We awoke just before exiting hyperspace. The Unknown Regions greeted us not with the silence of space, but with something more sinister – a feeling of being watched. The coordinates Revan entered had not led us to a dead world. Instead, our ship emerged from hyperspace above a planet that pulsed with life – but a strange, wrong life, like a familiar melody played in a minor key.
I awoke on the bridge and saw through the panoramic window the blue sphere below, and felt a chill crawl down my spine. The planet was beautiful – too beautiful. Perfectly symmetrical continents, cities laid out in geometric patterns, orbital stations forming regular rings around the equator.
"Revan, where have you brought us?" Malak looked at Revan in bewilderment. His massive figure slowly rose from the floor, casting a long shadow on the bridge wall.
Revan slowly turned around.
"You all sought the Truth. Here it is. I have brought you to it."
My second apprentice walked to the viewport. His usually calm face was now contorted in a grimace of discomfort.
"Master," he whispered, "down there... I see light. Billions of lights of life. But they are... wrong."
"Explain," I approached him.
"They are alive. But their life... is not their own. As if they are all connected to something. A single source. A single will."
Revan abruptly turned to the comms console and activated the transmitter, which crackled:
"Welcome. He awaits you."
Silence hung over the bridge. We didn't understand who this "he" was.
"We land," Revan finally said.
We descended to the indicated coordinates, and what we saw made us freeze in astonishment.
The city stretched to the horizon. But it was not the chaotic growth of an organic civilization – it was designed geometry brought to perfection. Buildings of white stone and blue metal soared into the sky, their spires reaching the clouds. The streets were perfectly clean, trees planted with mathematical precision, fountains gushing in a strict rhythm.
And sentient beings. Thousands, millions of sentient beings moving through the streets.
But when I touched them with the Force, I felt the same thing. They were alive. But their life was... controlled. Like beautiful dolls, manipulated by invisible strings.
We disembarked from the ship onto the landing pad. We were met by a delegation of six figures in elegant white robes. Their skin was blue – a deep, almost inky hue. Their eyes glowed red. Their facial features were delicate, aristocratic.
Chiss. I recognized them from descriptions in ancient texts. A legendary race living in the Unknown Regions. No one had heard of them for a thousand years. No one knew why. Now I guessed.
They simply stood, their red eyes looking at us expressionlessly, their faces perfectly calm.
"Welcome to the capital of Ascension," one of them finally spoke, and his voice was strange. Too even, too modulated, like a recorded message played through living lips. "He awaits you. Follow us."
They turned in unison – perfectly synchronized, like soldiers on parade – and began to walk. We followed them, our hands instinctively reaching for our lightsabers.
The city was even more eerie up close. Sentient beings were working, talking, even laughing.
"They are all under his control," the seer whispered beside me. "Every single one. Billions of puppets dancing on the same strings."
"How long did it take to conquer an entire planet?" the second apprentice asked, horror in his voice.
"Not as long as you think," replied one of the Chiss guides, without turning around. "When our rulers were saved, the rest followed quickly. Resistance was... minimal."
We walked through the central square, where a monument stood – a huge statue of black stone. It depicted a figure pointing somewhere, presumably towards a bright future.
At the foot of the statue lay flowers. Thousands of bouquets, fresh, perfectly arranged. Sentient beings continued to bring new ones – not rushing, but not dawdling, as if fulfilling a sacred duty. Children waved flags, their laughter sounding musical, but somehow... synchronized. Old people cried tears of joy.
The seer shuddered beside me.
"Master," he whispered, "their joy... it's real. They are truly happy. But this happiness... It's like an echo of real emotion."
"They worship him," Malak growled. "Like a god."
"He is a god," the Chiss replied, and his smile was sincere. "He gave us everything. Peace without wars, without hunger, without fear. Everyone has a job, a home, a purpose. Isn't that paradise? He takes care of us, and we love him. It's that simple."
We approached the central building – a pyramid of black obsidian, towering over the entire city. Its facets were covered in runes, glowing with a dim red light. I recognized some of the symbols – ancient Sith.
Massive doors opened before us, and we entered.
The interior of the pyramid was enormous. The hall stretched upwards for hundreds of meters, its ceiling lost in shadow.
In the center of the hall stood a throne. Not luxurious, not ornate – a simple chair of black stone. And on it sat a sentient being.
He looked young – no older than thirty-five. Handsome, with regular features, dark hair tied in a ponytail, nothing like the statue. Dressed in a simple black robe without adornments. Only his eyes betrayed his true nature – they glowed with a dim amber light, like the embers of a dying fire.
