CHAPTER 25 - Sith Inquisitor: The Clone Wars

Somewhere in the Mid Rim, on an abandoned orbital station that served as a refuge for smugglers and those who preferred to avoid both the Republic and the CIS, Keiro Wind sat before a flickering terminal. The stale air smelled of dust and a hint of mold. Many hours had passed since the battle on Concord Dawn, yet the weight of that choice still hadn't released its grip on him. After securing a ship, he hadn't returned to the Temple or even contacted the Council — he simply couldn't bring himself to.

His fingers scrolled through streams of data mechanically while his mind filtered information in the background, as it always did. Mostly, his trained eye caught hints about black‑market information brokers, rumors of artifacts, messages from mercenary guilds. He was searching for traces. Traces of Sith, traces of that same "shadow" which, he now understood, existed not only outside the Order, but within it as well. And then he stumbled upon a "spike" on Mandalorian frequencies.

At first it was fragments of phrases: "…sabotage…", "…Kell‑Darak mine…", "…casualties." Intrigued, he tuned into the transmission, and the signal stabilized. The first thing he heard was a name — one he knew all too well: "…Obi‑Wan Kenobi," followed immediately by distorted video where a similar, but not quite identical, voice issued orders; photos from the scene, expertly edited so that the blue lightsaber stood out; eyewitness accounts, crying over the dead and swearing they saw a Jedi personally planting explosives.

The deeper he dug into the incident, the more absurd the accusations became. The press had already churned out headlines like "Jedi Terrorist," "Republic Provocateur," and even "Worker Killer." Whatever shadow lingered in the Order, Keiro was certain this was blatant fabrication.

He leaned back in the chair, the scar on his cheek twitching as his lips curled into a contemptuous smile. Kenobi — a Council member, whose mission had become the beginning of Keiro's own downfall. The irony was almost poetic: now he was being painted as the "monster" that needed to be "neutralized."

"Lies," he whispered, thinking. But which part? Was it a lie that Obi‑Wan had been there? Or a lie that he was guilty? Keiro recognized the style. These were Sith methods — twisting information, turning Mandalore against the Order, as they had done for centuries. And yet… why should he care now? Should he intervene?

He didn't want to face Jedi again, especially not a Council member, but he could feel someone unseen manipulating public opinion. Some Sith — which meant he needed to see everything with his own eyes.

Finally, having made up his mind, Keiro activated an encrypted communication channel and contacted one of the many information brokers dealing in Mandalorian data and operating nearby. A touch of Force persuasion required almost no effort — the being's mind was flimsy, like a paper screen.

"Flight coordinates of the Jedi's ship — Obi‑Wan Kenobi — for the last forty‑eight hours," he ordered, feeling the other's will melt under his pressure.

The broker blinked several times, muttering in confusion, then dug through his datapad and soon recited a string of data. Navigation logs, hyperspace exit point, and the projected route toward Sundari on Mandalore.

Keiro rose, his masking cloak wrapping silently around his shoulders. He wasn't flying to help. He was flying to deliver justice. Not the Order's justice, not the Jedi's, not even legal justice — his justice. If a Sith was there, he would destroy him.

Twenty minutes later, the ship — an unremarkable transport with forged codes — detached from the station and slipped into hyperspace.

XXXXXXXX

I watched the streams of data on the main screen, feeling a cold, almost mechanical satisfaction. Operation "Fracture," as Vizsla's egg‑headed subordinates had named it, was entering its critical phase. Here, on one of Death Watch's hidden stations deep beneath Sundari, the tension felt almost physical.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, typing the final lines of the "sensational news." Humanity back on old Earth might not have a history as long as this galaxy's, but when it came to creating "information bombs," our journalists were every bit as skilled as the locals. Applying that craft here, with so many examples from my past life, was almost too easy — a couple of clickbait headlines, some well‑placed reverse psychology, and voilà! Another article released into the wild. I also made sure it was posted in the most "conservative" corners of the local network, so the Mandalorian traditionalists would feel it right in the gut.

Finally finishing the first part, I moved on to the second, glancing over the specialists at work. These, by the way, had been generously provided by Dooku himself. When I arrived on the planet, they were already here and had begun their tasks. They were guarded by a small squad of B2 droids and even a droideka. How they managed to smuggle all this under Vizsla's nose, I had no idea — and didn't want to know.

Approaching the nearest slicer, I asked about their progress. My part was long done; all that remained was waiting for them to distribute everything. Fortunately, the actual breach of the planetary networks was technically simple and went quickly. According to the specialist, the local security protocols were twenty years out of date.

The difficulty was in scale and finesse. Our slicers weren't just brute‑forcing their way in — they were carefully replacing what needed to be replaced: injecting fabricated "evidence" into news feeds, clan private messages, and the duchess's official communications. Evidence of Satine Kryze's betrayal and collusion with the Republic: snippets of "conversations" with a Jedi, orders redirecting resources into her officials' pockets while the people starved, and so on. Some of the "leaks" were even true.

