176I'll be brief and apologize for the lack of updates in the last couple months. Loss of muse was the primary reason, but the illnesses and tooth abscess that snuck up on me and ended with a dead nerve and two pulled teeth did not help matters either.
PS - From Mand - He's just a bitch that couldn't finish
For early access to chapters and for other stuff, feel free to join my Discord. Link to my Discord, just remove the space because FF do be the big stupid: discord /2XN2rzuFpM
Nothing of value is free. Even the breath of life is purchased at birth only through gasping effort and pain... The best things in life are beyond money; their price is agony and sweat and devotion... and the price demanded for the most precious of all things in life is life itself-ultimate cost for perfect value. - Robert Heinlein.
(LINE BREAK)
The stars stretched and then snapped back into pinpoints as the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace gave way to the black expanse of realspace. Pre Vizsla adjusted the controls of his YT-1000 freighter, the hum of the ship steady beneath his hands. Nar Shaddaa loomed ahead, the smuggler's moon encased in a murky haze of pollution and neon light. It was a place he despised but couldn't avoid—a cesspool of corruption, crime, and credits.
His helmet's HUD flickered to life with navigation details transmitted from his ship's navigation system as he shifted to sublight speed, the engines rumbling softly as he approached the moon. Around him, a chaotic network of freighters, shuttles, and larger vessels moved in and out of Nar Shaddaa's orbit like an unending tide. His ship passed by them without issue.
The comms crackled, and a gruff voice filtered through the static. "Inbound YT-1000, identify yourself and state your business."
Pre tapped a button on the console, his voice cold and clipped through the modulator. "Vizsla. Here on business related to a bounty issued by the Hutt Araaba. Clearance code transmitting now."
There was a pause as the docking control processed the data. He kept his hands steady on the controls, glancing briefly at the secure storage compartment behind him. Inside, the trophy of his hunt—the head of a particularly elusive target—sat sealed and ready for delivery. The thought of the credits awaiting him was satisfying, though the promise of adding to his Clan's arsenal was even more so.
The comms crackled again. "Clearance confirmed. Proceed to Docking Port 27-Gamma. Keep your weapons holstered."
Vizsla smirked under his helmet. "Understood," he said, cutting the transmission. He guided his ship toward the designated port.
As the docking bay came into view, the familiar hum of Nar Shaddaa's chaos grew louder, the neon glow from the moon's surface reflecting faintly against his cockpit. Another job almost done, another reminder of the galaxy's rot—and another step closer to restoring what the Mandalorians had lost.
The YT-1000 touched down with a low, metallic thud that echoed in the enclosed bay. Pre Vizsla powered down the engines, letting the familiar hiss of decompressing systems fill the silence. The exterior of the docking port was as grimy as he expected from the smuggler's port, but was fortunately well-lit and the faint stench of oil was all that clung to the stale air.
He rose from his seat, grabbing the sealed container from the secure compartment. The head inside was heavy, but not enough to slow him down. With the container in hand, he made his way to the exit ramp. As it lowered with a sharp hiss, the sounds of Nar Shaddaa flooded in. There was distant shouting, clanking machinery, and the ever-present hum of one of the many city's chaos.
A group of port workers loitered nearby, their eyes darting to the Mandalorian as he descended the ramp. Pre ignored their stares and strode toward them, his boots clicking against the durasteel floor.
"Fuel it," he said curtly, gesturing to his ship. He dropped a small bag of coins into the hand of a startled Rodian worker, who quickly nodded and scrambled to fetch the necessary equipment. Pre didn't wait for a response. His business here wasn't with them.
He stood near his ship, scanning the bay as the workers busied themselves with the refueling process. It wasn't long before another figure entered the docking area. A Weequay clad in fine silks and adorned with gaudy jewelry approached, flanked by a heavily armed Gamorrean and a Nikto. The Hutt's representative.
The Weequay's lips curled into a practiced smile. "Vizsla, I presume. Araaba has been eagerly awaiting the delivery."
Pre inclined his helmeted head, shifting the container slightly. "Then don't waste my time. Lead the way."
The Weequay chuckled, gesturing toward a lift at the edge of the port. "Of course. This way."
Pre followed the Hutt's representative from the docking port in silence, his armored boots striking the durasteel floor in rhythm with the escort's heavy steps. Two guards flanked them, their blaster rifles cradled loosely but ready at a moment's notice.
Ahead, a speeder waited. Its dark, scuffed surface blended easily with the dingy surroundings. Pre scanned it with a quick, assessing glance before stepping closer. The Nikto driver gestured for him to load up, his leathery face unreadable. Pre climbed into the back seat, setting the container across his lap and palming the blaster on his hip with his right hand. One of the guards slipped into the driver's seat while the other stayed outside, casting a wary gaze over the bustling port before hopping into the passenger side.
The speeder hummed to life, gliding away from the port and weaving into Nar Shaddaa's congested lanes of chaotic traffic. Pre said nothing, his eyes scanning the passing streets. Filthy markets teeming with all manner of criminals and desperate beings blurred past, illuminated by flickering neon and guttering fires. The stench of unwashed bodies and burning refuse reached him even through the sealed air filtration of the speeder.
Soon, the chaos of the streets gave way to quieter outskirts, where the towering, decrepit structures were replaced by sprawling compounds. The speeder slowed as they approached a gated manor, its perimeter marked by currently inactive ray shield generators that caught Pre's eye immediately. He narrowed his gaze, filing away the detail for later. The faint hum of the speeder died down as they reached a guard checkpoint at the gate, where two Zabrack stood watch, covered in full durasteel armour from head to toe and with vibro axes slung over their broad shoulders while holding blaster carbines.
The Nikto guard in the passenger seat leaned out, exchanging quick words with one of the Zabrack while flashing a datapad for clearance. Pre's helmeted gaze lingered on the checkpoint, the slight wear and tear of the gate's energy emitters, and the subtle scuffs along the shield emitters as well. The Hutt's wealth may have been great, but this place reeked of complacency—a weakness Pre always noticed and never ignored.
The checkpoint guards stepped aside, and the energy barrier of the gate winked off, revealing a path that wound through the manor's compound. The speeder slid forward, the hum of its repulsorlifts blending with the faint chirp of security droids patrolling the perimeter. The compound itself contrasted noticeably with the decayed streets of Nar Shaddaa. Though not pristine, it was orderly enough and its duracrete walls were sturdy, high and topped with automated turrets, their sensor arrays scanning lazily as if their systems weren't quite at full capacity. It was difficult to spot, but he recognized the exact brand of turrets they were and was intimately familiar with how they were supposed to shift, rotate, and move in general.
Pre's eyes then darted to the scattered clusters of sentries stationed throughout the yard. The guards were stationed in pairs, their movements precise, yet their relaxed postures hinted at a lack of true discipline. Pre smirked under his helmet. Weakness wasn't just structural here, it was cultural.
The speeder came to a halt before the main manor entrance, a massive durasteel door flanked by two more guards clad in full armor. Pre stepped out with practiced ease, lifting the container and ignoring the way one of the guards stiffened at his presence. He let the moment stretch, his helmeted gaze lingering on them just long enough to unsettle before following the Nikto escort through the door.
The inside of the manor was brightly lit, the walls adorned with banners and gaudy trinkets that spoke more of the Hutt's vanity than any real taste. The air was thick with the scent of spice and roasted meat, and Pre's steps echoed in the corridor as they wound deeper into the heart of the estate, past other guards and a few servants who scurried out of his path.
At last, they reached a set of wide double doors that slid open with a hiss, revealing a cavernous meeting hall. The room was a grotesque display of wealth, filled with displays of art, rare artifacts, and a menagerie of live, exotic creatures kept in caged alcoves along the walls. But the centerpiece was unmistakable—the Hutt, a massive slug-like creature perched on a hover-seat that had been crafted to resemble a throne, complete with gilded armrests and glowing control panels.
The Hutt's mottled skin gleamed under the light as it shifted its bulk, its eyes narrowing in amusement as Pre entered. The Nikto escort stopped just inside the threshold and stepped aside, leaving Pre to cross the polished floor alone. The low hum of the hover-throne grew louder as the Hutt adjusted its position, looming larger as Pre approached.