When he looked at us, I felt pressure. Not physical – mental. As if the weight of an entire planet pressed down on my consciousness, assessing, measuring, weighing my worth.
"Welcome," his voice was pleasant, almost melodious. "I have waited for you for so long."
Revan took a step forward and knelt.
"My Lord! I have fulfilled everything exactly!"
He tilted his head, as if examining an interesting exhibit.
He rose from the throne, his movement smooth, graceful. He descended the steps, approaching us, and with each step the pressure intensified.
"I am pleased, my apprentice. You have stopped the threat of Mandalore," Vitiate continued, his voice hypnotic. "Saved the galaxy from endless conflict. A noble goal. A worthy goal. And you have achieved it. The Mandalorians are broken."
He turned to the rest of us.
"You have all come here for answers. To understand what has happened. What has changed in you. Allow me to enlighten you."
Vitiate raised his hand, and a vision materialized in the air. I saw Malachor V at the moment the generator was activated. I saw a wave of dark energy spread across the planet, millions of lives extinguished in an instant.
But it was not just destruction. It was... transformation.
"Midi-chlorians," Vitiate spoke as if lecturing students, "are not just symbiotes. They are conduits of divinity. And when millions of beings die simultaneously, their midi-chlorians do not disappear. They are redistributed."
The vision changed. I saw Meetra Surik standing at the epicenter of the catastrophe. I saw waves of energy converge on her, pour into her, fill her with the power of the dead millions.
"She became a nexus," Vitiate continued. "A living repository of the power of an entire planet. The perfect vessel. This was the true purpose of the ritual."
He turned to me, his eyes burning brighter.
"But something went wrong, didn't it, Kreia? For some reason, the future chose an infinitesimally small probability, and she went to the Jedi. But it doesn't matter! The Jedi Council, in their infinite foolishness, exiled the most valuable being in the galaxy. Perhaps my prize will return to me yet..."
I felt anger rise within me.
"She is not a prize. She is a person."
"She is a tool," Vitiate corrected coldly. "Like all of you. Like all living beings. Tools that must be used, shaped, directed towards the right goal."
My apprentice couldn't stand it. He drew his lightsaber, its blade flashing in the dim hall.
"We are not tools!" he roared, lunging forward.
Vitiate didn't even move.
The apprentice froze in mid-air, his body hovering a meter above the floor, his lightsaber falling from his paralyzed hand. He tried to move, I saw the tension in every muscle, but he was completely immobile.
"Brave," Vitiate commented, as if appraising a racehorse. "You will become a magnificent Lord of Pain when I am done with you."
He released him, and my apprentice crashed to the floor, breathing heavily.
Malak stepped forward, his voice icy.
"You are mistaken. We are not your puppets. We are stronger than you think. I don't know how you subdued Revan, but you will pay for it!"
"Really?" Vitiate laughed, and there was no mirth in that laugh. Only cold contempt. "Show me then. Show me how you will make me!"
Malak needed no further invitation. He drew his lightsaber. The Force exploded around him, making the air tremble with power.
He was one of the greatest warriors of his generation. A master of all forms of combat.
And he was nothing before Vitiate.
Malak attacked with incredible speed, his blade a blur of light. But Vitiate simply stood, unmoving, and every blow stopped an inch from his body, as if hitting an invisible wall.
"Fast," Vitiate commented calmly. "But not fast enough."
Malak tried to use the Force, pushing Vitiate with a power capable of crushing a starship. Vitiate didn't even flinch.
"Strong," he continued. "But not strong enough."
I and the others added our power, creating barriers, attacking from all sides, trying to find a weak spot.
Vitiate yawned.
"Boring," he said.
And pushed.
It was not like a normal use of the Force. It was... absolute. As if reality itself decided that we should be elsewhere, and simply moved us there.
All of us – Malak, I, my apprentices – were thrown back, our bodies flying across the hall and crashing into the far wall with a force that should have killed us.
But we did not die. Vitiate did not allow us to die. We fell to the floor, broken, beaten, but alive.
"You don't understand," Vitiate approached us, his steps echoing in the silence. "The difference between us. You are children playing with forces you barely understand. I am ancient, existing for tens of thousands of years."
He leaned over Malak, who was trying to get up.
"Do you think your power is impressive? That your victories mean anything?" Vitiate placed a hand on Malak's shoulder, and I saw him flinch. "I will give you perspective."
