"Was that... a Bantha?" The voice echoed strangely inside the mask, metallic and hollow.
He blinked hard, trying to clear the dizzying afterimage of hyperspace tunnels that weren't his own. Cold durasteel pressed against his cheekbone. The air tasted sharp, like ozone after a blaster shot, mixed with something older – dust, incense, and beneath it, the faint copper tang of something fresh. He pushed himself up from the polished stone floor, black-gloved hands slipping slightly. The movement felt jerky, unfamiliar, yet *right*, like slipping into a worn flight suit. Glancing down, he saw intricate, scarred metal plates covering his chest and arms, dark grey edged in crimson.
A choked gasp cut through the heavy silence nearby. A young Twi'lek Padawan stood frozen in the archway of what looked like a meditation cell, her blue lekku trembling. Her eyes weren't looking at him; they were fixed on something beyond his shoulder, wide with pure terror. Before he could turn, a sudden, blinding flash of blue plasma illuminated the corridor outside the cell, casting stark, elongated shadows that danced violently across the ancient stone walls. The distinctive, agonized *snap-hiss* and *screech* of lightsabers clashing echoed down the hall – not a sparring match, but something desperate, brutal, and terrifyingly close. The Padawan flinched violently at the sound, her knuckles white as she gripped her lightsaber, unignited.
He instinctively dropped into a crouch behind the cell door frame, the heavy armor surprisingly silent. Where was he? The architecture screamed Jedi Temple – soaring pillars, intricate mosaics depicting serene Jedi Masters, the pervasive scent of ancient knowledge. Yet, the frantic energy crackling through the Force felt utterly alien, like a serene garden suddenly ripped apart by a storm. This wasn't Coruscant tranquility. This was panic, sharp and metallic. Peering cautiously around the durasteel frame, he glimpsed flashes down the corridor: the distinctive white plastoid armor of clone troopers, helmets devoid of expression, moving with lethal precision. They weren't guarding. They were advancing. Advancing towards Jedi robes illuminated only by the harsh glare of blaster fire and the desperate arcs of green and blue sabers trying to deflect it.
A low, synthesized voice, modulated and deep, boomed unexpectedly from near his feet. "Master? Scans indicate heavy weapons discharge and multiple life-form terminations nearby. Priority alert: Hostile signatures converging on this sector." It took him a second to realize the voice emanated from a small utility droid tucked against the wall, its photoreceptor glowing a steady, concerned amber. It was looking *up* at him. Not at the terrified Padawan, nor at the carnage unfolding down the hall. At *him*. And it called him Master. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He glanced down at his armored forearm, catching the distorted reflection of his masked face in the polished metal. Darth Revan's mask. Why would a droid…?
Instinct surged – not his consciousness, but the ingrained muscle memory of countless battles fought across star systems. His free hand snapped towards his hip, fingers closing around cold metal. The familiar weight and balance of his lightsaber hilt anchored him instantly. Before conscious thought could intervene, his thumb pressed the activation plate. A blade of pure, searing crimson *cracked* into existence, illuminating the cramped cell doorway with a pulsing, violent light. The Padawan recoiled violently, pressing herself flat against the far wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The crimson blade hummed with contained fury, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe against the terrified Twi'lek's face. The metallic scent of ozone intensified sharply.
Down the corridor, the sharp clatter of plastoid boots against ancient stone paused abruptly. A clone trooper, his helmet tilted slightly, had snapped his head towards the sudden crimson glare spilling from the meditation cell. His rifle swung up, unwavering. "Hostile contact!" the electronically amplified voice barked. "Unidentified armored figure! Weapons hot!" The trooper didn't fire immediately; the sight of the crimson blade, combined with the terrifyingly iconic silhouette framed in the doorway, seemed to trigger a momentary hesitation – a flicker of doubt beneath the programmed obedience. Another trooper joined him, his rifle also trained directly on the masked figure standing amidst the shadows and smoke. The crimson light reflected unnervingly off their blank white visors.
He didn't speak. He didn't dare. His mind raced, fragmented thoughts crashing against the instinctive flow of Revan's battle-hardened reflexes. *Purge. Temple. Order 66.* The clones were here for Jedi. And he stood here, armored like a Sith Lord, wielding a red blade. The Padawan whimpered beside him. The utility droid chirped again, "Threat assessment critical, Master. Recommend immediate tactical withdrawal or elimination of hostiles." The clones shifted their stance, fingers tightening on triggers. The crimson plasma thrummed in his hand, hungry and bright. There was no time. Only action or death. Every eye was locked onto the Mandalorian mask, the symbol of an ancient terror somehow resurrected amidst the Jedi Temple's fall. He stepped forward, out of the doorway, into the bloody light.