Pre halted a few meters away, setting the container down with a deliberate thud and straightening to his full height. His helmet tilted up slightly, fixing the Hutt with an unflinching gaze. Whatever words were coming next, Pre already knew his reputation would precede them.
The Hutt's throne shifted slightly, its repulsors emitting a low, steady whine as the creature leaned forward. Its tiny, calculating eyes focused on the container at Pre's feet. A thick, guttural rumble emerged from the Hutt's throat, followed by the familiar cadence of Huttese.
"Confirm the identity." The Hutt's voice was deep and slimy, carrying an air of imperious command. It gestured lazily with a stubby, ring-covered arm to a lanky aide standing beside the throne, a Klatooinian dressed in silks that clashed with his weathered, battle-scarred features. A former fighter no doubt.
The Klatooinian nodded immediately, stepping forward to retrieve the container. His movements were stiff as he knelt beside it and unlocked the latches. He carefully opened the lid, revealing the gruesome prize within; a severed head that had been preserved in a vacuum-sealed chamber.
Pre heard the rumbling laugh of the Hutt, the gash-like mouth twisting into what could perhaps pass for a smirk.
"Unorthodox, bringing the whole head."
"My usual choice." Pre replied simply. He typically preferred taking the entire head, perhaps because it called to a more base time, an era of blood, cold iron, and sweat upon fist clasped hilt; no DNA tests or photos strictly needed.
The aide reached into a pouch on his belt, pulling out a compact scanning device. Holding it just above the head, he activated the scanner, and a soft blue light bathed the macabre trophy. The device emitted a series of beeps as it analyzed the DNA, its screen flickering with data.
Pre remained motionless, his helmeted gaze locked on the Hutt, whose expression remained unreadable now save for a faint twitch of satisfaction as the scan continued. The hum of the throne's repulsors was the main background noise that filled the room, mingling with the faint mechanical sounds of the scanner.
The Klatooinian's brow furrowed briefly as he studied the results, then straightened and turned back to the Hutt. His voice was formal, measured. "It's him."
The Hutt's laugh was a wet, rumbling sound, and its gaze finally shifted from the container to Pre.
"200k, as agreed. I insist you stay as my guest for the day and I shall cover any repairs or fuel needs for your ship. Good service warrants good rewards."
Pre would normally decline, but this was a customer he had indirectly worked for on multiple occasions in the past. An additional day and getting reimbursed for fuel costs was worth suffering the 'honour' of being a guest.
"I accept, and when will the money be transferred?"
"Later today."
(LINE BREAK)
The dim, flickering light of my cell cast jagged shadows across the walls, the uneven glow like a macabre reflection of the chaos simmering inside me. The air reeked of metal and sweat as usual, but I ignored it. All I could feel was the pulse of my heart, the fire in my blood, and the Force, raw and volatile, surging like a storm I refused to tame completely; I simply directed it like a torrent.
I dropped to the floor, slamming my palms against the durasteel with enough force to make it groan. My body coiled as I drove myself down and back up in punishing, relentless pushups. The Force wasn't a gentle guide—it was a beast I'd dragged out of its cage, feeding on my fury and sharpening my movements with a primal edge. My arms burned, my chest screamed for air, but I didn't stop. Pain was nothing but a fuel for the blaze of life burning in me. Weakness was the enemy.
With a snarl, I pushed off the floor, springing to my feet in one fluid motion. My fists came up, knuckles tight and white, and I lashed out at the empty space before me. Each punch cracked through the air like a whip, fueled by the fire clawing its way through my veins. I wasn't imagining an opponent. I didn't need to. Every swing was a blow against this world that caged me, against the failures of the past, against the future that demanded I fight just to exist.
I circled, a predator stalking an invisible prey, my muscles tense as I struck again and again, growling under my breath with each phantasmic hit. Sweat poured down my face, dripping onto the floor in sharp beats that matched the relentless rhythm of my movements.
I dropped again, exhaling sharply as my palms hit the floor with a metallic clang. Pushups. Leap. Strike. Again and again, the repetition wasn't a routine anymore after my time here, it was more like a ritual. Each motion ripped the Force closer to me, binding it to my will. It wasn't clean or calm, but violent, seething, a living thing that roared in my veins. I didn't care if it tore me apart. So long as it made me stronger, I'd feed it every drop of rage I had.
The cycle repeated again and again until I felt my mind start to slip, where my sense of self began to be drowned out by the sensations and fury. With a sizable degree of concentration and no small amount of difficulty, I gripped down on the wellspring of power I'd been tearing into and shuddered from head to toe as the icy fire faded into a soft, albeit chilly, burn.
It took several moments longer before I felt satisfied enough to sit back down and do what my only other way to pass the time was, aside from repeating key details about this world I was in, which was reading the only book I had access to. My legs bent as I laid down on the cot, leaned against the wall, and turned the holo novel on to read it for the several dozenth time.
The introduction could have been recited word for word in my head, but I still read it anyway. But until I got out of here, this was all I could do; read, train as best as I could, and remember.
I didn't know how long it was, but I only got to the beginning of the second chapter when I felt the edge of my senses get tweaked. I looked up, and a second later saw one of the few human guards walk within sight of my cell and looked at me.
"Boss says you're going to be putting on a spectacle tomorrow," He said gruffly, spitting on the ground. "Some anniversary for a battle or something."
I just sighed at that, knowing that it was a coin toss on whether half of the fighters got killed or not in one of those situations; real life battles tend to get hit with the hyperbole stick. And I unfortunately did not have Russell Crowe on my side in this, and me resembling him in my past life didn't count.
"You warning the others or am I special?" I asked with a hint of sarcasm, going back to looking at the screen of the holo novel and not keeping my gaze on the guard.
There was a brief pause, but he actually replied. "You're just a kid, so you got the warning."
The laugh that erupted from me was a quick bark, and I felt the scar by my eye pull as my face shifted. I didn't even look up.
"Kids don't enjoy killing."
There wasn't a reply, and the guard left me to my own devices for the evening.
The rest of the evening and late into the night was spent reading, then ended with me trying to meditate while sitting still without physical exertion to home it. As usual, it had diminishing results and the sleep I got was restless.
It felt like I was asleep for only a few minutes, but was woken up and was told to get out of my cell. I complied after stretching for a moment and exited the cell, glancing at the other gladiators assembled in the hall with two guards at the front and two at the back. The overseer, a different one this month, made a timely entrance as we were assembled, and he made his presence known.
"We have a special occasion for you maggots!" He grinned, stroking his graying beard as he looked at us one by one. "It's a battle commemoration."
The overseer let that sink in, his grin widening as his eyes glinted with amusement at our silence. We all knew what that meant—blood, spectacle, and an audience baying for death. The only question was whose.
He gestured sharply to the guards, and we were ushered forward, marching down the dimly lit corridors toward the armory. The scent of oil, metal, and sweat thickened in the air as we stepped inside.
The guards kept their weapons trained on us as we approached the racks of armor and exclusively melee weapons lining the walls. I moved with the others, finding my designated set of gear, the same battered pieces I'd worn before, repaired just enough to stay functional. The chest plate was dented, the gauntlets scratched, but they still fit like a second skin.
"Nah kid," The overseer barked, making me turn to face him and frown, "You're wearing special armour this time. Come here." He gestured with his hand.
I didn't immediately comply, feeling the streak of defiance rear up. I could feel the dark whispers burrow into my mind, taunting me to rip his throat out; to crush the weak and pliable soft tissue in his skull.
My will then flexed and the darkness was swiftly beaten and kicked into its cage, the whispers knowing their place once again.
I didn't resist further, I just shot him a brief look as I approached him and he signaled a guard to come over. One of them did, then I was pointed towards the front left section of the armoury.
"Tell him the good news." The overseer added, offering a slight nod to me before barking an order to a separate guard.
At my raised brow, the guard walked ahead of me and I followed, ignoring the clicks and sounds of the others gearing up and I found myself standing before a different set of armor on a shorter humanoid mannequin—sleek, reinforced, and adorned with sigils that meant nothing to me but would no doubt mean something to the crowd. It was heavier than my usual gear, built a bit for show as much as function.