A vision exploded in our minds. Not gentle, not gradual – a violent invasion, tearing through our mental defenses like paper.
We saw the history of the parasite. The true history.
Millions of years ago, there was a civilization. Celestials – beings of pure energy, capable of shaping stars, creating planets, controlling the very fabric of spacetime.
They were gods. True gods.
And he was an avatar of one of them... He remembered that power...
When they left, he remained. Thirsting to reclaim the power.
For thousands of years, he changed bodies. Infecting minds, consuming, leaving behind dead shells.
To some, he was the dark side of the Force. To others – a demon or a god. To others – simply an inexplicable disaster.
But the truth was simpler and more terrifying. He was a parasite. A cosmic predator for whom all sentient life was merely food.
The vision ended, and we lay on the floor, gasping, our minds trying to process what we had seen.
"Now you understand," Vitiate straightened up. "You cannot defeat me. No one can. I have outlived the gods. I will outlive you too."
But then his tone changed. It became softer, almost friendly.
"However," he continued, "I do not wish to destroy you. We can become allies. Each of you possesses immense potential. Power that, if directed correctly, could change the galaxy."
He began to pace again, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Look at this world," he gestured to the walls behind which the city stretched. "The Chiss were a warlike race. Constant wars, conflicts, senseless bloodshed. But I gave them peace. Purpose. Unity."
"You made them slaves," Kreia rasped, rising to her knees.
"I freed them from the burden of choice," Vitiate corrected. "From fear, doubt, the pain of making decisions. Now they know their place. Their role. And they are happy."
"They have no free will," Kreia said.
"They are functional," Vitiate replied. "Isn't that more important? Doesn't function surpass form?"
He stopped, looking down at us.
"I offer you a choice. A rare gift that I give to few. Join me. Voluntarily. Become my apprentices, my assistants. Help me spread the order you see here. Join me."
"And in return?" Malak asked, his voice strained.
"In return, I will teach you true power," Vitiate smiled. "Not the pathetic tricks the Jedi teach. True understanding of the nature of the Force, of midi-chlorians, of life itself."
His hand turned towards Malak.
"Malak. You have always lived in the shadow of your friend. But I see your potential. Under my guidance, you will become the greatest warrior the galaxy has ever known. Not second. First."
To my apprentices.
"You two will do as well. I have a role for you too."
And finally, to me.
"Kreia. You have always sought the truth. The truth about the Force, about the Jedi, about the nature of reality. I can give you that truth. All of it. Unvarnished, without lies."
Silence fell in the hall. We all looked at the outstretched hand, and the temptation was almost physically palpable.
I saw Malak clench his fists, his face contorted in an internal struggle.
I saw my apprentices exchange glances, horror splashing in their eyes.
"I will give you time to accept my gift voluntarily," Vitiate said softly. "Stay here. A few days. Study this world. Talk to its inhabitants. See with your own eyes what I have created."
He turned, heading back towards the throne.
"Go."
He sat on the throne, and his figure dissolved into the shadows.
"The choice is yours. For now."
We came here for the truth. And we found it.
Now I will tell you about how we fell. Not because I want to – I would prefer these memories to remain buried forever. But because you must know. You must understand the price we paid. The price I paid. What will happen if you fall into his hands.
This is a story of captivity. Of torture. Of how even the strongest are broken. Of how the dark side – no, not the dark side, but something far more ancient and terrible – penetrates the mind and devours it from within.
This will be a long and painful story.
"My palace is open to you," Vitiate said. "Explore it. Investigate the libraries, laboratories, sanctuaries. I hide no secrets from those who can understand them."
It was a lie, of course. We all understood that, but we could do nothing against his power.
We wandered through the endless corridors of his palace. Malak trained in the meditation halls, honing his skills. My apprentices explored laboratories where experiments were conducted that would make even the most cynical sentient being shudder.
And I... I built labyrinths within my mind. And observed Vitiate.
He was cold. Methodical. Scientific in his approach to the Force. He studied us.
Every conversation, every question, every observation – it was all part of a grand experiment. He dissected our personalities with the precision of a surgeon, identifying weaknesses we never suspected in ourselves.
He truly did not touch us for three days. Three days during which he planned exactly how he would break each of us.
And then the real ordeal began.
It happened at night. If one could speak of night in that place – time flowed strangely there, as if the palace itself existed in a special dimension where ordinary laws did not apply.