His off-hand plunged beneath the heavy cloak. Fingers brushed cool metal wrapped in worn leather – not Revan's saber, but his *own*, the one he remembered grinding for weeks in KotOR. With a smooth, fluid motion, he tore it loose and ignited it. Twin blades sprang to life: a crackling torrent of violent crimson in his right hand, and from his left, a blade of pure, deep violet that hummed with a lower, resonant frequency. The corridor filled abruptly with the overlapping snap-hiss-purr of the dual blades and the harsh glare of opposing colors – hellish red and imperial purple. Shadows leapt wildly across the walls like panicked beasts.
The clone troopers froze. Their rifles wavered slightly. The purple blade was utterly unprecedented – a color unknown to Republic records, wielded by a figure clad in the armor of a myth made flesh. The dissonance was paralyzing. It broke their conditioned advance. Even the distant sounds of blaster fire seemed to momentarily hush. The Padawan gasped, her wide eyes flicking between the Sith-red blade and the alien violet one. Who *was* this? A dread-lord wielding Jedi color? A phantom from history? The silence stretched, thick with ozone, sweat, and confusion. The utility droid whirred softly, scanning the standoff. His own breath rasped loud inside the mask. He saw the clones' helmets tilt fractionally towards each other – a silent comms query? A hesitation born of sheer, bone-deep legend? His left thumb subtly rotated the emitter matrix of the purple saber, a KotOR trick dialing its pitch higher into an aggressive, defensive whine. The moment hung on a razor's edge. Who would move first?
Behind the clones, a desperate shout pierced the unnatural quiet. "Hold your fire!" An older Jedi Master, robes torn and singed, stumbled into view further down the corridor, deflecting a stray bolt with a shaky blue blade. He stared past the clones, his face etched with exhaustion and sudden, bewildered recognition. His eyes locked onto the violet blade... then traveled up the imposing, masked figure wielding it alongside crimson fury. The Master's voice cracked, not in fear, but in stunned disbelief. "By the Force... Revan? But... the *purple*?" The clones snapped their gaze back to the armored figure. The name – the myth – hung palpable in the charged air. The Padawan stared, hope warring with terror. The droid's photoreceptor blinked rapidly, processing conflicting historical data. He stood impossibly tall, twin blades casting conflicting light, the weight of a thousand legends pressing down. *Now*, he thought grimly. *Now they'll shoot*. His muscles coiled. The Force surged, a chaotic wave of instinct and borrowed power.
He didn't deflect blaster bolts. He didn't charge. A wave of pure kinetic energy, invisible yet crushing, erupted from him – a focused tsunami contained within the corridor's confines. It slammed into the clones with the force of a crashing starship hull. White plastoid armor *crunched* audibly. Bodies slammed against the far wall, helmets cracking against ancient stone, rifles clattering uselessly to the floor. The crimson blade vanished with a sharp *snap-hiss*, leaving only the eerie, resonant hum of the violet saber still blazing defiantly in his left hand. Dust motes danced violently in the sudden, stark silence. He turned, the Mandalorian mask impassive, and extended his unlit right hand, palm open, towards the trembling Twi'lek Padawan pressed against the cell wall. The violet light reflected softly in her wide, terrified eyes. His voice, amplified by the mask, cut through the ringing silence – deep, resonant, and utterly devoid of inflection. "Come with me," it stated, a command disguised as an offer. "If you want to live." The words hung heavy, echoing faintly down the blood-stained hall.
The Padawan shuddered, her gaze flicking from the outstretched, black-gloved hand to the crumpled forms of the clones groaning against the wall. The stench of scorched armor, ozone, and spilled coolant filled her nostrils. The violet blade hummed low, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed alive. He didn't move, didn't plead. He simply waited, an immovable statue forged from dark metal and impossible history. Her knuckles tightened around her own lightsaber hilt, the metal biting into her palm. Who was he? Darth Revan? Yet… he'd shielded her. He wielded violet. He offered escape. The distant wail of alarms and the staccato bursts of blaster fire intensified down adjacent corridors, a harsh reminder of the Temple's accelerating death throes. The choice wasn't philosophical; it was primal. Survival demanded motion. With a choked sob that echoed the droid's worried whirr, she lunged forward, her trembling fingers closing desperately around the cold durasteel of his armored forearm.
He pivoted instantly, his violet blade snapping a warning arc towards the groaning clones attempting to rise. His grip on the Padawan's arm was firm, anchoring her shaky steps. The utility droid zipped ahead, its photoreceptor scanning rapidly. "Primary egress route compromised," it hissed urgently. "Secondary ventilation shaft 47B accessible via archives annex corridor. High probability hostiles converging." He steered the Padawan sharply left, away from the main thoroughfare, into a narrow passage lined with ancient holobooks. The violet light cast monstrous, distorted reflections on the polished shelves. The Padawan stumbled, her breath ragged, but his hold kept her upright. The sounds of pursuit grew louder behind them – heavy boots, shouted orders, the unmistakable *whine* of blaster capacitors charging. The droid shot ahead, disappearing around a bend. He pushed the Padawan faster. The archives annex door loomed ahead, partially obscured by fallen debris. He slammed his shoulder against it, durasteel groaning in protest. Beyond lay darkness and the faint scent of stale air. And the promise, however thin, of escape.