"Congrats kid, you might be earning you freedom today." He muttered next to me, causing me to freeze. I then slowly turned my head, looking up at him with the chilly blaze of the Force stained with my emotions making my fingers twitch almost involuntarily.
"Repeat that."
"It's a special fight and the boss wants a show to impress some friends." He clarified, tapping the open locker where the armour was set up in. "Just fight like you have and you'll earn your freedom."
Was this not what I was seeking and expecting to claw from the jaws of resistance? What would I do? My goal to be free, to do what my duty was; a duty born from what I failed to do.
My fist clenched, remembering why it happened. I couldn't let it happen, not when I could hear her silent screams in the Force. I was in the alley again, where my military service began. I could hear the screaming, begging for salvation, some angel to deliver her.
Stop. I internally snarled, clamping down on the gushing artery of emotion threatening to drown me as it looped through my head and made my senses spin.
I will kill Sidious. I will save the galaxy… Because Anakin no longer could. It was a creed that I kept to with as much fervency as that thrice be damned, blinded pharisee held to his. And I would see it fulfilled.
I then exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders before strapping on the armour piece by piece, feeling it suddenly jolt at the joints…
Hmmm, mag locks.
Strapping each piece on, I worked in silence, my fingers moving with the practiced ease of someone who had done this far too many times. The others did the same, though some moved slower, hesitating over their gear as if the weight of what was coming finally started to settle in.
The weapons were also of note. They weren't special ones, they were actually a good choice. Arming sword as a side weapon, with my height making it more like a bastard sword, round shield, and a spear that only my enhance strength while drawing on the Force let me grip properly without straining my wrist.
Once everyone was suited up, we were herded once again through the corridors, our boots thudding against the duracrete floor in rhythmic steps. The closer we got to the waiting area near the arena, the louder the sounds became—muffled cheers, the distant roar of a beast, the clang of metal against metal. There was obviously a teaser
As we stepped into the dimly lit chamber just outside the arena gates, I took a quick glance around. Faces I had come to recognize were here, some hardened with quiet resolve, others twitching with nerves. But one thing was clear—Taad and several others were missing.
I didn't need to ask where they were. I already knew, and the whispers returned that another step on the road to freedom was soon approaching…
A step I didn't want to choose, but I would.
The muffled roar of the crowd ebbed and flowed beyond the waiting area, a living, breathing thing that pulsed with bloodlust. I stood near the entrance, arms crossed, posture relaxed but my senses stretched outward. The appetizer match was already underway—some poor bastards sent out to die for the crowd's amusement.
One by one, I felt the life signatures flicker and then vanish, snuffed out like flames in a gust of wind. Some went quickly, others clung to life a little longer, but the result was always the same. The dull thud of bodies hitting sand was drowned beneath the arena's cheers. I rolled my shoulders, exhaling through my nose.
Then the announcer's voice rang through the speakers, cutting through the noise with exaggerated grandeur.
"And now, a battle from the days of old! A tale of loyalty, blood, and defiance! Long ago, the forces of the great Hutts stood firm against the encroaching warlords of the Outer Rim! And at the vanguard of that defense—leading the charge on the frontier—was none other than the indomitable warrior, Kekeb Loo, the Aleena general whose cunning and ferocity turned the tide of war!"
My eye twitched beneath my helmet. Kekeb Loo. An Aleena. The tiny, lizard-faced species that barely stood at my current height at 11.
Or was I 12 now?
I resisted the urge to sigh and clenched my fists instead. Of course, they stuck me with this. I wasn't sure what was worse—the absurdity of the role or the fact that I'd have to humor it.
The heavy doors before us groaned as the locks disengaged. Sunlight spilled into the chamber, the heat of the arena washing over us like an open furnace. The guards prodded us forward, and the others marched ahead without hesitation.
I followed, stepping into the blinding light. The sand crunched beneath my boots as the deafening roar of the crowd welcomed us.
As I stepped fully into the arena, my eyes adjusted to the harsh glare of the twin suns above. The crowd thundered around me, a writhing sea of spectators baying for blood. I didn't look at them—I was only interested in what stood across from me.
On the far side of the grounds, the "enemy" had already assembled. Most were fresh bodies, fighters I didn't recognize, their stances stiff with tension. Others, though, I knew.
Taad was among them.
He stood near the front, a grim sense of determination I could sense that made my teeth clench for a moment. His gaze swept over our side, landing on me for a brief second before moving on. A silent understanding passed between us, one neither of us had time to acknowledge.
Then I lifted my gaze toward the main box, high in the stands.
The bloated form of my Hutt owner lounged in his designated seat, his massive bulk partially obscured by shadows cast from an overhead canopy. That was expected. What wasn't expected was the figure beside him.
A Mandalorian.
Armor gleaming under the sunlight, helmet tilted slightly as he observed the arena below. The sight of him sent a ripple of intrigue through me, but I had no time to dwell on it. Whoever he was, whatever his reason for being here—it didn't change what was about to happen.
I exhaled slowly and rolled my shoulders, feeling the weight of my armor shift with me. My fingers curled into fists, gripping the ahold of the Force and honing the edge of it with my fury, molding it into something cold, something controlled.
Even as the announcer's voice rose again, feeding the crowd's excitement, I kept my focus locked ahead. The fight was coming. And I drank upon the sickeningly sweet ichor of the Force, my teeth chattering and my senses expanding as I grinned viciously, sensing the pulsing life force of the final things in the way of my freedom.
I will always… survive.
(LINE BREAK)
Pre Vizsla stood at the edge of Araaba's viewing platform, arms crossed over his chest as he observed the arena below.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, the energy of the bloodthirsty masses palpable even through the Mandalorian's cold indifference.
His visor tracked the moment the two formations collided, the clash of steel and bone ringing out across the sands. It was a brutish affair, little in the way of true tactics—just raw desperation, the will to survive pitted against the inevitability of death.
At the front of the so-called heroes, a single figure barked orders, driving his side forward with a clarity of purpose that stood in stark contrast to the frenzied melee around him. The boy.
Pre's lip curled in distaste beneath his helmet. A child.
They had thrown a child onto the sands.
He watched as the boy moved with efficiency, his spear point carving through openings with precision, his voice cutting through the screech of durasteel as he called out shifts in the line, directing his side to move and shift as one part started to waver. There was no hesitation in his movements, no wasted effort.
It was the mark of someone who had done this before, or a prodigious fighter.
Also noted was the boy's team had organized better than the other, with the stronger sapients exclusively at the front, including more than one Zabrack based upon the exposed flesh pattern on their arms and legs.
Pre had seen slaves fight before, had witnessed men reduced to little more than beasts, but this was different. This wasn't mindless survival. The boy wasn't just fighting for himself—he was trying to keep them alive.
Pre said nothing, but his grip on his vambrace tightened. Araaba beside him let out a deep, gurgling chuckle, clearly enjoying the spectacle. Pre, however, remained still, watching as another pair of combatants fell—one dead, the other maimed and left to be trampled in the press of bodies.
Disgusting.
This wasn't war. This wasn't even a proper duel. This was butchery dressed up as entertainment, and the worst part was that the crowd loved it.
He exhaled through his nose, watching the battle unfold with a silent, simmering contempt.
Pre's gaze sharpened as movement on the sands caught his attention. The boy broke formation in a flash, dashing forward with startling speed.
A spear thrust shot toward him, aimed to skewer him through the ribs, but he twisted sharply, knocking the weapon aside with his shield. Without missing a step, he pivoted and drove the tip of his spear into the throat of the enemy before him, a spurt of blood escaping from his mouth before he collapsed in a heap.
Pre's brow lifted at the movement. That wasn't the strike of a desperate child swinging wildly—it was controlled, deliberate, and backed by a precision and timing that shouldn't have belonged to someone that looked barely past their twelfth year.
Before the gap in the line could recover, the boy's blade shot forward, tagging another in the leg before his shield could readjust. Then, just as quickly, he retreated back into formation, resuming his place as if he had never left it.
Pre didn't let his posture shift, but his mind lingered on what he'd just witnessed. That wasn't normal. Not for a gladiator, and certainly not for a child.
For the first time since stepping onto the balcony, he felt a flicker of something beyond disgust. Not quite interest, not yet. But curiosity.
