It happened in the first months after I managed to wrest control from Traya.
I was broken. My body barely held me up. The connection to the Force, which I had severed so the parasite wouldn't return, left a gaping void—like an amputated limb that continued to ache, even though it no longer existed.
But the clarity was the worst.
When you look at the world through a distorting lens your whole life, you don't notice the distortions. They become part of reality, the norm, a given. But when the lens suddenly disappears, when you see the world as it truly is for the first time...
I understood that I had not only come to personal ruin, but I had also led my apprentices to their doom. I understood how, with my hands and Revan's, the future of the galaxy had been destroyed. The Mandalorian alternative was destroyed. The Rakatan production facilities were looted and depleted. Malachor, where the information for component production was stored, was also destroyed. It was a complete collapse. A collapse carried out by our own hands.
I fled the battle in a cargo shuttle. I just flew, from system to system, from world to world, not knowing what I was looking for, but knowing that I had to somehow fix everything.
I arrived on Onderon—my homeworld. I returned there unconsciously, seeking a place where I could find peace, a place where I was once happy. I wanted to feel strong again.
I spent three days there, rebuilding my inner wholeness. And I thought.
I thought about what I learned from the Parasite. About who I am. About who all the gifted are.
Genetic hybrid line 23A. A—Avatar.
Project Avatar. Twenty-three versions. Twenty-three attempts to create perfect shells for the immortal consciousnesses of the celestials.
Line 23A was the last and most perfect.
I learned that Line 23A was not a random evolutionary accident. Every gene was meticulously designed. Every neural connection, the result of selection and modification. We, the Force-gifted, were created as vessels. Bodies strong enough to contain the minds of the Celestials. Pliable enough to be controlled.
The ability to manipulate quantum fields—what we called the Force—was not a gift to us, but to those who were meant to inhabit us.
But the most important discovery was the rules.
The Celestials established them when they created the system. Perhaps as a game. Perhaps as a way to regulate conflicts among themselves. I don't know their motives—I only know the rules they embedded into the very fabric of reality.
Midi-chlorians—symbiotes, whose quantity in the galaxy was constant, could transfer from one host to another in only three ways.
First: voluntary consent. The host had to consciously, without coercion, allow another consciousness to enter them. This was how the Celestials originally planned to use Avatars—peaceful transfer, voluntary service.
Second: a duel. Two hosts, both agreeing to a duel, both understanding the stakes. The victor gained control over the consciousness of the vanquished. This was how the Celestials resolved disputes among themselves—ritualized violence, bound by strict rules. But it required consent to a fight to the death.
Third: the destruction of all other hosts. If only one representative of Line 23A remained in a sector of space, all midi-chlorians would automatically converge upon them. The last survivor would become the one the midi-chlorians chose as their sole host.
These rules were absolute. Not laws in the human sense, which could be broken, but laws of reality, as immutable as gravity or entropy.
And the parasite knew these rules. More than that—it was created to exploit them.
Infants were protected by their simplicity. But once a child's brain reached a certain threshold of complexity—it became vulnerable. Around the age of six.
When a young Force-gifted first touched the Force, when they first tried to use their abilities, they opened a channel. And through that channel, the parasite could enter. Not always—the probability was not one hundred percent. But the risk existed.
This was why the Jedi preferred to take students as children. Not out of cruelty, not out of a desire to tear children away from their families. But because the earlier a child began training in control, the lower the chance of infection. The lower the risk that the gifted one was already infected. The parasite could remain dormant for years.
They didn't understand the true reason. They simply noticed that those who grew up in the Order from childhood fell to the dark side less often. They thought they were protecting children from the Dark Side, from the temptation of power, from emotional attachments. They didn't know they were protecting them from something far more ancient and dangerous.
Another secret was neuro-interfaces.
This discovery came later, on Sluissi, where I spent three weeks studying educational centers. Neuro-interfaces were everywhere—standard technology used for accelerated child learning throughout the galaxy. Safe, time-tested, approved by the Republic.
But when I studied their base code, I found something interesting. Hidden protocols, activated upon detection of specific genetic markers. Protocols that scanned the brain of the connected child, searching for signs of Line 23A.
The signal went directly to the chief magister of the Council on a terminal that the Jedi had long ago confiscated from some Republic chancellor after one of the Crises.