The ventilation shaft yawned open, a black maw barely wider than his shoulders. He shoved the Twi'lek Padawan unceremoniously towards the opening. Her wide eyes met his mask's impassive stare. "Go!" his modulated voice commanded, sharp and final. She scrambled into the darkness without hesitation, the sound of her ragged breathing swallowed instantly by the shaft. He didn't watch her vanish. The crimson blade *snapped-hissed* back into existence alongside the violet, twin beacons of defiance in the gloom. He turned, deliberately slow, facing the archway they'd just exited. Boots pounded closer. The utility droid hovered anxiously near his shoulder. "Master, tactical withdrawal recommended. Probability of overwhelming hostile force: 97.3%." He didn't answer. He adjusted his grip on both sabers, the violet blade humming low and resonant, the crimson snarling crimson fury. He planted his boots wide on the cold stone. The Force surged within him – not fear, not doubt, but the cold certainty of a thousand battles fought. The Mandalorian mask faced the storm head-on. He knew what came next. The slaughter. The purge. The clones rounding that corner would find not prey, but a legend ready to receive them. The first white helmet appeared, rifle swinging up. His blades spun into the opening stance of the Shii-Cho form Revan had perfected millennia ago. The droid emitted a low, mournful whine. He waited. He breathed. He ignited the corridor with wrath incarnate.
The first crimson bolt screamed towards his chest. He didn't deflect it. He *stepped into it*, violet blade snapping sideways to shear the bolt into harmless sparks. His crimson saber lunged forward like a striking viper, punching cleanly through plastoid armor, chestplate, and heart in a spray of molten ceramic and vaporized flesh. The clone collapsed silently. Two more surged past their fallen comrade, rifles blazing. He pivoted smoothly, violet saber forming a humming shield that scattered bolts into the shelves, igniting ancient flimsiplast. His crimson blade became a blur – a downward arc severing a rifle, an upward flick removing a helmeted head. The stench of ozone, vaporized metal, and cooked meat filled the annex. A sharp sting burned across his left pauldron as a lucky bolt grazed the armor's edge. He didn't flinch. He flowed through the clones like death's shadow, twin blades writing arcs of destruction. One trooper managed a wild swing with his rifle stock; Revan's crimson saber intercepted, shearing through the weapon and the arm holding it in one contemptuous stroke. A choked scream echoed briefly before silenced by a violet thrust. The droid zipped overhead, momentarily blinding a trooper with its photoreceptor flare. Revan exploited the distraction instantly, his crimson blade plunging into the trooper's throat. He stood amidst the carnage, smoke curling from the vents in his mask, blades dripping molten droplets onto the stone floor.
Silence fell. Broken only by the crackle of burning flimsi and the low hum of his sabers. Five clones lay scattered, broken dolls in white armor. He scanned the archway. No more immediate threats. Yet. The distant sounds of blaster fire and lightsabers shrieking echoed from deeper within the Temple – a symphony of death playing its final movement. He glanced towards the ventilation shaft. She was safe. For now. The droid floated closer, its amber photoreceptor scanning the carnage. "Hostile unit neutralized. Sensors detect no additional signatures within immediate perimeter." He didn't sheath his blades. He lowered them slightly, crimson and violet painting shifting patterns on the blood-slicked floor. The false calm wouldn't last. More would come. Many more. He turned his masked gaze towards the heart of the Temple, towards the distant sounds of desperate battle echoing down ancient corridors. This was merely the threshold. The purge awaited. Revan stepped over the bodies, twin blades still blazing, walking deliberately towards the echoing chaos. Towards Order 66's grinding teeth. The utility droid whirred softly and followed, a silent companion to inevitable war.
The corridor widened into a grand hall – the Hall of Knighthood. Or what remained of it. Shattered statues littered the floor. Blaster scorches marred millennia-old murals. Bodies lay draped over benches and columns – Jedi Knights, Masters, Padawans cut down mid-retreat. He moved through the carnage like a phantom amid ruins, his heavy boots crunching on pulverized stone. His senses screamed: the ozone-stink of blasters mingled with the sickly-sweet odor of burnt flesh; the choked sobs of the dying drowned by the relentless *crack-hiss* of clone rifles. To his right, a lone Gran Master made a final stand atop the central dais, green saber a frantic blur against a hail of crimson bolts. Before he could intervene, a volley punched through the Gran's defenses. The Master collapsed, his saber clattering beside him. The clones advanced, rifles cycling. Revan didn't pause. His violet blade snapped upwards in a blinding arc, intercepting the bolts aimed at the fallen Master, scattering them harmlessly. His crimson saber lashed out horizontally, a whip of plasma that melted through plastoid thighs, dropping three clones screaming. He didn't linger to finish them. He kept moving, deeper into the inferno, twin blades a flickering shield against the encroaching darkness. The Force pulled him forward, a cold lodestone pointing towards the epicenter of the slaughter.