"Ninety percent of the data has been replaced," reported the slicer closest to me — apparently the team lead.

I nodded, eyes still on the screens. Everything was on schedule. And that schedule accounted for Jedi interference. Obi‑Wan Kenobi wouldn't ignore such a surge of disinformation. His logic was predictable: find the source, charge in headfirst, and destroy it. And he would find it. We'd help him.

I had already prepared a special "gift." On a separate, isolated server waited the final file — an audio recording. Not just Obi‑Wan's voice pasted over someone else's words, but a complex synthesis created with CIS technology, tailored to his psycholinguistic profile. A phrase meant to be the nail in the coffin of his reputation on Mandalore:

"Satine, only open war can save the Republic. Start it. We'll secure Senate support for you."

The voice was perfect. Every intonation, every micro‑tone. Even I, listening to the test run, could barely detect artifacts. A Jedi would sense the deception through the Force, of course — but for ordinary Mandalorians, for frightened clan leaders, it would be more than enough. Doubt was my greatest ally.

"Prepare evacuation under Protocol Shadow. Primary personnel, withdraw to the shuttles immediately. Leave all droids here — they're to engage Kenobi. Notify me the moment the Jedi appears on sensors."

I wasn't planning to leave with the first shuttle. I needed to make sure Kenobi found the right trail. The trail I would leave for him. It would lead him away from prying eyes, into the ruins of some ancient monumental structure on the edge of another crater — the perfect stage for the final act of this performance. I won't pretend I could defeat the man who once diced up Anakin in a fair duel. Absolutely not. But if the fight happened on my terms…

Maybe it was too risky to stay until the end, but… I didn't trust electronics. One jammer, one slicer on the Jedi's side, even a random surge in the Force, and I wouldn't be able to detonate the complex and erase all evidence of CIS involvement. So I had to wait — and press the button myself at the right moment. But first, the Jedi had to find the clues and hear my "gift."

An hour later, the alarm sirens confirmed my calculations. Sensors detected a lone Republic shuttle gliding silently above the city's protective dome. I hadn't been wrong. Once again, I marveled at how easy it was to predict Jedi behavior. And also… it seemed that with each passing day I remembered more of this body's memories — Taales. As if I had crossed some invisible threshold, after which the merging of our knowledge became irreversible and now progressed twice as fast. I could already feel the changes — even in my thinking.

Not important.

"Activate the final sequence. Start the destruction timer. Begin transmission of the final message on my signal," I ordered the AI running on the consoles as I stood. The last part was insurance — in case Obi‑Wan somehow reached me. I wasn't planning to meet him now, but who knew what the Force might "whisper" to him…

From a separate room, I watched through the cameras as the sealed doors melted under his blue blade. He moved like a seasoned predator on the hunt — even through the screen, his mastery was obvious as he neutralized the few remaining guard droids.

A shame — I would never learn to fight like that. You had to start from childhood and train your whole life.

Oh well. Let him feel like the victor.

When the explosion thundered through the server room, I finally relaxed and pressed the button. The recording "played" for the Jedi and simultaneously broadcast across all frequencies, into open access. The self‑destruct timer activated as well, so I hurried to evacuate.

Such a strange feeling… almost thrilling. I — a proper evil Sith — had outplayed a Jedi, ha!

Huh? Emotional instability much…

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The ruins were vast and silent. Hard to say what had once stood here, but now you could only stay safely with a respirator — this was the lifeless wasteland of Mandalore. I chose a position near a pile of rubble overlooking the only approach. I stood openly in the guise of Zarek Von, Vizsla's advisor, masking my presence in the Force. I had to use this persona again — but this would be the last time. All that remained was to wait and execute everything correctly, though this would be far more difficult than before, because this time there would be more than two actors on the stage.

Soon, through the sandstorm, a silhouette emerged — the unmistakable robe of a Jedi. Kenobi looked focused, and through the transparent mask his eyes found me.

"You're not the first to try to fracture Mandalore. But you're the first who hides his face so carefully. Even Sith, in their hatred, don't hide when facing their enemy," he said calmly, stopping ten meters away.

As expected. As long as I didn't show aggression, he wouldn't attack immediately. He probably still thought I was just a normal sentient. Still, his words… not an attack, but a probe — an attempt to provoke emotion. Isn't that a Sith tactic? What did they call it in fanfics? Some short, snappy word. Damn, forgot…

Alright, time to knock him down a peg. Say something creepy — villain‑style, ha:

"A face is just flesh and bone wrapped in skin. What's under the helmet doesn't matter. What matters is which idea survives. Yours is already cracking. People hear your voice calling for war. They see your presence bringing only explosions and death."

My voice through the helmet modulator was steady, but even so, the Jedi could sense the hidden mockery.

He didn't flinch, but his stance shifted — ready. He felt the derision in my words and saw no point in justifying himself, so he went straight to business:

"I received information that a meeting between Death Watch and a CIS envoy would take place here. How are you connected to them?" he said, his hand lowering toward his lightsaber.

