Vader Unleashed 007

The molten rivers of Mustafar churned beneath Fortress Vader, casting long, trembling shadows across the jagged volcanic plains. Inside the throne room, it was silent, void of all noise. Lit by the flickering light of magma, if one were to step inside, they would barely be able to see their own hands in front of their faces. Red veins pulsed softly within the dark chamber of obsidian stone, like the slow heartbeat of a massive creature. 

Lord Vader sat unmoving on his throne. Cloaked in darkness, he allowed the pulse of Mustafar to travel through his bones. Each exhalation of his triggered a minor eruption somewhere on this fiery, lava-filled world, his every inhalation conversely, sucked pyroclastic flows back into the depths. 

A week had passed since the brief mental contest between him and Vitiate had taken place. Vader had prepared his defenses, yet ultimately, the old man had not struck. As he had foreseen. 

The memories he had absorbed let him know of Vitiate's master plan. That for his grand ritual to take place, countless deaths must occur. Their echoes in the Force would restore him to power, healing him from the crippling injuries that Revan had dealt years ago. 

During this time, Vader had been brooding whilst his minions busied themselves. His factories belched sulphur, his Legions trained alongside battle droids, improving their cogitators, as for his spy…Vader narrowed his eyes, and seemed to stare through the wall. 

The heavy doors leading to his chamber parted with a hiss.

Vaneé stepped into the chamber, his steps careful, his posture reverent. The dangerously thin, pale, balding, white-haired old man was clad in a simple hooded robe. Clutching a datapad in a gnarled hand, the steward bowed deeply, his voice little more than a whisper. 

“My lord... the report you requested has been completed. Intelligence from the Outer Rim planet, Hoth as instructed.” Veneé rasped with a bow. 

Vader said nothing. His mechanical breathing-which could be kept silent-came to life, and seemed to echo within the chamber. The ebb and flow of Mustafar pulsed all around the seneschal. Invisible smoke floated around him, tasting the veracity of his words. Then, as soon as it had arrived, the smoke vanished, and returned to Vader. 

“Speak, steward.” 

Vaneé slowly approached, his head was bowed the entire time. Stopping well short of the dais, he took a knee on the hard polished floor, refusing to groan as his ancient joints bent. He did not dare ascend the steps, and offered the datapad as if it were a token sacrificed to his God. 

“There are... complications, my lord. The ancient battlefield on Hoth has drawn attention. Both the Old Republic and the Old Sith Empire have stationed garrisons near a sight known as the Starship Graveyard. The Cold War between both sides is rapidly diminishing. I fear that which you desire has come under threat.” Veneé ended his statement by staring at Vader's boots, his old frame trembled by the end of the report. 

The red glow from the lava intensified subtly, as if feeding off the tension in Vaneé’s voice. He heard the crinkle of Vader’s gloves as they slowly closed into fists. 

“Go on.” 

“A powerful Jedi Master has been detected near the southern wreckage fields. She has gathered a cabal of 5 Jedi Masters. Her name is Master Nomi Tyrell, she is a former member of the Jedi Council. A veteran of the Great War, her war record is astronomical. Her presence suggests the Republic has discovered more than just broken hulls.”

Vader tilted his head ever so slightly. “And the Sith?”

“A shadow moves alongside her, though unseen.” Vaneé continued. “A Sith Assassin, codenamed: Kallix. A direct disciple of Darth Jadus. We believe he was dispatched by remnants of the Sphere of Imperial Intelligence. His presence implies...he seeks the same prize.”

“And what prize is that?” Vader asked, his voice low and resonant, like stone grinding against durasteel.

Vaneé stood, trembling slightly as he activated the holomap from the datapad. A glowing projection filled the air: a frozen landscape scarred by fallen dreadnoughts, craters, and shattered towers. In the center, partially buried in snow, stood a monolithic structure. It depicted the silhouette of an ancient, alien obelisk with queer markings all along it. One that was flickering with unknown power, yet 90% of it was covered in dense layers of ice. 