I understood much. About the Order's politics, and even about the Mandalorians.
Mandalorians never removed their helmets in the presence of others. It was a sacred rule of their culture, the violation of which meant exile. They explained it as tradition, honor, identity.
Initially, it was a quarantine measure.
Mandalorians knew about the infection. They knew there was something that could penetrate the mind through sight, through direct contact, through a moment of vulnerability. They knew that sentient beings were vulnerable after six years. It was at six years old that they embarked on the Path and donned their helmets for the first time.
Therefore, they established a rule: never remove the helmet in front of strangers. Never show your face, never open yourself completely. A physical barrier as protection against mental invasion.
Over time, the knowledge of the reason was forgotten. Only the tradition remained, a ritual whose meaning was lost in the ages. But the rule continued to work. Mandalorians were less susceptible to infection than members of other cultures.
It was not absolute protection—nothing could be absolute protection against a parasite that had existed for tens of thousands of years. But it was something. A small advantage, forged from ancient wisdom and forgotten fear. That was why the parasite destroyed them with our hands.
I flew across the galaxy with a burden of knowledge that was both priceless and unbearable. The following years I spent wandering the Outer Rim, avoiding major worlds where Jedi or Sith who could recognize me might be.
I felt the parasite in the depths of my consciousness. Treya. The part of me that was completely subjugated by the virus. I cut it off from control of my body, locked it away in the farthest corners of my mind, but it was still there. Waiting. Patiently, inexorably waiting for a moment of weakness when it could break free.
I had limited time. Maybe years. Maybe decades, if I was lucky. But sooner or later, the defenses would crumble. Sooner or later, Treya would return.
Therefore, my plan had to outlive me.
I began to create a holocron, in which we are now. Not a mere repository of knowledge, static and dead, but to create myself within it. A program capable of adapting, learning, evolving.
It took me a year to create the basic architecture. I used the principles I learned from the parasite during our merging—a multi-layered data structure, self-modifying algorithms, the ability to penetrate deep layers of consciousness and rebuild them from within.
Then I began hacking neuro-interfaces. The irony was not lost on me. To create a weapon against a consciousness virus, I had to become a virus myself.
But there was a critical difference. The parasite sought control, subjugation, the transformation of all sentient beings into parts of a single whole. My program was created for liberation.
And in the final moment, amidst the ruins of Malachor, I imbued the holocron with my qualia—not a copy of my personality, but my soul. A few minutes before Meetra Surik arrived and my physical death.
But before that, I spent two years hacking neuro-interfaces across the galaxy.
It was a titanic task. I had to travel from world to world, physically infiltrating educational centers, gaining access to their systems, implanting my code. Without the Force, it was difficult; I couldn't use mental tricks to bypass security. But I had an advantage—I didn't glow in the Force.
I implanted my program into the systems of about a thousand worlds. From the wealthy Core planets to the forgotten colonies of the Outer Rim. Wherever neuro-interfaces were used for child education.
My code was hidden deep within the base protocols. It activated only upon detection of Line 23A markers. And when it activated, it worked in parallel.
Two voices speaking simultaneously. One—the voice of the system, demanding obedience. The other—my voice, asking questions.
I created a multi-layered system for selecting apprentices. Each level required greater understanding, greater willpower, a greater willingness to accept uncomfortable truths.
Out of billions of processed consciousnesses, my program was meant to activate in tens of thousands. Most received only minimal protection—the ability to think a little more critically, to be less susceptible to propaganda.
Thousands went further, developing true resistance to mental control. They became scientists, philosophers, people who asked uncomfortable questions.
Hundreds reached deep levels, gaining access to fragments of my knowledge about the nature of the Force.
Dozens approached the complete truth.
And I knew that somewhere, in the indeterminate future, one would go all the way. It's funny, but there turned out to be two of you.
I finished work on the program amidst the ruins of a world I helped destroy.
Standing on dead ground, among the bones of millions, I recorded the final message into the holocron before Treya took over. Words for a student I would never see.
And now you must make a choice.
At the time of recording this holocron, I had another plan. Meetra Surik—was supposed to kill my body so that my plan would not be revealed. And at the same time, trigger a chain of events that would buy time for my plan to be executed. When the Force returned to me thanks to Meetra, I saw the probability of success. I didn't see who it would be.
But now I am sure that the probability is connected to you, Alex.