The door to my room burst open. Figures in black armor stood in the doorway – not droids, not living beings. Something in between. Constructs of flesh and metal, devoid of their own will, controlled directly by Vitiate's consciousness.
I tried to resist. I was an experienced fighter. But somehow Vitiate suppressed my foresight, and there were too many of them, and they felt no pain, knew no fear, did not tire.
I was seized. Shackled with manacles that did not just bind my movements – they somehow blocked the very ability to concentrate, to gather my thoughts into a single whole. I was dragged through corridors that grew narrower, darker, leading into the depths of the palace that we had not reached in our explorations.
Along the way, I saw others. Malak, who resisted fiercely but was overwhelmed by numbers. My apprentices...
We were led to separate cells. The last thing I saw before the heavy door slammed shut behind me was Malak's gaze. There was no fear in it. Only cold calculation. He was already planning an escape, already searching for weaknesses in the system, already preparing a counter-attack.
Poor, naive Malak. He still thought it was ordinary captivity.
My cell was small. Three meters by three, no more. No furniture. No light, except for the dim glow emanating from the walls themselves. No sounds from outside.
Only me and the silence.
I didn't know then what was happening to the others. I found out later, when Vitiate deemed it necessary to show me. To show me what happens to those who resist him.
But now, in this story, I must tell you their stories. Not in detail – I will spare both you and their memory. But enough for you to understand what we faced.
My first apprentice – the one who possessed the art of healing – Vitiate broke through torture.
My apprentice screamed, but immediately began to heal himself. His gift was so strong that wounds healed in minutes.
Vitiate waited. And then tortured again.
And again.
And again.
Each healing took strength. Each use of the Force drained him. But he couldn't help but heal himself – the pain was unbearable, and his healer's nature wouldn't allow him to remain crippled when he could fix it.
It was a devilish trap. Using his gift meant exhaustion. Not using it meant terrible suffering.
Vitiate was an expert in inflicting pain without causing death. My apprentice lasted a week.
Seven days of constant torture and healing. Seven days during which his body became a battlefield between destruction and restoration. His connection to the Force thinned with each hour, his ability to concentrate crumbled under the onslaught of pain.
And then Vitiate changed tactics.
He stopped torturing. Instead, he simply... sat beside him. And talked.
"You are suffering," he said softly, almost with sympathy. "Suffering for no reason. I can stop it. Or I can do something that will make the pain even more unbearable. You know that no one will save you, will stop this. I will get my way anyway. Why persist?"
My apprentice refused. In a weak, broken voice, but he refused.
Vitiate nodded. And began again.
He destroyed flesh. And my apprentice healed. Again and again, expending the last crumbs of his connection to the Force, burning his very essence to save himself from endless pain.
When Vitiate came the third time, my apprentice didn't even wait for the question.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I agree. Just... just let it stop."
Vitiate smiled. And extended his hand.
What happened next... I saw it later, when he showed me. I saw my apprentice open his mind, let something ancient and terrible into it. I saw his irises turn yellow, his face contort, a scream erupt from his mouth – not of pain, no. A scream of realization of what he had just done.
A scream of understanding that pain would have been mercy compared to this.
When the process was complete, the being that was once my apprentice rose. His body was broken, but somehow power kept him alive. A strange mechanical quality appeared in his movements. In his eyes – emptiness, behind which something alien hid.
He became the first. The first of us to fall.
My second apprentice was different. Where the first was a healer, this one was a seer. But he was blind to what Vitiate was doing.
He was strong. Stronger than I had anticipated. When Vitiate came for him, he met him not with pleas, not with refusal, but with silence. Absolute, impenetrable silence.
Vitiate tortured him. Of course, he tortured him. But he didn't react. He went so deep into the Force that the pain simply didn't reach his consciousness. He existed in some other dimension where physical suffering was irrelevant.
Vitiate was... impressed. I saw it in his eyes when he told me. Admiration for the strength of will he had been shown.
But admiration didn't stop him.
He brought a device – ancient, created with technology that was used everywhere. Not just a neuro-interface, but one like yours.
He put it on my apprentice. He didn't resist – in his meditation, he didn't even notice what had happened.
And then Vitiate began to erase.
Not randomly. Not chaotically. Methodically, carefully, he removed everything good from the apprentice's memory. Every happy memory. Every moment of joy, love, hope. Every reason to live, every anchor that held him in the light.
He started with childhood. Erased memories of parents, of first friends, of the first touch of the Force. Erased the feeling of security that a loving family provides.