“A Rakatan monument, my lord.” Vaneé whispered. “Recovered fragments from ancient archives speak of a control beacon buried beneath it. My agents theorize it houses a mechanism possibly linked to a weapon lost during the Infinite Empire’s retreat. Legend has it that the Rakatans had a construct capable of unraveling energy at the quantum level. Not merely did it destroy its targets, but they were erased from the Force itself.”

For a moment, the chamber began to shake, and Vaneé blinked his eyes wide open like an owl. Not that he was afraid, or that he stared out of fear, no, it was surprise! His Lord, his Master was laughing! 

Once the laughter halted, Vader gestured for him to continue. 

“If Tyrell reaches the monument, she may attempt to seal it. If Kallix reaches it first...he may attempt to use it. I suggest, my Lord, that you make haste to Hoth, otherwise, the consequences could be imaginable.” Vaneé stated in a grave tone. 

A pregnant pause filled the room, Vaneé patiently waited on his knees, awaiting his Master's order. 

Moments later, the voice of the Dark Lord filled the room, colder than the snows of Hoth.

“They will fail.”

Vaneé bowed again, deeper this time, trembling with fervent awe. “Of course, my lord. I have already begun preparations. Your personal transport will be ready within the hour. Shall I alert the garrison to mobilize the battleship?”

“No.” Vader replied. “This requires subtlety. The first batch of assassin droids shall do nicely. Silence the Republic and the Empire alike. The monument must be recovered,  that is the key to everything.”

“As you command, Lord Vader.”

The Dark Lord rose, his cloak trailed behind him like the wings of some ancient predator as he moved to leave the midnight black chamber. He descended the throne’s steps without a word, walking into the shadowed corridor beyond without so much as a glance towards his faithful servant. Each step was heavy, and carried with the weight of a planet, the fate of an Empire. 

And Vaneé, left alone in the molten-dark room, could not help but smile.

For the stars themselves were shifting. And the old powers, Jedi, Sith, and Rakata alike, would be but pawns for his Lord to play with. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon the barren, frozen hellscape of Hoth, snow whipped through the broken archways of a once forgotten temple. Harsh crystals of ice sharp enough to cut through starfighters howled through the air like spirits condemned to eternal frost. Within a shattered stone chamber, torches flickered. Unnatural flames, conjured by the Force, cast crimson shadows against walls etched with fading-yet still powerful-ancient Sith glyphs. 

Kallix knelt at the center of the ritual circle, surrounded by shattered obsidian and bloodstained relics. His armor was sleek, black, and above all else, silent. No matter the gesture or move, his every action was oppressively quiet, and even appeared mundane. If one were to look at him, they might just look past him, as if he were just another part of the scenery. 

His face remained hidden beneath a mask, one that was shaped like a snarling beast from Dromund Kaas’ dark jungles. Resting atop a jagged altar of carved basalt-just within hands reach-was a dagger unlike any other.

Curved and serrated, its hilt wrapped in Marka Ragnos's tendons, its blade was from a former Grandmaster of the Jedi Order, taken from her as a trophy whilst she still lived. This unholy blade of dark & light thrummed with a quiet hunger that threatened to consume Kallix's soul. 

It was the Dagger of Lhun-Ragnos.

“From the blood of the ancient kings…” Kallix whispered, drawing a line across his palm with a sliver of bone. He squeezed, letting dark crimson drip upon the blade.

“…from the hate of ten thousand ghosts…”

The glyphs around him flickered, igniting with flickers of violet fire. The Force screamed in silence as he reached into the flames, burning not only his skin, but also his soul. He demanded power, yet the Darkside demanded much of him in return, it was not gentle, like the Light was to the Jedi, but instead it was raw, naked, and brutal. Kallix's right hand began to crisp and burn, yet his focus was like steel.

“…from the shadow beneath the stars, I bind this blade to my will.”

The blood sizzled against the dagger’s edge, absorbed into the tendons that bound it together, and made the bone blade adopt a slightly sanguine hue. Faint, anguished cries echoed through the chamber, as if they had come from birth of a tortured infant. This cry began to resonate with the Force, and slowly drove him to madness. Blood dripped out of each and every orifice, and Kallix fell to his knees. Death was but mere moments away, as the danger of this ritual made itself known. 

