**Chapter 183 – Scars of Victory**
*Dagon POV*
One hour.
One hour until Coruscant.
The stars stretched into long streaks of white beyond the viewport of the *Terminus*, hyperspace humming with that familiar, almost soothing vibration. It should have felt like victory.
Three decisive battles.
Boz Pity.
Muunilinst.
Hypori.
Three systems shattered.
Three victories carved out of chaos.
And yet…
Hypori lingered in my mind.
A graveyard.
Not a battlefield. Not anymore.
A graveyard.
I stood alone in the command chamber, the dim lighting reflecting off fresh armor—untouched, pristine, newly forged. No scorch marks. No fractures. No blood.
It didn't feel right.
The last set had been destroyed—burned, torn, shattered under the weight of battle, Force lightning, and that final explosion from the factory.
I exhaled slowly, flexing my hand.
Lightning-shaped veins traced across my arm—faint, glowing scars etched beneath the skin like cracks in glass. They pulsed slightly when I reached for the Force.
Unnatural.
Unstable.
Power.
The medical droid's voice echoed in my mind.
*"Prolonged exposure to ion discharge, radiation, and residual energy from damaged droid batteries… combined with repeated high-intensity Force output…"*
In simpler terms—
I pushed too far.
Again.
My fingers curled into a fist.
The scars didn't hurt.
That was the problem.
I reached up, brushing my face lightly.
The skin there was different now—rough, uneven.
The reflection in the viewport stared back at me.
For a moment, I didn't recognize it.
The scar stretched across my face, jagged, deliberate—as if the war itself had marked me. My hair had changed too—longer, uneven, streaks of white cutting through the dark like fractures of time.
Madara Uchiha.
The thought came unbidden.
Except this wasn't a story.
This was real.
And I was still standing.
"…sir?"
Ethan's voice broke the silence.
I didn't turn.
"Yes."
"Medical scans are complete," he said. "Your condition is… stable. However, the energy signatures in your body are still fluctuating."
"I'm fine."
A pause.
"…that statement is statistically inaccurate."
I almost smiled.
"Noted."
Silence returned, but it wasn't empty.
It was heavy.
"Status of the Jedi?" I asked.
"All four are alive," Ethan replied. "Critical, but stable. Bacta immersion has begun."
Ki-Adi-Mundi.
Shaak Ti.
Aayla Secura.
Sha'a Gi.
Barely.
Hypori had nearly ended them.
Grievous had nearly ended them.
I exhaled slowly.
"…Shaak Ti," I said quietly.
Ethan tilted his head slightly.
"You have encountered her before."
"Yeah."
My mind drifted.
Va'art.
Randon.
Jablim.
Muunilinst.
Now… here.
Always moving.
Always fighting.
Always surviving.
She had endured everything the war threw at her—and still stood.
Strong.
Disciplined.
Different from Ahsoka.
But similar.
My gaze shifted slightly.
"…when she recovers," I said, "remind me to speak with her."
"Regarding?"
I paused.
"…helmets."
Ethan blinked once.
"…helmets."
"Ahsoka needs one," I said simply. "Something that fits her montrals. Protection without restricting movement."
A pause.
"And Shaak Ti?"
"She'll know what works."
Ethan processed that.
"Understood."
Silence again.
But my thoughts didn't stop.
Ahsoka.
Visenya.
Stella.
Kayla.
Flare.
Their names lingered.
Their presence lingered.
I had ordered them to stay behind.
Not because they were weak.
Because they weren't.
That was the problem.
Ahsoka was still healing.
Visenya…
I closed my eyes briefly.
Zeltron.
Empathic.
Force-sensitive.
Newly awakened.
Unstable.
Dangerous in a different way.
Her connection to emotions—amplified by the Force—made her a liability in battle meditation.
Especially with me.
My dark side wasn't… subtle.
Not anymore.
Not after Hypori.
Not after the lightning.
If she felt that in the middle of combat—
It would break her.
Or worse.
It would change her.
"…you are concerned," Ethan observed.
I opened my eyes.
"Yes."
"For them?"
"For what happens if they follow me."
That was the truth.
The scar on my face wasn't just damage.
It was a warning.
The lightning in my veins wasn't just power.
It was a cost.
And they weren't ready to pay it.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I turned slightly, looking out at hyperspace again.
"With the success of these missions…" I muttered.
Ethan waited.
"They'll move me."
"Define 'they.'"
"The Republic. The Council. Command."
A pause.
"They won't keep me on the frontlines."
Ethan processed that.
"Because you are effective."
"Because I'm becoming a risk."
Silence.
The two weren't mutually exclusive.
Three decisive victories.
That wasn't normal.
Not in this war.
Not at this scale.
Not this fast.
I leaned slightly against the console.
"They'll promote me," I said. "Or isolate me."
"Strategic command," Ethan suggested.
"Exactly."
Away from direct combat.
Away from the chaos.
Away from the edge.
My fingers tapped lightly against the metal surface.
I didn't like that.
Not because I wanted war.
But because—
That's where I was most useful.
That's where I ended battles.
Quickly.
Decisively.
Before they dragged on.
Before more people died.
Hypori proved that.
If I had been earlier—
No.
I stopped that thought.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was what came next.
"…incoming message," Ethan said suddenly.
"From?"
"Fleet command. Coruscant traffic control. You are being prioritized for immediate docking."
Of course I was.
Three victories.
Four rescued Jedi.
One wounded war hero.
The narrative was already forming.
I exhaled slowly.
"Prepare the report."
"Already compiling."
"Good."
A pause.
"And Ethan…"
"Yes, sir?"
I glanced at my reflection one more time.
The scar.
The eyes.
The veins.
"…don't mention the lightning."
A brief silence.
"Understood."
Because that part—
That part wasn't for them.
Not the Senate.
Not the Council.
Not yet.
The *Terminus* shifted slightly as it adjusted course.
Hyperspace began to thin.
Stars started to reappear.
Coruscant was close.
Too close.
I straightened, adjusting the new armor.
It fit perfectly.
Too perfectly.
Like it hadn't been earned yet.
But it would be.
Soon.
Very soon.
Because if this war had taught me anything—
It wasn't slowing down.
It was escalating.
And so was I.
The stars snapped back into place.
Coruscant filled the viewport—endless, shining, alive.
The heart of the Republic.
The illusion of control.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then turned away.
"Prepare for arrival," I said.
"Yes, General."
One hour was gone.
The war wasn't.
And neither was I.