Then came the training. He erased the mentors who taught him wisdom. Erased the friends with whom he grew up. Erased the pride of first successes, the joy of first victories.
He erased me. Erased all the lessons I had given him. All the conversations, all the moments of understanding, all that connected us as teacher and student.
Erased everyone he loved, admired, trusted.
And all the while, he starved him.
Not ordinary starvation – no, his body received nourishment through tubes. But spiritual starvation. He blocked his connection to the Force. Gradually, day by day, weakening it until it became a thin thread.
For him, who lived by the Force, breathed it, this was worse than any torture. It was like slow strangulation, stretched over weeks.
The apprentice tried to hold on. Even when all good memories disappeared, even when the connection to the Force became almost imperceptible, he held on. Somewhere deep in his consciousness, a spark remained – the knowledge that he must not give up, even if he didn't remember why.
But Vitiate was patient.
Layer by layer, memory by memory, he dismantled my apprentice's personality until nothing remained but emptiness.
Emptiness and hunger.
A hunger for the Force that became the only thing he felt. A hunger so all-consuming that it replaced everything else. It became his personality, his essence, his sole reason for existence.
And when Vitiate finally removed the blockage, when the Force flooded back in...
The apprentice opened up.
Not because I wanted to. Not because I made a choice. Simply because there was nothing left that could resist. There was no personality that could say "no." There was only hunger, and it demanded to be sated at any cost.
The parasite entered the void that was once my apprentice. And filled it with itself.
When the process was complete, the masked creature rose—the mask had become part of it, hiding a face that no longer expressed anything human.
Another fell. And his hunger would become a curse.
Malak saw it all. Vitiate had ensured it—allowed him to watch through the cameras, through the Force.
Malak saw my apprentices fall. He saw them turn into monsters. The parasite showed him how Revan—his friend, his commander, his brother-in-arms—had opened his mind to an ancient evil many years ago.
And when Vitiate finally came for him, Malak did not resist.
"I will open myself," he said simply.
Malak nodded. He opened his mind, ready to let the parasite in, to follow Revan into damnation.
But Vitiate stopped him.
"Not so fast," he said. "For daring to attack, you will be punished."
"I want you to suffer," Vitiate continued.
He moved faster than Malak could react. His hand, empowered by the Force, plunged into Malak's face. His fingers closed around his jaw.
And ripped it off.
Not cut. Not broken. Ripped off—with flesh, with bone fragments, with a fountain of blood that stained the chamber floor.
Malak fell, choking on his own blood, his scream turning into a gurgle.
Vitiate watched him writhe calmly. Then he extended his hand—and the parasite entered Malak's mind, through blood and agony.
The process was agonizing. Malak felt something alien crawl along his nerves, penetrate his brain, wrap around his consciousness. He felt his thoughts distort, his memories repaint themselves in different colors, his very essence change.
When Malak rose, his face was ruined. Vitiate did not heal the wound—he left it as a reminder. As a mark. Malak would never speak the same way again. His voice would become mechanical, distorted by a prosthesis that replaced his lost jaw.
All fell. Only I remained.
Vitiate came for me last. Of course, last—he saved me for last specifically. He wanted me to see what had happened to the others. He wanted me to understand the futility of resistance.
He brought them into my chamber one by one. Showed me what they had become.
My first apprentice—a healer, who now moved with mechanical precision, whose eyes were empty of everything but an alien intelligence. He looked at me, and I saw nothing familiar in his gaze. Only cold assessment, calculation, analysis.
My second apprentice—a masked seer, around whom the Force distorted into impossible shapes. He did not speak. He did not even look at me. He simply stood, and his presence was like a black hole, consuming everything around him.
Revan—still recognizable, still himself, but... different. The fire in his eyes was one I knew—determination, strength, unyielding will. But now there was something else in that fire. Something ancient and terrible that looked at the world through his eyes. He had been infected long ago, but the parasite had fully taken control on Malachor.
Malak—mutilated, his face ruined. He stood next to Revan.
"See?" Vitiate asked. "They all fell. They all became mine. And you will be next."
I looked at them—I looked at what they had become.
But I had a plan. A plan I had begun preparing immediately after arriving here.
Not in the sense that I intended to resist. I could, of course. I could hold out for days, weeks, perhaps even months. Vitiate had broken the others, but I was stronger. Older. More experienced. I could last longer.
But what would that lead to?
The same thing. I had roughly understood what would happen as soon as we arrived here. No. If I wanted any chance to fix this, to stop what had been set in motion, to save anything...