To silence the weapon, Kallix held it high, and without any hesitation, plunged it deep into his heart. Seconds later, the cries of children disappeared, and black lines began to crawl all along his skin. The sense of taboo, of wrongness permeated his body entirely. All who wished to look upon him would feel their eyes burn, their skin would crawl, and one would have the sensation of a knife tickling their backside at all times. 

The ritual had succeeded.

The dagger pulsed once with his heartbeat, condescending into a pseudo life form like a kyber crystal, it now acted as a powerful focus and artifact for the Sith Assassin. 

Petting the hilt of the blade, Kallix heard it purr, and saw it glow with a malevolent light. 

Lhun-Ragnos hungered. 

“Nomi Tyrell.” He said aloud, the name tasting like rust on his blackened lips. “A General responsible for the deaths of over a dozen Darths, and hundreds of Sith Lords, and a former Jedi Council member, ah yes, she shall be the blood that fully quenches this blade, making it mine.” He smirked beneath his mask, turning the blade slowly in his fingers, he organically shuddered as it tapped the nerve endings in his heartstrings. 

“She will never see the strike that ends her.” Kallix promised with a whisper. 

He turned from the altar, and left the ancient Sith Temple with confident, predatory steps. Outside, the wind raged, and threatened to blow him over. Blizzard conditions slammed into him, yet curiously, not a drop of white coated his form. It was as if nature itself ignored his existence. 

His ship waited for him, cloaked in a glacial crevasse nearby, and the coordinates of the Rakatan monument were already locked. The Jedi would die. The weapon would be his. And the fools of the old Empire and the Republic would vanish beneath the ice like everything else on this forgotten graveworld.

As his plan was coming together, his commlink unexpectedly began to blink. As an assassin, it had been deafened so as not to give his position away. Only the highest level of Imperial leadership could reach his number. 

<\<Encrypted transmission — Sith High Command | Priority Override Alpha-9>>

Kallix frowned.

A premonition in the Force warned him that it was quite serious, and he reluctantly tapped the signal.

The sibilant, cultured voice of his Master, Darth Jadus, came to life. 

<<Scourge has been dispatched. The Emperor’s Wrath has taken interest in the monument. He shall arrive shortly. Avoid confrontation. Do not engage.>>

Silence fell all around him as his Master suddenly cut the call. 

The dagger, still warm with Sith sorcery, felt suddenly colder in his heart. 

Scourge.

The Wrath of the Emperor. The butcher of countless Dark Councils. The one who had survived centuries where all other Dark Lords fell. Whispers said he had slain immortals, and even taken on an entire generation of rebellious Sith. 

Kallix’s breath caught in his throat. Beneath the mask, sweat pricked his brow despite the freezing air.

This had not been part of the plan.

He looked once more at the dagger, its cruel hilt glinted with the promise of murder. Kallix had initially planned to quench the blade with the heartblood of a powerful Jedi. Only then would the ritual truly be complete. Otherwise, his own heartblood would become forfeit, and he would be devoured by the weapon. 

Its power was great, but was it enough to slay the most powerful warrior in the Empire? 

He clenched it tighter, teeth gritting.

Let the Wrath come, he told himself.

But the flicker of fear in his gut refused to be silenced.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Atop the tallest peak in the Starship Graveyard region, the wind howled like a mourning choir, yet it could not reach the calm center of the Jedi.

Five robed figures stood in a wide circle on the frost-crowned summit. Surrounded by ancient stone markers partially swallowed by centuries of snow, they stood still, as if they were monks deep in prayer. Each Jedi wore layers of weathered cloth and armor, faded symbols of the Republic and the Jedi Order etched into their shoulders denoted that each and every one of them were veterans of battle, and scholars unafraid to leave the safety of the Temple of Coruscant. In the center of their formation stood Master Nomi Tyrell, her eyes were closed, and her breath was steady in the biting air.

The Force moved through her, not as a torrent or a weapon, but as a melody. Peaceful. Guiding. It was a living extension of the universe, a song that brought joy to the world. 