I saw a line leading through millennia. I saw the seeds I planted sprouting. I saw that you would somehow manage to stop the parasite. Unfortunately, I didn't see how.
I didn't see what choice you would make. And that's right. Because freedom means the right to choose for yourself.
Perhaps destroying the Force is the only way. Perhaps there are other ways to defeat the parasite. Perhaps the price of freedom is too high, and it's better to seek a compromise.
I don't know. I only know that if you are here, if you hear these words, then my plan is still unfolding. We are still on the right line of destiny.
Now this burden falls on you.
I am not asking you to follow my path. I am not asking you to accept my decisions. I ask only one thing: destroy the virus. My way or another—but do it. You have everything to do it! I have spent millennia building probabilities in your favor.
Because if you don't, the parasite will win. It will gather all the midi-chlorians. It will become a god and destroy all life in the galaxy.
I have passed on to you everything I managed to learn. Knowledge about the structure of the Force. Understanding of the parasite's algorithms. Methods of consciousness protection. And, perhaps most importantly, a map of its weaknesses.
Use it wisely. Trust your mind. Do not let fear or despair cloud your judgment.
I bid you farewell. The parasite within me will soon take control. I feel Treya straining to break free, the walls I erected beginning to crack.
May your will be strong, Alex. May your mind remain clear, Verena. May your hearts not falter when the time comes to do what must be done.
"Farewell."
The holocron pushed them out—the simulation's reality rejected their presence, returning them to their physical bodies, waiting in the present.
The last thing Alex saw before everything plunged into white light was the figure of Kreia, standing alone under a starry sky.
Kreia was left alone.
She stood in the center of the necropolis, surrounded by the ghosts of the past.
Above, moons began to rise. Three pale disks ascending over the horizon of the dead world. She watched them with something akin to peace.
"The cycle is ending," she whispered into the void. "The last knot in the web I wove for four thousand years will fulfill its role."
Somewhere in the depths of her consciousness, something stirred. Panic. Rage. A desperate attempt to break free.
Treyya. The parasite.
Kreia felt the walls of her defenses cracking. The program she had created had kept Treya locked away all this time, but everything has a limit. Even the most perfect code.
"Little time left," she continued, watching the moons. "It's a shame I won't see the finale."
"Well, Treya," Kreia whispered with a slight smile. "It's time for us to disappear."
Inside, in the darkest depths of her mind, something screamed. Not with words, but with pure emotion—rage, fear, a desperate protest against the encroaching oblivion.
Kreia closed her eyes.
The simulation world began to crumble.
The sky began to fold. Stars winked out one by one, as if someone was methodically turning off the lights in the universe. The constellations she had watched for four thousand years vanished into the encroaching darkness.
The three moons still hung over the horizon, but they too began to dim. Their pale light grew weaker, more ethereal.
Kreia stood in the center of the collapsing reality and felt her own consciousness begin to crumble. Not painfully—more like falling asleep after an infinitely long day. A weariness so profound that even the struggle seemed pointless.
Inside her, Treya thrashed in panic. The parasite understood what was happening. It understood that this was not a takeover, but the destruction of the battlefield itself. That Kreia had not simply lost—she had flipped the board, destroying the very possibility of the game.
The last fragments of reality began to collapse. Space folded in on itself, dimensions overlaid each other.
In this chaos of destruction, there was one last thing—two points of light.
One was blue. Pure, cold, calm. It was her. Her true essence, the core of her personality. The part that remained free, despite all the parasite's attempts to consume her.
The other was purple-red. Pulsating, hungry, desperate. Treya. The parasite that never understood it had lost the moment Kreia severed herself from the Force.
Two points of light in an ocean of darkness. Two sparks of consciousness in the void of non-being.
They hung there for a moment—or an eternity, time ceased to matter in the collapsing simulation.
And then the darkness began to consume them too.
The simulation collapsed into a point.
And vanished.
In the real world, two bodies simultaneously shuddered.
Alex opened his eyes first. His breathing was rapid, his heart pounding as if he had run a marathon. His hands trembled.
Beside him, Verena slowly sat up, disconnecting her neuro-interface. Her face was pale, her eyes wide open.
They looked at each other. No words were needed. They both saw. Both understood.
The holocron on the table between them no longer glowed. The simulation had ended. Kreia was gone—definitively and irrevocably.