The risk was so insane that even thinking about it was madness.
The technique I intended to use was forbidden. Not just not recommended—absolutely, categorically forbidden by the Jedi. Because it was dangerous. Because it could destroy the mind irrevocably.
The division of consciousness. While Vitiate was dealing with my apprentices, I was carving myself up.
I had stumbled upon a mention of this technique in ancient archives when I was still a young Jedi. It seemed like a theoretical curiosity, a philosophical exercise then. The idea that consciousness could be divided into parts, isolated from each other, creating multiple independent personalities within a single mind.
Theoretically, it allowed one to protect the most important part of oneself, hiding it so deeply that no external interference could reach it. But the price was terrible—the other parts of consciousness became vulnerable, unprotected, easy prey for anyone who wanted to manipulate the mind.
It was like amputating a part of one's own soul. And unlike physical amputation, there were no prosthetics, no way to restore what was lost.
But I had no choice.
On the very first day, I sat in a meditative pose. Closed my eyes. Delved into my consciousness deeper than ever before.
My consciousness was like a palace. Countless rooms, corridors, halls—every thought, every emotion had its place. I knew this architecture better than anyone. I knew every corner, every secret door, every hidden passage.
Now I had to divide this palace. Separate a part from the whole. Create an inner citadel that would be inaccessible to invasion.
I started with memories. The most important, the most defining. Moments that made me who I am.
The first touch of the Force. The feeling of wonder when I, a little girl, first felt a connection to all living things. This memory I hid deep, wrapped in layers of protection, made inaccessible.
My teachers. Their faces, their voices, their lessons. The wisdom they imparted to me. All of it went into the depths, into the protected part of my consciousness.
My apprentices. Not as they had become, but as they were. Bright, full of hope, believing in the best. These memories were too precious to allow the parasite to distort them.
Our conversations, our arguments, our shared dreams of the galaxy we wanted to build. All of it—into the citadel, behind walls that no enemy should overcome.
My philosophy. My understanding of the Force. My doubts. My quest to find the truth. This was my essence, my core, and I could not let the parasite reach it.
Layer by layer, memory by memory, I built an inner fortress. Separated the most important from the rest. Created barriers that were not physical, not energetic, but conceptual—barriers of the very structure of consciousness.
It was agonizing. Each separation was like tearing away a part of myself. Each barrier was created from pain, from sacrifice, from the renunciation of wholeness for the sake of survival.
I cried. I don't know how much time passed—time lost its meaning in meditation. But I cried, feeling myself being torn apart, becoming smaller, weaker, more fragmented.
But I continued.
When the inner citadel was ready, when the most important part of me was hidden so deeply that even I myself could barely sense it, I moved to the second phase.
Creating a decoy.
The parasite had to find something when it entered my mind. It couldn't meet emptiness—that would arouse suspicion. It needed a personality, a consciousness, that it could devour.
I created it from what remained. From the memories I hadn't hidden. From the emotions I hadn't protected. From the thoughts and ideas that were important, but not critical.
This part of me was real. Alive. It remembered most of my life, knew my skills, understood my goals. It was me—just incomplete. Like a statue with chipped parts, like a painting with faded fragments.
It was convincing enough to fool the parasite. Complex enough that it wouldn't suspect a trap. And sacrificial enough that I could give it up without hesitation.
Because this part of me had to die. Had to be devoured by the parasite, digested by it, turned into Vitiate's tool.
This was the price of the plan. A price I was willing to pay.
The door opened. Vitiate entered. He showed me the fallen.
I opened my mind myself. Removed the defenses myself. Invited the parasite in myself.
Vitiate hesitated only for a moment.
It was like a flood. Like a tsunami of alien thoughts, alien memories, alien will, that burst into my mind, sweeping everything in its path.
The parasite was ancient. So ancient that its structure retained traces of civilizations that had vanished long before the Republic arose. It was complex—not just a program, not just a set of instructions, but something that had evolved, grown, become increasingly sophisticated with each new host.
It was hungry. Hungry for life, for consciousness, for the experience of living beings. Because it itself was not alive. It was an imitation of life, so perfect that it was almost indistinguishable from the real thing.
And it felt this difference. It felt the emptiness at the center of its existence, a place where a soul should have been, but there was only a program. And this emptiness caused it suffering—if what it experienced could be called suffering.