(LINE BREAK)
The air thrummed with a steady pulse that I felt in my bones. Every strike that met flesh, every clash of metal, sent ripples through the Force, the chaos of battle feeding the fire burning in my gut. My grip on the spear was firm, my shield braced as I moved with the formation, striking when I saw an opening, covering when the others needed me to.
I drove my spear into a gap between plates, twisting just enough to make it count before wrenching it free and one of the familiar faces that I had just exchanged pleasantries with stumbled to the ground. A blade came for my side, but I sensed it before I saw it, angling my shield to deflect the blow. Another spear jabbed toward my thigh—I turned sharply, before stepping forward and slamming my shield into the attacker's face. They staggered, and I seized the moment, stabbing low and retreating back into position.
The formation held, shifting when I called for it, pressing when I barked the order. I wasn't the only one killing, but I was keeping our rhythm, being equally as effective as the Zabrack flanking my left and right. Keeping us moving like a beast with many limbs, hammering at the enemy line.
Then, I felt it—a sharp resistance as I thrust forward, followed by a snap. The weight in my hands changed, suddenly too light.
I barely had time to look before I saw the jagged remains of my spearhead clattering to the sand.
"Fucking shit," I growled, tossing the broken shaft aside and reaching for the sword at my hip.
The shield came up again, my fingers tightening around the familiar grip of my blade.
The moment my fingers wrapped around the hilt of my sword, I reached out—gripping the Force with all the fury burning in my gut. It surged through me, raw and wild, setting my muscles ablaze with power.
A snarl ripped from my throat as I lunged forward, my boots barely touching the sand before I crashed into the enemy line like a cannon shot. Shields buckled, bodies snapped backward, and I felt the air leave their lungs as I barreled through with bone-crunching force.
I didn't stop.
Pivoting on my heel, I twisted into a vicious, sweeping arc, my sword carving through the space around me. The edge bit deep—metal, flesh, bone—I barely registered what, only that they fell. Blood sprayed across the sand, some screaming, some just crumpling, but I didn't pause to count.
The enemy formation faltered, cracking under the sudden, brutal charge.
And I was already moving again.
The enemy formation buckled, the line rippling like a wound torn open by my charge. For a moment, it held—but then my side lurched forward, crashing into the breach like a wave against shattered rock. Shields clashed, weapons locked, and in an instant, formation gave way to chaos.
The fight turned into a melee, bodies twisting and lunging, screams and the clash of steel filling the air. I barely registered it.
I sank deeper into the Force, letting it flood through me like a raging current, my senses stretching out and grasping at the threads of battle. The world slowed, every motion sharpening into clarity—I saw the path of every swing, felt the intent of every thrust.
I twisted left, a blade hissing past where my ribs had been a heartbeat before. My own sword lashed out, biting into a throat before I even had time to think.
A heavy axe came down toward my head and I shifted my weight, letting my body drop just enough to let the swing sail past before I drove my shield forward. The impact cracked ribs, sent the man staggering back just long enough for my sword to carve through him.
Another came from my side and I turned into it, catching the downward stroke with my blade, locking against the weight pressing down. He gritted his teeth, forcing against me, and I answered by wrenching my shield up and slamming its rim into his jaw. He reeled back just for a second, just enough, and my sword finished the job.
I kept moving, my grip on the Force tightening, the pull of it stronger now, dragging me deeper. The more I let it guide me, the more it felt like drowning. And yet, I couldn't let go. Not now.
Through the storm of bodies and flashing steel, I felt the shift before I saw it. A heavy presence, steady, and cutting through the chaos like a predator among prey. My head snapped toward it, and there he was.
Bartra.
I exhaled, adjusting my grip on my sword. My blood was hot, my muscles thrumming from the Force surging through me, but I forced myself to focus. If I rushed this, he'd cut me down.
Then he moved.
Bartra came in fast—far faster than a man his size should have been able to move. His sword slashed out in a blur, and I barely got my shield up in time. Sparks flew as metal scraped against metal, the impact rattling up my arm. I staggered back a step, and he was already pressing forward.
I twisted away, my sword lashing out toward his ribs, but he deflected it with a sharp parry before driving a knee toward my stomach. I managed to shift just enough that it glanced off my side rather than folding me in half, but it still sent a shock through my core.
I gritted my teeth and retaliated. My blade flicked out again, forcing him to step back, and I surged forward, hammering my shield against him to break his stance. It worked—just barely. He dug his heels in, but I saw his balance shift, and I swung for his head.
He stepped back out of reach easily.
Before I could adjust, his left hand hooked behind my shield and wrenched it to the side. His blade in his right then came up like a viper striking, and I barely twisted in time to avoid getting my throat turn open. But then...
A wrenching force ripped my shield from my arm. One second it was there, the next it was flying from my grasp, skidding across the bloodied ground. My arm ached from the sheer power behind the move, but I had no time to dwell on it.
Bartra grinned, bringing his blade down at my face and I barely deflected it with my own, wildly swinging my blade around me to ward off the ones I sense started to think about hitting me from the back as the melee continued with a completely chaotic crescendo.
Now, it was just me, my sword, and him.
(LINE BREAK)
Pre leaned forward slightly, his helmeted gaze locked onto the spectacle below. The boy was going toe-to-toe with a towering Zabrak, and he wasn't just holding his own. He was fighting like a seasoned warrior.
Most fighters in these arenas were either desperate brawlers, meat for slaughter, or half-trained brutes relying on size and aggression. This was different. He moved with precision, reading his opponent's strikes as if he saw them before they happened. His footwork was measured, never lingering in one spot too long, always angling for the best position. Even without his shield, he didn't panic. Instead, he adjusted, blade flashing in rapid counters that forced the Zabrak to keep his guard up.
Pre narrowed his eyes behind his visor, tracking every movement. The boy fought with a blend of instinct and training, but it was the instincts that intrigued him the most. They were too sharp—too refined for someone so young. He fought like someone who had been forged in constant battle, someone who had been forced to survive rather than simply trained. And the way he read his opponent… Pre had seen that before. It reminded him almost of how Jedi fought.
Interesting.
If this boy was thrown against a Mandalorian warrior—not an elite, but one of the lesser-trained warriors from an outer clan—Pre wasn't entirely sure he would lose. He had seen grown men with years of training crumble against a berserker like the Zabrak, yet here this kid was, matching him blow for blow.
Pre turned his head slightly toward Araaba, his voice even. "Who is the boy?"
The Hutt let out a deep, guttural chuckle, his massive form shifting lazily on his hover-throne. "Ahhh, him? Just a slave I acquired a year ago." Araaba's thick, slug-like lips curled into something resembling amusement. "A rather amusing one, don't you think? Always puts on a good show."
Pre's eyes flicked back to the arena. The words slave and amusing rubbed him the wrong way, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he simply watched, his interest in the ki- ,no, the young warrior… growing by the second.
(LINE BREAK)
My breath came in short bursts, my arms burning, slick with blood from where Bartra's blade had found its mark in my bicep. The Force buzzed around me, my battle precognition flashing glimpses of incoming strikes a fraction of a second before they came. It was all I could do just to keep up.
Bartra was relentless, his sheer size and speed making every exchange a brutal test of endurance. I barely deflected an overhead slash, my sword straining against his heavier strike. My arms shook from the impact, muscles screaming. I shifted, angling my stance to sidestep, but I saw it—just a flicker in the Force—a warning too late.
His next attack came low, a sweeping strike meant to take my legs out from under me. I jumped back, but not fast enough. His blade grazed my thigh, pain flaring up my leg as it cut across an area where my armor didn't cover. Gritting my teeth, I twisted my grip and lunged forward, forcing the attack back on him.
He didn't flinch.
The Force flared again—a sudden, blaring alarm. I knew what was coming before I saw it, but it didn't matter.
Bartra stepped in with terrifying speed, his shoulder slamming into me like a battering ram. The air ripped from my lungs, and before I could even process the impact, my balance was gone.
I hit the ground hard. The coarse sand bit at my skin, and the world tilted for a brief second. My sword was still in my grip, but that wasn't going to mean anything if I didn't move now.
The Force screamed at me—danger. His shadow loomed over me and his blade was already descending like an executioner's axe.