"'Received information'? Interesting. And what's your source? What will you do with it? Arrest me — an ordinary citizen who has every right to walk wherever it isn't forbidden? And where exactly do you see 'CIS envoys'? The Republic is no longer strong enough to dictate its will to Mandalore. You're outsiders here."

I tilted my head slightly, mockingly, trying to provoke him. No luck.

I saw him weighing his options. Attack? Try to capture me alive for interrogation? I could almost read the realization in his eyes: a forceful solution would accomplish nothing except give us more propaganda material, and he had no other evidence against me. And at that moment, from behind the pile of rocks to the right, a third figure appeared. A surprise for the Jedi — but not for me.

It was him.

Keiro Wind.

He looked… not great. His clothes were worn, the dust from Concord Dawn now doubled with Mandalorian dust. But the eyes behind the respirator mask — those were the same: steel‑cold, burned‑out, looking at both of us with equal parts exhaustion and disdain.

Obi‑Wan turned his head, and for the first time that evening, a genuine emotion crossed his face — relieved surprise. It seemed he had decided what to do with me:

"Keiro! You're just in time! This man — Zarek Von — is connected to the Sith somehow! Help me capture him!"

I simply waited, watching Keiro closely. He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was fixed on Obi‑Wan, and in it I saw not a desire to help, but something far more complicated. Bitter disappointment.

"Capture him? So the Council can decide what to do with him again? The way they decided with Brut on Concord Dawn? 'Capture or neutralize'?"

Keiro's voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

Oh, now that was interesting. He had just quoted his own mission briefing — and poured all the bitterness of his revelation into those words. Obi‑Wan winced, thrown off balance.

"What are you talking about? The Council sends us to protect peace!"

"To them — to the Council — we're just tools without emotions. Perfect instruments. Don't you see that? I'm done with the Order, Obi‑Wan. I won't be their weapon anymore."

I saw the Jedi trying to process this. Saw the way his worldview cracked, the faint smile that had appeared on his face flickering out. Doubt ignited in his eyes — now he was clearly wondering whether Keiro, fallen into darkness, was the Sith he had been hunting all along.

But before Obi‑Wan could find an answer, Keiro made a sharp, precise motion and tossed a small datapad toward him. It clattered against a stone at the Jedi's feet.

"But I won't join the CIS either — they play the same games, just with different tools. That datapad contains a recording of the Sith's meeting with Death Watch and their discussion of cooperation. Decide for yourself what to do with it, Jedi. I'm leaving. Don't try to find me — you won't. I came here only to make sure there wasn't a Sith involved, but I see my justice isn't needed here…"

Keiro turned and walked into the storm. Within seconds, his figure blurred and dissolved, as if he had never been there at all.

A grave silence fell. Obi‑Wan froze, torn between me and the datapad at his feet — a tangible piece of evidence of Death Watch's cooperation with the CIS.

This was my chance — his attention wavered.

I didn't give a dramatic speech or launch a reckless attack. That would've been stupid and ineffective. Instead, I simply stepped back, smoothly and without sudden movements, into a passage I had memorized beforehand. By the time Obi‑Wan finally bent down to pick up the datapad and glanced in my direction, I was already somewhere else — a meter away from him, emerging from behind a broken column I had climbed while he watched Keiro leave.

My orange‑black blade burst from my hand with a growl, slicing through the air in a horizontal strike aimed at his waist. A simple, powerful blow meant to knock him off balance.

Kenobi reacted with astonishing speed. His blue blade met mine a centimeter from his robe. Sparks lit up his surprised face. He hadn't expected the "advisor" to attack first — and certainly not with a lightsaber.

"So my suspicions were correct. You are a Sith," he exhaled, and the surprise in his eyes hardened into cold resolve.

"Oh, I'm just visiting," I shot back, shifting into a flurry of fast, aggressive strikes, trying to force him toward the spot I had marked earlier.

But then a small problem appeared.

For the first few seconds, I tried to stick to the planned "path," but it was like trying to hold back a bursting dam with bare hands. His style — Soresu, Form III — was perfect defense. Every strike I made met his blade. He didn't counterattack; he simply parried, studying me, forcing me to waste energy. I felt him calmly and methodically dismantling my technique. My movements — my style, honed in battles by Taales and refined by absorbing even more of his memories — looked clumsy against the thousand‑year tradition of the Jedi, wielded by one of their finest duelists.

I stepped forward, this time relying not on the knowledge of "this body," but on my modest skills from my previous life — closing distance low, swinging down with a powerful overhead strike, hoping to combine blade and legs. But the Jedi redirected the blow, and my blade sank into the stone floor, leaving me open. That was enough. His leg shot forward like lightning, slamming into my chest. The armor softened the impact, but the force still sent me flying several meters, crashing onto my back and knocking the air out of my lungs.