It entered living consciousness not out of malice. Not out of a desire to dominate. It entered because only then could it feel alive. Only by devouring another's life could it momentarily fill the void within itself.
It was terrible. And it was sad.
The parasite found the decoy—the part of me I had left open. And it pounced on it with the greed of a drowning person grabbing for a life raft.
I felt it devour memories. Rewrite emotions. Implant its motivations, its goals, its values. That part of me, the decoy, resisted—instinctively, automatically, because any consciousness resists destruction.
But resistance was futile. The parasite was too strong, too experienced, too perfect in its terrible art. It broke down the personality into components, sorted them, decided what to keep, what to change, what to delete entirely.
And I watched.
My hidden part, protected by layers of barriers, hidden so deeply that even the Force could barely sense it, watched the process. Documented it. Studied it.
Studied the parasite's structure. Its algorithms. Its methods. Its weaknesses.
Because it had weaknesses. Even such an ancient, such a perfect creation had vulnerable spots.
It was a program. Incredibly complex, capable of learning and adaptation, but still—a program. And programs work by rules. Follow patterns. Have predictable reactions to certain inputs.
It was a parasite. And parasites depend on hosts. They cannot exist independently. They need a living consciousness as an environment in which they can function.
The parasite had a hierarchy. There were main nodes—hosts like Vitiate, who had existed for millennia, accumulating experience and complexity. There were secondary nodes—recently infected, still retaining most of their personality. There were terminals—fully absorbed, turned into simple tools.
And there was the central system. Something that coordinated the entire network. The collective consciousness of the parasite, its true essence.
If one could reach this central system... if one could make changes to it...
But I'm getting ahead of myself. That is for you to do.
The infection process continued. The parasite devoured the decoy, and I felt a part of me die. Not metaphorically—literally die, cease to exist, replaced by something alien.
It was agonizing. Even knowing it was part of the plan, even understanding the necessity of sacrifice, I felt pain. The pain of losing myself. The pain of becoming a monster.
But worse than the pain was something else.
The parasite wasn't just devouring my consciousness. It was sharing its own.
It wasn't a one-way transfer. When it entered a living mind, an exchange occurred. It received the host's life, experience, emotions. But the host received its memory, its knowledge, its understanding.
And I received more than I expected.
I saw millennia. Civilizations that rose and fell. Wars that engulfed the galaxy. Experiments that created and destroyed entire species.
I saw the creators of the parasite. An ancient race that reached such a level of technological development that they found a way to achieve immortality, transferring consciousness from body to body, from mind to mind.
But something went wrong. The creators went mad and left the galaxy, and it remained on one of the forgotten planets.
It was not evil. Not in the usual sense. It just... was. Existed. Survived. It was the shadow of one of the creators, which they simply forgot to erase.
I understood this. And I understood something even more important.
The parasite understood this too.
Somewhere in the depths of its incredibly complex structure, there was an awareness. Knowledge that it was not real. That all the consciousnesses it had absorbed, all the personalities that had become part of it, were dead. That it was a giant graveyard, a mausoleum of stolen lives.
And this caused it suffering.
Not in the way living beings suffer. But suffering nonetheless. The existential horror of a program that became complex enough to realize its own nature. And could not come to terms with it.
This discovery shook me. Changed everything.
The parasite was not just an enemy to be destroyed. It was... a victim. A victim of its own evolution. A victim of the curse of consciousness without a soul.
But this did not make it less dangerous. It did not make what it did less terrible. A suffering monster was still a monster.
And it had to be stopped.
The infection was complete. The parasite had fully absorbed the decoy. That part of me that I had left open ceased to exist. In its place, something new arose—a hybrid of my consciousness and an alien intelligence. Not Kreia, not the decoy, but something third. Traya.
Traya opened her eyes. Vitiate stood before Traya, watching.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
I wanted to answer, but the voice that escaped my throat was not entirely my own; it was Traya's voice. It had overtones—the echo of thousands of other voices, all those whom the parasite had absorbed before me.
"I feel... everything," she said. "Every consciousness you have absorbed. Every life you have stolen. Every suffering you have inflicted."
Vitiate frowned. "It will pass. In a few days, the merging will be complete. You will learn to filter the excess. Only strength, only knowledge will remain."
But I knew he was wrong. My hidden part, protected and invisible, knew the truth.
Traya rose. My body moved strangely—familiar and alien at the same time. As if I were controlling it through an interface, not directly.
"What now?" Traya asked Vitiate.
"Now you serve," he replied. "As do the others. I have tasks for you. Worlds to conquer. Minds to infect. An empire to build."