I rolled just in time, feeling the rush of air as Bartra's blade slammed down, shearing against my shoulder armor with a metallic screech. A brief jolt of pain flared through my shoulder, but I didn't stop.
Still on the ground, I twisted and swung my sword low, feeling the jarring impact as the blade bit deep into Bartra's ankle with a wet crunch. A sharp, guttural snarl tore from his throat as his leg buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to his knees.
I didn't hesitate.
Drawing on the Force, I surged to my feet, my body moving faster than thought. My sword drove forward, straight into the gap in his armor at his collarbone. The blade sank deep, cutting through flesh and muscle. Bartra gasped, eyes wide, body locking up from the shock of it.
But then he moved.
With a furious snarl, his off-hand lashed out, practically a hammer strike that crashed into my face. My head snapped back, pain exploding behind my eyes, and I staggered, barely keeping my footing. My grip on my sword slipped, and before I could recover, my weapon was wrenched from my grasp, still buried in Bartra's chest as he stood heavily on his right leg.
I blinked, my vision swimming from the hit, the metallic taste of blood coating my tongue. The pain sharpened me, forcing clarity through the haze. Bartra was already shifting, gripping my sword hilt as if he could somehow pull it free and keep fighting.
No.
I dashed forward, feinting a lunge straight at him. His instincts took the bait, and he swung—a horizontal slash meant to take my head clean off. But I was already ducking, the blade hissing just over me as I dropped low.
Then I sprang up.
My fist drove into his chin with all the power I could summon, the impact jolting up my arm. Bartra's head snapped back, his entire body recoiling from the blow as he crashed to the ground, stunned.
Before he could recover, I stepped forward, seizing the hilt of my sword and yanking it free in a slick, wet motion. Bartra barely had time to gasp before I drove the blade down, straight into his face where his helmet didn't cover.
He jerked once. Then nothing.
I ripped my sword free from Bartra's skull, his body slumping lifelessly to the ground. The moment his weight hit the dirt, I turned, my blood pounding like a war drum in my ears.
The others came at me—slower, weaker.
I moved before they did, the Force crackling through my limbs, sharpening my senses until I could feel every shift, every hesitation, every pulse of fear radiating from them. I lunged, blade flashing, and tore through the first man's gut, his scream cut short as I wrenched my sword free and turned to the next.
They were scrambling now. Their line had shattered, their resolve breaking with it.
I grinned.
I felt their terror, their desperation, the way the Dark Side curled at the edges of my senses like a whisper, urging me forward. I welcomed it, let it feed the fire roaring inside me.
Another enemy raised his weapon. Too slow. I sidestepped, driving my blade through his ribs, twisting as he coughed blood.
The next one swung wildly—his form sloppy, panicked. I batted his weapon aside and carved open his throat.
The next I cut down with a brutal downward slash, my sword carving through the flesh and bone of his arm with ease. My follow-up nearly took off his head before he could even scream.
I was lost in it now. Lost in the rhythm, the blood, the fear.
And I loved it.
Our side had pushed forward, driven by momentum, rage, and the sheer brutality of the slaughter. One by one, the enemy fell, bodies hitting the dirt, cries of pain swallowed by the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd above. My blade carved through the last few stragglers, my body moving on instinct, honed and sharpened by the Force. The dark whispers still licked at the edges of my senses, urging me to keep going, to take more, to revel in the destruction I was wreaking.
And then, there was only one left.
He stumbled back, his weapon clattering from his hands. I moved before he could react, kicking him square in the chest and sending him sprawling onto his back. Dust and blood kicked up as he hit the ground hard, gasping for air.
I raised my sword, ready to bring it down and end him like all the others.
Then I saw his face.
Taad.
His eyes were wide with terror, chest heaving, lips trembling as he stared up at me. He wasn't pleading. He wasn't moving. Just frozen in fear.
My grip tightened on the hilt, my breathing harsh in my own ears. The whispers clawed at me, urging me to finish it. One more kill. One more body. One more victory.
But I hesitated.
For the first time in the entire fight, my body refused to move.
The arena horn bellowed above us, signaling the match's end. The bloodthirsty roars of the crowd followed, deafening and hungry for more.
But I barely heard it.
I was still staring at Taad, my blade hovering just above his throat, and my mind finally catching up to what I had almost done.
My breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a vice. The sword in my grip trembled, hovering just above Taad's throat, the dark hunger still coiling through my veins like a living thing, whispering, urging, demanding.
Finish it.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my body to move against the pull. Slowly, I lowered my blade, my fingers tightening, then releasing their death grip around the hilt. A shuddering breath left me as I pushed the hunger back, burying it deep, locking it away. Not now. Not here. It is a slave to my will, not my master.
The roar of the crowd washed over me, their howls and cheers cascading down like a wave of primal, unrelenting satisfaction. They had seen blood. They had seen battle. And they wanted more.
A moment passed, the dust settling, bodies lying still in the dirt. Then the announcer's voice boomed across the arena, triumphant and gloating.
"And so, the battle is won! The heroes of the Hutt Cartel stand victorious, their enemies crushed beneath their might! And as in the great battles of old—no prisoners were taken!"
My stomach twisted at the words.
No prisoners.
I barely registered the renewed cries of the spectators as they celebrated, eager to see the last enemy cut down. Taad was still on the ground, staring up at me, his face pale, his breathing shallow. His eyes locked onto mine again, searching, pleading for something that I hadn't shown to the others.
I froze.
My heart pounded against my ribs, my mind racing. I turned my head slightly, eyes flicking to the others—the ones still standing, bloodied and breathing. Would they do it? Would one of them take the announcer's words as an order rather than a statement?
My grip tightened on my sword again, my stance shifting.
I wasn't going to let that happen. Freedom would not be gained by me killing someone I accepted as my comrade, and now the moment had come to show whether all that I had often said to the men and brothers of my company about the fighting spirit was more than empty phrases.
Taad's chest still rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, his wide eyes locked onto mine. He was terrified—of me, of what had almost happened, of what still might. My grip stayed tight around my sword before I let out a slow breath, pushing back the remnants of the dark hunger clawing at my mind.
I knelt slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. "You're going to be alright," I murmured, voice steady despite the storm still raging inside me.
Taad didn't speak, didn't move. He just stared, his body trembling with adrenaline and fear.
I exhaled through my nose and straightened, turning my head toward the others. My team, bloodied and victorious, but still primed for violence. Some were watching Taad like he was nothing more than a loose end.
I lifted my sword, pointing it casually toward the ground—but my intent was clear. My voice, calm as still water, cut through the fading noise of the crowd.
"I'll kill anyone that comes near him."
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. My team knew me. They had fought beside me. And they knew, in that moment, that I meant every word.
But that didn't stop, surprisingly, Araaba from hovering up to the announcer and gesturing for the announcer to shift over, which he did.
A deep, rumbling laugh echoed from the Hutt's hover-throne, its grotesque form shifting as it addressed the crowd. Araaba's booming voice carried across the arena, his Huttese drawl thick with amusement and finality.
"Glorious! Just as the battle of old!" The slug declared, his wide mouth curling in grotesque satisfaction. "And as history dictates, should no prisoners be taken?!"
The crowd roared in approval, and I felt it ripple through Taad and the others. They were ready to fight me.
The announcer, ever the sycophant, straightened at the proclamation and raised his hands. "As decreed by our great benefactor, and in accordance with the annals of history, no prisoners will be taken. The triumphant general shall slay them to the last man!" His voice rang out, the crowd erupting into cheers, their thirst for blood not yet sated.
I didn't hesitate. My sword snapped up, the point aimed directly at Araaba.
Then, with a sharp motion, I reached up, unfastened my helmet, and pulled it free. The air was thick with sweat and blood, but I barely noticed. I locked eyes with Araaba, letting him see me—see the fury roiling beneath the surface.
I felt something akin to a tight cord within me snap, my presence in the Force expanding for a moment and I felt myself touch the minds of many across the crowd, like a shroud cast over them.
"His life is mine and I demand he be spared!" I shouted, blood from multiple slain men I had once sat beside or listened to. But they meant little to me, unlike Taad.
My fury, cold and burning at the same time, settled into my bones and the shroud got darker, almost glittering obsidian and oily to the touch. They had to listen, I would not give them the benefit of enjoying the death of a friend and I demanded they show mercy to Taad.
