The shuttle descended through a sky choked in rust-red clouds, where lightning surged between coiling storm fronts. Karn Valis stood within its hold, silent, a figure carved from shadow and crimson. His armor—sleek yet jagged, black plates molded like a second skin—reflected the flashes of the chaotic atmosphere. Draped over his shoulders was a dark, ragged cloak, swept by the cabin's pressurized air, and clutched in his gauntleted hand was a single artifact: a Sith holocron, ancient and angular, pulsing faintly with malevolent light.
The face upon it was unmistakable—Darth Bane. The originator of the Rule of Two. A warrior of unmatched brutality. A philosopher of domination and discipline. Karn had studied him obsessively. The holocron had become his gospel.
"Equality is a lie... A myth to appease the masses. Simply look around and you will see the lie for what it is..."
Those words echoed through his mind, as real to him now as the air he breathed.
Korriban loomed beneath the shuttle, scarred and scorched by millennia of war and ritual. It was the homeworld of his people—the Sith purebloods. Known in ancient times as Pesegam, Korriban was a planet steeped in death, rage, and the thick pulse of dark side energy. Here, the ancient Sith had ruled and died, their power lingering like ghosts.
The ship touched down amidst the windswept red sands of the Valley of the Dark Lords, once called the Valley of the Sleeping Kings. Jagged tombs stabbed up from the rock like the bones of some long-dead titan. Obsidian spires and shattered statues loomed over the entrance to the sacred place of the Sith.
Karn stepped out into the storm.
Each footfall left a mark in the shifting dust, and as he approached the valley, the oppressive gravity of the dark side pressed down on him. He welcomed it—fed on it. The sky wept blood-colored rain. Thunder rumbled above like the snarl of some ancient beast.
The wind howled between the tombs.
He passed them—Ajunta Pall, Marka Ragnos, Tulak Hord—their names carved in Massassi glyphs across monolithic stone. These were legends. Tyrants. Conquerors. Gods among insects. Karn felt their eyes on him, even in death. He did not flinch. He stared back.
The Great Temple loomed at the valley's end—a mausoleum of madness and power. The massive stone structure cast a long shadow that swallowed Karn whole as he crossed its threshold.
Inside, the air was thick with decay and incense. Massive stone statues flanked the walls, cloaked in dust and cobwebs, their eyes blind but watchful. The Massassi runes carved into the walls glowed faintly with residual power. Tuk'ata hounds—hulking beasts with black carapaces and glowing yellow eyes—watched from the shadows. Karn ignored them. He was not prey.
He stood before the altar.
There, at the base of the Hall of Judgment, he knelt and placed the holocron down upon the cold obsidian surface. The artifact flickered to life. Bane's face emerged, crimson and severe.
"You have come to claim your power. Then do so."
Karn's hand slid beneath his robes, revealing the final components of his destiny: the pieces of his lightsaber, and within a containment sphere, the Krayt dragon pearl–infused kyber crystal. Once used by a fallen Jedi slain by Darth Bane himself, the crystal still hummed faintly with protest. It had yet to be broken. Yet to be bent.
Karn placed each piece of the hilt before him and sat cross-legged. The shadows deepened.
He breathed in.
He drifted.
His voice, low and unwavering, recited the ancient words:
"Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me."
The temple seemed to respond. The walls pulsed. The air grew colder. The crystal before him shimmered with resistance.
Then came the visions.
Chains. Screams. The scent of burning skin.
He saw his younger self—collared, broken, starving. He felt every lash, every violation of dignity. He saw his mother's lifeless body crumpled in the dirt, her eyes hollow, her sacrifice unnoticed.
Pain. Rage. Wrath.
Karn screamed, but only inside. Outwardly, he was motionless. But within, the storm raged. The Force buckled. The crystal trembled.
"I will never be weak again," he growled.
He pushed harder. His rage surged like a tidal wave, crashing over the crystal, breaking its resistance. The kyber screamed. Its hue shifted—faintly at first, then fully. Red. Deep crimson-red. The color of blood, of hate, of rebirth.
The bleeding was complete.
The Force trembled as Karn raised the crystal telekinetically. The pieces of the hilt rose with it, suspended in his aura. Lightning danced along the edges of his fingers as he constructed the weapon with will alone.
The emitter.
The guard.
The core.
The crystal.
With a snap, the final piece slid into place. The hilt dropped into his waiting palm—black, ridged, and cold.
He stood.
He ignited it.
The valley lit up in crimson light.
A deep, primal howl erupted from the blade—like the roar of a Krayt dragon, echoing through the valley and shaking the stones. The blade was thick, fiery, wild. The twin quillons erupted a heartbeat later, forming the crossguard—shorter, but no less lethal. All three blades shimmered with that same swirling red energy, alive with fury.
Karn's eyes opened, glowing amber like twin suns eclipsed.
He stood taller now, straighter. A completeness radiated from him—a calling answered, a destiny embraced. The shadows curled at his feet like loyal beasts. The dark side throbbed in his veins like a second pulse.
He was Sith.
He was power incarnate.
And the galaxy would learn his name.
[MC IMAGE]
[Lightsaber Image]