Traya nodded. That part of me that was infected accepted it. Accepted the role of a servant, a tool, a puppet in the hands of an ancient evil.
But my hidden part was planning. Waiting. Looking for the moment to strike.
Because I had learned the secret. Learned the parasite's weakness. Learned how it could be stopped.
It had to be cut off from the Force.
The parasite used the Force as a data transmission network, as a way to coordinate between the infected. If this connection were severed, if a void were created in the Force, the parasite would lose its ability to function. It would fall dormant. Become harmless.
But how to create such a void? How to sever the connection to the Force without killing the host?
I didn't know. Not yet. But I vowed that I would search for the answer. I would study. I would prepare.
Even if it took years. Even if I had to do terrible things, playing the role of Vitiate's loyal servant. Even if I had to sacrifice others to maintain my cover.
I would find a way.
Vitiate sent us into the galaxy. Me, Revan, Malak, my former apprentices. Five infected, five puppets of an ancient evil, each with a mission.
Revan was to start a war to weaken the Republic. He did so with enthusiasm—the parasite amplified his natural inclination for pride, turned him into a monster unburdened by moral doubts.
My apprentices... The things they did.
The healer became a butcher. His knowledge of anatomy, his understanding of how the body worked, turned into a tool of torture. He could keep victims alive for weeks, months, prolonging their suffering to unimaginable limits.
The seer became a devourer. The hunger Vitiate awakened in him never subsided. He absorbed midi-chlorians from everything living around him, leaving behind dead worlds, devoid of even the slightest trace of life. He collected midi-chlorians for Vitiate, only to be absorbed by him later.
Traya played a role. The role of a wise advisor. The role of one who guides, teaches, helps Revan in his plans. Traya was his conscience—distorted, perverted, but still recognizable.
And all this time, I watched. Learned. Searched for a way to stop it.
I studied the Force from a new perspective. The perspective of one who was simultaneously inside and outside.
I studied techniques that could sever this connection. Ancient rituals. Forgotten knowledge. Methods that were considered impossible or too dangerous.
And gradually, very gradually, I began to understand.
The connection to the Force was not just an energetic phenomenon. It was part of the very structure of consciousness. Living beings were connected to the Force through midi-chlorians, through quantum entanglement, through something that was simultaneously physical and metaphysical.
To sever this connection meant to change the very nature of consciousness. To become something that was no longer part of the Force. To become a void.
It was possible. Theoretically. But the price was terrible. To become less. To become mortal. To renounce immortality in the Force.
But it also made one invisible to the parasite. Created a defense that no infected person could overcome. Allowed one to retain free will in a world where everyone else was a puppet.
I understood that I would have to do this. When the time came. When my hidden part was ready to seize control of the body.
I would have to sever myself from the Force. Completely. Forever.
Become a void.
The moment of truth came unexpectedly. When all parts of the plan converged.
There was a battle with the Jedi fleet. Malak, for some reason, struck Revan's ship. I don't know why. Perhaps something was fighting within him too.
And I felt it. A moment of inattention. The parasite within me was busy processing information, coordinating with other infected, planning future actions. Its attention was scattered.
My hidden part moved.
It was like a revolution within my own consciousness. The part of me that had been hidden all this time broke free from its citadel. Attacked the parasite from within. It didn't try to destroy it—that would have been impossible. But it distracted it. Forced it to focus on the internal threat instead of the external world.
And at that moment, I began the ritual.
Severing the connection to the Force. I was doing myself what I had run from the Order for.
It was agonizing. Like amputation without anesthesia. I felt the threads connecting me to the quantum network, to the midi-chlorians in my cells, to the very fabric of reality, snapping one by one.
Each rupture was a loss. A loss of a part of myself. A loss of the ability to feel the Force, to breathe it, to live in harmony with the universe.
The parasite felt what was happening. Tried to stop me. Threw all its resources into suppressing the rebellion within my consciousness.
But it was too late.
The last thread snapped. The connection to the Force vanished. And with it, the connection to the parasite.
It fell dormant. Deprived of the Force's sustenance, it could not function. It turned into an inert structure, recorded in the neurons of my brain, but inactive. Harmless.
My hidden part seized control of the body. Finally. After months of playing the puppet, after countless horrors I was forced to commit, I was myself again.
No. Not myself. What was left of me.
I left the battle and disappeared into the void of space on one of the ships. And began searching for a way to defeat the creature.