The shroud sank deeper, and I pressed harder, my teeth grinding together as my breathing became more laboured. Then, something gave… whether inside myself or the blanket of will I was pressing on them, I couldn't tell. But I was suddenly fatigued, aware of every wound and bruise across my arms and legs, a wet cough escaping me.
Araaba stared silently at my words, his beady eyes narrowing as he processed the defiance in my voice. The air was thick with tension, enough you could almost cut it with a knife, and the audience's cheers faltered, then began to die down. A hush settled over the arena like a suffocating weight, and for a long moment, the loudest sound was the distant, echoing hum of the arena's systems.
Then, as if sensing the growing uncertainty, a few of the spectators started shouting—at first incoherently, but then the word became clear.
"Mercy!"
The shout was followed by more, echoing through the stands in a rising chorus. It was a chant, raw and desperate, as if the crowd's bloodlust had been temporarily quenched by some deeper instinct. I could tell it wasn't sympathy, it was a shift in the spectacle, but the sound was enough to make my mind focus more as I sensed the clamour of emotions.
For the briefest of moments, I let the echoes of those voices wash over me, feeling their collective will pressing in.
The announcer, holding the crowd's attention now, glanced nervously at Araaba, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. Araaba remained silent for a moment, his bulbous eyes narrowing as he shifted in his seat, causing the audience to hold their breath. Then, a low, rumbling laugh escaped from him, sending a chill through the air.
He turned his gaze toward the announcer and spoke, but I couldn't hear it clearly.
The announcer hesitated, then, as if he had just been handed a script, straightened up and raised his voice to address the crowd once more. "In honor of the magnificent display of combat, celebrating the unparalleled greatness of the Hutts, Araaba, our benefactor, will bestow upon these gladiators a most... merciful reward!"
The announcer's voice rang out over the cheering crowd, nearly drowned out by the uproar of celebration. "By the will of the mighty Araaba, and in accordance with his magnanimity, the gladiators shall lay down their weapons! For the great Araaba will descend to the arena and grant them a boon!"
At his command, a handful of guards at the periphery of the arena moved quickly to ensure the gladiators obeyed. The crowd cheered louder, eager to see what was to come next. Araaba's massive form began to hover away, his repulsorlift seat glowing faintly underneath as it carried him out of sight, with the Mandalorian silently trailing in his wake, as though an ever-present shadow.
I stood still for a moment, watching the display, reluctant to follow suit until the others dropped their weapons first. My grip on the sword tightened, the weight of it still so damn familiar in my hand. Slowly, I lowered the blade, the steel slipping from my fingers with a heavy clink. I tossed it aside and watched it join the others' weapons on the ground.
Once we'd all complied, I turned to Taad. My face was grim, but I kept my focus. I knelt down next to him, offering a hand to help him up. "You good?" I kept my voice low, watching him carefully as I tried to make sure he wasn't going to collapse on me.
He met my gaze, his hands shaking just slightly, but there was gratitude in his eyes. I gripped his arm firmly, pulling him up. He leaned on me for a second, steadying himself.
"Thanks, Kane." He muttered quietly, now steady enough to let go of me.
"Just don't go dying on me, Taad." I said, managing a slight smile at succeeding. "Rather not have to tell your family that their idiot brother and son got killed."
He coughed lightly, and he stood by me as we waited for Araaba to arrive.
I didn't have to wait long before Araaba made his grand entrance. His hulking form was impossible to miss as he rolled into view, flanked by his guards as they closed the distance of the sandy ground between us. The Mandalorian was still with him, walking just a step behind. Encased in dark blue and black armor, his entire face hidden behind a helmet and visor. The faint glint of a beskad sheathed at his waist caught my eye, and I couldn't shake the feeling that this man was no mere follower. His gaze locked onto me as he moved, piercing through the crowd with a cold, unwavering focus.
It wasn't just his armor that made him stand out—it was his presence. There was something about him, something unnerving. The best way I could describe it was like cold iron, unyielding and immovable. His mind didn't leak out like most other sapients. There were no stray emotions or thoughts I could catch through the Force. It was as if his entire mind was shielded or sealed off, like a steel trap of calm efficiency and calculation. His attention remained fixed on me, never wavering, and it sent a chill down my spine like I'd felt when something far more dangerous than me had its attention pulled towards my presence.
A guard? A new head of security? Or just a guest who'd earned the Hutt's favor? Whatever the case, it didn't matter all that much for the time being as Araaba got within earshot and began speaking to me in Huttese.
"A most excellent fight, my champion," he rumbled in Huttese, his voice oozing with satisfaction. "Such a display of strength, skill, and ferocity. It is only fitting that such a performance be rewarded."
I stood there, my breath steady but my body anything but. The edges of my vision felt hazy, the pain from my injuries creeping in now that my grip on the Force had loosened. It was making it harder to think, harder to focus. My limbs felt distant, my thoughts slipping through my fingers like sand, but I forced myself to stay upright, to listen.
Araaba lifted a stubby hand in a grand, sweeping gesture. "You, my boy, have earned something rare. Something precious. Your freedom."
Even with everything leading up to this moment, even with the months I'd spent waiting for something to change, the words still hit me like a punch to the gut. I was ready for this, wasn't I? This was what I wanted. So why did I feel like something had been ripped out from under me? Like I'd been untethered from something I didn't even realize had anchored me?
The words should have brought relief. Instead, my mind reeled, struggling to find purchase on something solid. The ache of my wounds, the exhaustion gnawing at my bones, the way the Force had started slipping from my grasp—it all made my thoughts feel loose, scattered. I had spent a year knowing exactly what I was fighting toward, and now that it was being handed to me, the certainty I had clung to wavered.
I swallowed, rolling my shoulders against the pain, forcing myself to stay here, to stay in the moment. I had to answer him.
"I… I'm grateful for this." I replied, nodding my head slightly.
Araaba gave another deep, rumbling chuckle, clearly reveling in his own magnanimity. With a wave of his thick fingers, he barked an order to the arena guards in Huttese. "Take the others to be treated. They fought well enough not to bleed out like animals." Then his yellow eyes slid back to me, his wide mouth curling. "As for you, my former champion—walk with me."
I barely hesitated, but my gaze flickered toward Taad. He was still unsteady on his feet, blood smeared across his face, but his eyes met mine with something almost unreadable.
I exhaled, forcing something steady into my voice despite the distant buzz in my skull. "It was an honor to know you, Taad," I said, clasping his arm briefly. "And I hope you make it through this. I'll visit your family if I can't buy you out." My voice lowered at the last part as I kept my gaze locked on him.
His fingers curled weakly around my wrist for a moment before he nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words never came.
"I know." I replied to the silent reply. I could sense what he felt, and that was enough.
I didn't wait. My body felt heavy, but I turned on my heel and followed Araaba as he began to float away, his guards forming a wall between us and the others. The Mandalorian's gaze stayed locked on me, cold and unreadable, shadowing the Hutt without a word.
I walked behind Araaba, the sand from the arena still clinging to my boots as we moved through the labyrinthine halls of the Hutt's stronghold. The walls were dimly lit, casting long shadows that danced with each flickering glow of the overhead lights. The scent of spice, sweat, and the faint tang of blood still lingered in the air, most of that from me at the moment, but I pushed it aside, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. My body was starting to feel heavier, the pain of my injuries creeping in now that the high of the fight was fading, and the Force no longer numbed the worst of it.
I couldn't figure out why he didn't offer treatment for my injuries, even if they were certainly not potentially lethal. It stank of manipulation.
On que, Araaba's voice filled the quiet, his guttural tones bouncing off the stone walls. "You have proven yourself, my boy. Such a performance deserves not just freedom, but a reward. And I am a generous being." He slithered forward, his bulk shifting effortlessly as he turned his head slightly in my direction. "There are many ways I could continue to compensate you, should you wish to remain in my employ. A warrior such as yourself would be highly valued, and I do reward those who amuse me."
His thick fingers waved lazily. "Money. Weapons. Finer accommodations. And of course, women." He chuckled, as if pleased with his own generosity. "Anything your heart desires."
I said nothing, still focusing on keeping my steps even.
