it. Illusion does not calm a hall full of Jedi. Illusion does not reshape atmosphere itself.
Palpatine breathed slowly, letting the mask of sorrow settle back into place.
Jin-Woo is aligned with darkness—there is no question of that. But it isn't Sith darkness. It's something deeper… older… darker than any sorcery the ancients ever commanded, even Naga Sadow. And yet… what he created just now—this field of flowers, this sky of impossible beauty—this is the domain of peace. Of goodness. Qualities he should not possess.
His gaze slid across the blossoms, the auroral sky, the warmth that soothed every Jedi heart.
If I cannot predict him… I cannot control him. But…
A thought sharpened.
Perhaps I can guide him. Perhaps I can place him where I want him—Cato Neimoidia. If I convince him to travel there, I can bring him directly into Plagueis' path. And if fate favors me… Jin-Woo kills my master. And I finish Jin-Woo in his weakened aftermath. Two obstacles ended. I become the Sith Lord.
But another shadow crossed his mind. Naga Sadow revived himself. An ancient, if he calls others… the galaxy will be flooded with Sith spirits hungrier than any living apprentice.
Palpatine forced the worry down. He straightened his robes, fixed his expression into gentle mourning, and turned toward Jin-Woo.
Jin-Woo was already looking at him. The kind of stare that stripped every lie to bone.
Palpatine's smile didn't falter. " your tribute is beautiful. Dooku would be honored."
Jin-Woo only silent . Behind that calm face, his thoughts drifted without ripple.
I've been wondering for some time now… if Plagueis is still alive in this era, how will the story play out? Will Palpatine go rabid and attempt to kill his own master head-on? Or… will Plagueis realize how pitiful Palpatine truly is, and torture him slowly with midichlorian manipulation?
Across from him, Palpatine held his politician's smile—calm, polite, measured. Jin-Woo's gaze cut through it like a blade through paper. Palpatine felt it, even if he didn't understand it. He smiled wider.
Jin-Woo didn't return the expression. He only watched.
The Garden of Avalon shimmered around them—flowers blooming in slow spirals, pink clouds floating like soft breaths against the ceiling that had become an open sky. Jedi who moments ago stood ready for war now felt a calm they had forgotten existed.
Yoda stepped forward—slow, respectful. The glow of Avalon reflected off his eyes.
"Jin-Woo," he said, voice soft with wonder, "Avalon… the resting place of Arthur, it is? A miniature of it, perhaps? Beautiful… truly beautiful."
Jin-Woo's eyes shifted slightly. He knew he had slipped. The moment Avalon appeared, he had given another Jedi a thread—another secret closer to the identity of the Armored Man he once played.
Jin-Woo didn't back away. He simply followed the flow of the moment.
"To be more precise," he said in an even voice, "it's a realm . A utopia saturated with magical energy. It doesn't decay, and it can't be destroyed, because its nature reflects the very ideal it represents. Eternal. Unchanging. Much like the One Force itself… the place you Jedi will end up once you finally kick the bucket."
Yoda listened without blinking, soaking in every word.
Jin-Woo continued, tone steady, a rare trace of respect on his face for the ancient Master who had fought against him on Naboo. "The utopia your Jedi dream of… this place mirrors it. Daytime is filled with spring's sunshine and the smell of summer. Night is wrapped in autumn air and the stars of winter. Flowers of every color bloom across gentle plains."
Jin-woo nodded toward the painted sky overhead—a sky that wasn't painted at all, but alive. "A forest sits in the distance, wrapped in a horizon that blends evenly between land and sky. Not a steel dome like Coruscant. A real sky. A real world."
Yoda's eyes softened, ancient grief easing for a moment under the glow of something pure.
Around them, the Jedi breathed out—one collective exhale of peace, of mourning, of acceptance that Dooku's burial had become something sacred.
Palpatine watched it all with a smile that didn't reach his soul. Inside, he seethed. The illusion was too clean. Too real. Too far beyond any dark alchemy he knew.
( jinwoo mourning Clothes )