Around her, the five Jedi Masters chanted softly, their voices harmonized in an ancient Tythonian dialect known only to the oldest circles of the Order. Their sabers lay deactivated at their sides, they served not as weapons, but as symbols of justice. The kyber crystals within brilliantly flashed, and projected calm & serenity into their Jedi friends. 

To the Jedi, this graveyard was not a place of war, it was a place of remembrance.

Tyrell extended her hand, palm open to the sky. A shimmer of warmth spread from her fingertips outward, and into the land all around them. The snow beneath them began to recede as if Spring had arrived. Slowly, gracefully, icy water melted, turning into a refreshing slushy flow. Steam rose gently as the ancient obelisk began to reveal itself. The top of the Rakatan monument lay beneath them, waiting to be unsealed.

“We are not here to possess this place.” She said softly, her voice echoing over the wind. “We are here to release it from the scars of history.”

One by one, her fellow Jedi extended their hands, adding their own presence to hers. Their energies did not crash or collide. They wove together, like threads into a new piece of cloth. Where there had once been silence, the Force now hummed in harmony.

And the ice began to yield.

Like a child being coaxed into eating after waking up, the world of Hoth began to unravel, and allowed itself to be kneaded by the Jedi. 

During this great undertaking, the Jedi were wholly concentrated on their task, unknowingly leaving themselves open to outside forces. Unfortunately for them, a  shudder in the Force pulsed across Hoth, and sent a tremor in their hearts, disrupting the song. A tremor of rot and screaming stone, of lava, and burnt smoke seemed to enter their senses.

Nomi’s eyes snapped open as the hatred of a distant man entered her being. 

She staggered forward ever so slightly, and the balance of their circle wavered. 

“You feel it too?” Another master asked, his voice taut with tension. 

Nomi nodded. “Darkness. Not just any Sith is capable of such, such….”

“Dominance. His hunger, no need for control, for obedience. It is more than psychotic.” An old woman shook her head in pity. 

“At the same time, someone nearby held a ritual.” Murmured another Jedi, his robed form was cloaked like those of the Tuskin Raiders from Tatooine. 

Tyrell turned to the others. “A Sith Assassin is cause for concern, but that distant power is encroaching on our doorstep. I fear he will be here soon.”

Even as the Force whispered to her of the shadowy threat, a second wave pulsed across the mountain. Heaviness. Coldness. Malignance. These feelings were like the sound of gongs or drums shattering her harmony. 

It pressed upon her heart like an echo from a forgotten war. It was not the anger or hatred typical of the Sith, no. What came at them was a strong sense of inevitability.

A vision of a masked figure in a cloak sent her to her knees. His aura was like nothing she had ever faced before. As a Councilmember, she had some confidence against those fiends on the Dark Council, but this…this just felt different. 

A name came to her lips as the imaginary dark figures' ragged breaths began to penetrate her psyche. 

“Darth Vader.” She unknowingly whispered. 

He was coming.

The harmony of the circle fractured for a moment more as fear flickered through her, and then, into those who had bound with her. 

“Master Tyrell…” A master whispered. “Do we retreat?”

“No.” Nomi said, voice steady again, the warmth in her hand reigniting. “We continue.”

“But this Sith, he is like nothing we have ever faced before.”

“I know. However, this place...this monument, it must be cleansed. For the good of the galaxy, even if it means paying the ultimate sacrifice.”

Her companions all nodded, and smiled at one another, accepting that this was all the will of the Force. 

She stepped forward, placing her palm against the ancient obelisk, and resumed her song. 

The glyphs responded. Slowly, faintly, they lit with orange light. 

The Force shifted again, and warmth once more shifted in the air. This time, the Jedi not only asserted hope or love, but drew upon strength, and the will to remain unyielding in the face of fate. 

So what if a Dark Lord of the Sith was on the way? 

They were Jedi. They would do what needed to be done. 

~~~~~~~~

AN: The Rakatan monument isn't actually a superweapon, hence Vader's laughter. It's actually much more important than that.