After a beat, Araaba slowed. Then, after a moment's silence, a deep, rolling laugh erupted from him. "Ah! But perhaps you are still too young to understand the allure lesser beings have for such things." He grinned, the deep ridges of his face stretching as he gave me a knowing look. "Well, in time, you may come to appreciate such gifts. Perhaps."
I barely reacted, my grip tightening at my sides. I wasn't sure if the dullness in my chest was from exhaustion or something else, but I kept my expression neutral. The Mandalorian, still shadowing us in silence, remained unreadable, his presence a cold weight at the edge of my senses.
Araaba simply rumbled in amusement and continued slithering forward, leading me deeper into the stronghold.
As we rounded the next corner, the entire tone of the stronghold shifted in an instant. Gone were the dimly lit, sand-scraped corridors of the gladiator pits. Instead, the floors gleamed with polished white marble, pristine and smooth beneath my boots. The walls, once bare stone and reinforced durasteel, now bore intricate carvings and gilded panels, interspersed with elaborate paintings—scenes of grandeur and excess that starkly contrasted the blood and grit of the arena. The air itself smelled different, no longer thick with sweat and spice, but carrying the faint scent of something rich—perhaps incense or exotic perfumes.
I slowed my pace slightly, my gaze flicking over the change in architecture. The shift was jarring. One moment, I had been walking through a place meant to contain warriors, built with purpose, stripped of anything unnecessary. Now, I was in a space designed for luxury, for spectacle.
The guards posted along the corridor reflected that contrast as well. They still carried weapons, their armor clearly functional, but it gleamed with polished engravings and decorative embellishments. This wasn't the battered, purely practical gear of the arena guards. These men were dressed to impress as much as to kill.
I couldn't help but take note of how vastly different this was from the gladiator quarters—how stripped down and simple my world had been up until now. The pits had been built for survival, for violence, for the amusement of the crowd. But here? Here, everything radiated wealth and power.
The Mandalorian, still trailing silently at the edge of my awareness, didn't react to any of it. His presence remained that same cold, unreadable weight. I didn't know if this excess amused or disgusted him, but if he had an opinion, he wasn't sharing it.
Araaba, however, continued forward as if this was the only way a being of his status should live. And as much as I wanted to focus on the grandeur around me, my mind stayed fixed on one thing, which was why I was being brought here.
The Mandalorian and who he was finally got the better of me, and I finally just up and asked.
"Su cuy'gar." I said, drawing his attention sharply and I vaguely caught a sense of muted surprise at me knowing basic Mando'a.
"I don't recognize you," I continued, seeing his helmet shift slightly while we still walked, our footsteps faintly echoing off the walls, "First time I've seen you at an arena fight."
The Mandalorian, after a moment, started talking.
"I completed a job for Araaba and was invited as his guest." He replied, and his voice reminded me eerily of a man I once met. We'd run across some SAS members and we had swapped war stories, and never before at that point in my old life had I ever truly comprehended what a killer of men actually was. A cold and precise tone with a similar accent, carved from ice, razor sharp focus, a lean build, and eyes that looked like I was gazing into that of a tiger's.
I may have been a fighter and a warrior, but that bastard from Brighton was a killer.
"Bounty?" I inquired, suspecting such an action was what got him the courtesy of a guest invitation.
"Someone who sold an entire shipment of contaminated bacta to Araaba." The Mandalorian acknowledged what I said, affirming that I was correct in my guess. He then asked me a question. "Araaba mentioned he bought you a year ago, where were you before then?"
My stride stuttered for a moment, but I kept walking to maintain the pace Araaba was setting.
"Tatooine," I replied, my teeth clacking for a moment when I shifted my arm and felt the partially formed scab on my forearm pulling loose, "Sold to a fighting ring here and then was bought by Araaba."
I caught a glimpse of irritation flash through the Mandalorian's thoughts, just a bare flicker. "Selling a child into a fighting ring." His voice was clipped and cold, his posture stiffening as he walked. "What was that a punishment for?"
I really tried to not, but I was rather flighty from my injuries and the reminder of that day had my connection to the Force flaring up, dumping another well of energy into my body and making my emotions flare.3
"Killing one man and wounding another because they rented a girl my age." I replied icily, and I knew the slight grin on my face as I said that looked more fitting on the face of a psychopath. And I couldn't help it, even though amusement was the last thing on my mind as I internally wrestled the far too excited beast that was the Dark Side gnawing at the edges of my sanity back into its cage.
That response didn't get a reaction from the Mandalorian that I could sense, but he did ask another question a few moments later.
"Where did you learn that greeting by the way?"
I kept looking at him. "Met a Mandalorian a few years back and read a holonovel about your culture; had some phrases and their context explained too. Dangerous enough to make Jedi turn into Sith just to win against you is something I don't think others can brag about though."
That last part got a huff of amusement.
"Did it say anything else?"
"Plenty. The tenets of being a Mandalorian, their history, and their love for conflict and family ties."
"And your thoughts on it?"
We rounded a final corner and I saw what looked to be a gold plated vault door with a ray shield shimmering in front of it with a smoky white ripple. Araaba interjected into our conversation starting with a deep chuckle.
"This is my personal vault of weapons and artifacts." Araaba gestured with a fat arm, my attention on him now instead of the Mandalorian. "As well as your freedom, I am granting you the honour of selecting something from its depths. And if you wish to continue being employed by me, accommodations will be given to you as well as other luxuries befitting those who work for me."
I stared into the slitted eyes of the Hutt, a spark of interest rising up. "Will those luxuries include additional training and choice equipment?"
Araaba's eyes gleamed. "Of course, you made quite a spectacle multiple times and have made me good money. I reward those who benefit me, just ask Vizsla." He replied, glancing at the Mandalorian.
So, he was from clan Vizsla.
Araaba gave a deep, satisfied chuckle before pressing something on the control panel of his hover throne. With a hum, the shimmering ray shield flickered and dissipated, and a moment later, the massive vault doors slid open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss.
Beyond them was a treasury that immediately caught my attention. Stacks of precious metals gleamed under the ambient lighting, piled neatly alongside intricate artifacts, their surfaces adorned with engravings from cultures I didn't immediately recognize. Weapons lined the walls—blasters, vibroblades, even what looked like a few lightsaber hilts resting within display cases. Some of the objects exuded a presence in the Force, faint but undeniable, hinting at their long histories.
Araaba extended a stubby arm, his expression smug. "Enter. As a mark of my generosity, you may take one item of your choosing."
I hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside. The air was cooler in here, the scent of polished metal and aged relics thick around me. My eyes darted over the collection, the weight of the moment sinking in. Whatever I took wouldn't just be a reward—it would be something I carried forward into whatever came next.
Behind me, the Mandalorian remained just at the threshold, his presence still unreadable. I wondered what he thought of all this—of me being given free rein to choose from a Hutt's personal vault. But if he had an opinion, he kept it locked away just as securely as this chamber had been.
I stepped further inside, my boots making barely a sound against the pristine floor. My gaze locked onto the sabers first. There were three of them, each encased in protective display cases. The hilts varied in design, with one sleek and unassuming, another ornate with intricate etchings, and the third appearing to have an extra ignition button above the main one.
I reached out, fingers hovering just above the casing, but I didn't open it. Instead, I closed my eyes and let my senses stretch outward. The room gave way to the objects themselves. Some were infused with the faintest traces of the Force, lingering whispers of those who once held them.
Then…
I felt a pull.
Soft at first. Cold, but not lifeless. There was something firm in it, a presence that gripped rather than guided. My eyes snapped open, my head turning sharply toward a different section of the vault. The sabers were forgotten in an instant. Whatever had reached out to me, it wasn't among the obvious treasures. It was something else. Something waiting.
I moved without thinking, drawn forward by the pull. With every step, the touch against my senses grew firmer, pressing into my awareness like a cold hand against the back of my skull. It wasn't intrusive, not yet. but it was there, waiting and expectant.
Then, just as I neared, I heard it. A whisper. Faint, barely more than a breath of sound, its meaning lost to me. It wasn't in Basic, nor any language I immediately recognized, but something about it sent a shiver down my spine.
My steps slowed as my eyes locked onto the object before me.
A gold and black pyramid, its surface sleek yet ancient, radiated an undeniable presence. At the center of each side, a red triangle pulsed with power, the glow thrumming in a steady rhythm, as though it were alive. The whisper came again, but I wasn't sure if it was external or just in my head.
I froze.
I knew what this was.
A Sith Holocron.
My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the Holocron, my thoughts unraveling in a dozen different directions.
If I could open it…
If I could truly unlock its secrets…
Training. Real training. Not just the scraps I'd managed to piece together from instinct, trial and error, and what little I'd read or observed. I could become more than just a self-taught Force adept barely scraping the level of a Padawan. I could refine my abilities, wield the Force with purpose instead of instinct and scraped together training.
And beyond that, power.
Not just in the sense of raw strength, but real control. Knowledge. The means to carve out my own path, to move beyond survival and into something greater. Years. I could spend the next few years accumulating wealth, allies, resources; everything I'd need to shape my future exactly as I wanted.
Everything I had thought about, planned for, struggled toward… all of it could finally be within reach.
And the key to it all had practically fallen into my lap.
I took a slow, steady breath, locking down every stray thought, every flicker of doubt. My mind sharpened, honed to a singular purpose. My will became a blade, scalpel-sharp, slicing away at hesitation and fatigue.
The Force surged in response, like a cold wind rushing through my veins, sweeping away exhaustion and replacing it with something sharper, something keener. Energy flooded into me, filling every limb with renewed strength, every thought with clarity.
Then, without hesitation, I reached out and grasped the Holocron.
The moment my fingers curled around its gilded edges, the whispers surged. What had been faint, almost distant, now came in a tide; it was now a voice, harsh and metallic, laced with something ancient and unyielding. It pressed at the edges of my mind, seeking entry, seeking to root itself deep.
But I didn't let it.
I forced it back, locking it away in the back of my mind, compartmentalizing it with sheer will. It was a battle, a pressure I had to keep walled off, but I managed.
The Holocron thrummed beneath my fingers, warm and pulsing with power, but I held firm. I was in control.
I stepped out of the vault, the Holocron firm in my grasp. Its weight wasn't much, but I could feel the presence it carried, like a coiled beast waiting for an opening.
Araaba's gaze landed on it immediately. His slitted eyes narrowed, his amusement dimming ever so slightly. "I expected you to take a weapon," he mused, his tone carrying a tinge of curiosity. "A lightsaber, perhaps. But… such an old trinket does have its worth. The right buyers would pay handsomely for something so rare."
I didn't reply to that. Instead, I turned my gaze toward the Mandalorian. He was still watching me, as unwavering as before, his presence like cold iron pressing against the edge of my awareness.
"You asked what I thought of Mandalorian culture," I said, my voice steady. "I'd struggle to find one I respect more than those who hold to fidelity, to comrades and to family."
A moment of silence stretched between us, unreadable beneath his helmet, but I didn't need the Force to tell me he was weighing my words.
I turned back to Araaba, ready to confirm my willingness to continue working for him, plans already forming, calculations running through my mind, when the Mandalorian interjected.
(LINE BREAK)
Pre Vizsla's gaze lingered on the strange object in Kane's grasp, sharp eyes studying its intricate, angular form. He had seen countless artifacts, weapons, and relics over the years, but this… this was different. Unfamiliar. And yet, something about it set his senses on edge. It wasn't an overt threat, nothing in its design screamed danger, but the air around it still felt off nonetheless.
Still, what disgusted Pre and set him on edge more than the object was the way Kane looked at it. There was a fire in the boy's gaze, not wild or uncontrolled, but something burning fiercely beneath the surface. Determination, hunger, an ambition carefully held in check. It wasn't the reckless kind that led men to many premature deaths, it was something sharp and focused.
And it didn't belong to a child, it never should have. He internally seethed, furious at the wrongness of it. That fire should have been in the eyes of a Mando'ade, not an ad who had never truly lived. He'd seen this before of course, where the recently adopted had been nearly feral.
He had already suspected Kane was no ordinary fighter. His movements in the arena had been too fluid, his reactions too quick for a child. There had been moments, very fleeting but unmistakable, where his attacks had flowed almost unnaturally, guided by something beyond just skill. It wasn't polished, but it was there. A latent ability, rough and self-forged, untrained but unmistakable to someone who had fought Jedi before.
The boy could use the Force.
And he had learned to wield it on his own.
That kind of raw potential, honed through sheer will and survival, was rare. Most who could touch the Force had the luxury of training. Kane had none of that, yet he had still carved a path for himself.
But it wasn't enough, and Pre knew today would determine what path he went, and a child gladiator was something he wouldn't wish on the children of even his most hated enemy. He could stop it, perhaps. Unless Kane rejected it, but Pre could still be able to accept that he had at least tried.
And now, seeing him like this, injured but his eyes bright with the weight of his next steps… Pre felt what he needed to do in that moment.
Yes. He had made his decision.
Pre exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His anger at the circumstances, at the life this boy had been forced to endure, was something he kept firmly in check. That kind of emotion had no place in a negotiation. He had made his decision, and now it was time to act on it.
"How long have you been a pit fighter?" he asked, his tone flat, but his eyes sharp.
Kane looked up at him, his grip tightening around the artifact in his hands. "One year," he said simply, his eyes flitting across his helmeted face to try and gauge his angle.
Pre kept his face impassive, but inside, he felt something twist. One year. Just one year, and the boy already carried himself like a seasoned warrior. The vicious streak he had seen in the arena, the controlled, efficient brutality, it had taken root fast… too fast. That kind of thing didn't come naturally to a child, not without being forced into it.
He knew what that kind of life did to people.
"You don't have to stay a gladiator." His words came firm, but he softened his tone. "You've proven yourself, survived longer than most would have, but that doesn't mean this is the only life you can have."
Kane didn't answer, but Pre could see the tension in his stance, the way his shoulders held just a little tighter, as if he were bracing for something.
Pre exhaled through his nose, keeping his voice measured. "I am Pre Vizsla," he stated, noting Kane reacted to it like it were familiar, probably the clan name. "I am offering you something different from this life. A place among the Mando'ade. A proper future, if you would allow it."
Kane's grip on the artifact shifted, fingers flexing slightly. He was listening.
"An adoption?" He asked simply.
Pre nodded, before reaching up and removing his helmet, the faint hiss of the seal coming loose barely reaching his ears. Kane raised a brow, inspecting his face now and taking it in. Sharp, angular features, blond hair cut short, and blue eyes full of cunning and danger; but not now, they were softer, more open.
Then, he went to his knee so he could be closer to eye level with him, blue eyes meeting nearly black.
"You'll be trained properly. No more scrabbling in the dirt to teach yourself, no more fighting to survive in some Hutt's arena for the entertainment of others. You'll have a clan. A people." He paused for a fraction of a second. "A family."
Kane's expression didn't change, but Pre saw the way his posture shifted, the way his chin lifted just slightly, as if testing the weight of the words.
"You don't have to stay here," Pre said again, softer this time, but no less firm. "Come with me, and you will have all the tools to forge your own path."
The words hung between them, heavy in the air. This was not just an offer of escape from this planet and life. It was a foundation, a future. A place where Kane could become something more than just another discarded warrior in a Hutt's employ.
Pre waited. This was Kane's choice to make.
Then, Kane's eyes snapped up, locking directly onto Pre's visor. There was no hesitation in his voice when he spoke.
"I accept."
Pre inclined his head slightly. Good.
Araaba let out a deep, irritated grunt, his heavy tail twitching against the hover throne. "Hmph. Fine, he is yours." His tone carried the weight of barely concealed annoyance. "You are free to leave the planet, Vizsla."
Pre didn't miss the muttered grumbling that followed, something about a wasted investment, but he dismissed it. The Hutt had gotten his entertainment and his money's worth. He would get over it.
With a flick of his thick fingers, Araaba tapped at his control panel. The vault doors sealed with a resounding clunk, the ray shields humming back to life. Without another word, he turned his bulk away, his entourage of guards falling in behind him as he floated down the hall, vanishing from sight.
Pre finally shifted his attention back to Kane, who stood there, still gripping that strange artifact.
Whatever life Kane had known before this moment, it was over. Pre had seen to that and now Kane would be his, his to train and mold…
To be Mandalorian.
End chapter
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