He passed the shattered doors of the Archives. Flames licked at priceless manuscripts. His borrowed senses strained, filtering the tidal wave of terror and pain crashing through the Force. Amidst the chaotic scream, a singular beacon burned – impossibly bright, impossibly dark. A nexus of power radiating fury and anguish so intense it scorched the ether. *Anakin*. Skywalker. The Chosen One drowning in the Dark Side. He felt it like a supernova igniting nearby. And he felt its trajectory – a path of pure destruction tearing towards the Temple's sanctum. The Jedi Council Chambers. Where the youngest, most vulnerable initiates would be hidden. Revan broke into a run, armor clanking, the droid keeping pace. He bypassed skirmishes, ignored stray bolts snapping past his helmet. Time was collapsing. Every second bled younglings. He rounded a corner, emerging into a soaring, domed antechamber bathed in the harsh glare of emergency lights. Ahead stood the immense bronzium doors to the Council Chamber, sealed tight. And before them, a lone figure stood silhouetted against the carnage beyond the viewport: black robes flowing, blue blade held downward, dripping crimson onto the polished floor. The air crackled with suffocating Dark Side energy. Anakin Skywalker, back turned, radiating a grief-stricken fury that choked the very Force. The purge hadn't begun. It was *here*. Now. The utility droid froze, emitting a high-pitched whine of dread. Revan stopped. Twin sabers ignited, casting conflicting pools of light – violet defiance and crimson warning – onto the polished stone separating him from the fallen Hero With No Fear. He took a deliberate step forward, the heavy durasteel boot echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden, terrible silence.
The sound shattered the dark reverie. Anakin Skywalker flinched violently, as if physically struck. His shoulders tensed beneath the heavy cloak. The dripping blue lightsaber flickered. He stood utterly still for a long, agonizing heartbeat, the only movement the slow drip of blood from his blade tip onto the stone. The suffocating pressure of the Dark Side coiled tighter, dense enough to crack durasteel. Then, with agonizing slowness, Anakin began to turn. It wasn't the fluid motion of a Jedi Knight, nor the predatory stalk of a Sith Lord. It was the jerky, mechanical pivot of a man utterly consumed by a pain too vast to hold. His boot scraped harshly against the polished floor. His head came around first, chin lifting slowly, painfully. The harsh emergency lights played across his face – features that were once handsome, noble, now etched with a chilling vacancy. Eyes that had held warmth and determination were now twin pits of molten gold, blazing with unfathomable agony and a rage so profound it bordered on madness. There was no recognition in those eyes. Only the hollow, burning void left in a soul shattered beyond repair. They traveled upwards past the imposing armored boots, over the scarred, crimson-edged plates of the cuirass, lingered for a heartbeat on the twin blades – the impossible violet humming beside the Sith crimson – and finally, inexorably, locked onto the cold, impassive gaze of Revan's Mandalorian mask. Those golden eyes widened, fractionally. A flicker. Not recognition, but primal *recognition*. The dread-lord of legend, impossibly present amidst *his* apocalypse.
Anakin froze mid-turn, one foot still slightly behind him. His blue lightsaber trembled in his grip, the plasma blade spitting sparks onto the floor. The golden fire in his eyes flickered, warring shadows darting across the horrible vacancy. For a microsecond, pure, unadulterated terror flared there – the superstitious dread of a child raised on tales of the Jedi Boogeyman, confronted by the genuine article. Then it vanished, swallowed instantly by the tsunami of possessive fury that defined Darth Vader. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a silent, feral snarl. The Force *screamed*. Durasteel groaned as unseen pressure crumpled decorative pillars flanking the chamber doors. The utility droid behind Revan whimpered, its photoreceptor dimming under the psychic assault. Revan felt the raw, untamed power slam against his borrowed instincts like a physical blow; Revan's defenses held, ancient shields forged in wars against gods and empires. He stood unmoved, twin blades unwavering. Anakin's burning gaze raked over the mask again, lingering on the crimson saber – *his* saber, the symbol of his own terrible choice. Confusion warred with fury. Why did this ghost wield *two* blades? Why did it bear the colour of Jedi *and* Sith? Why did it stand *here*, blocking *his* path? The choked rasp that emerged from Anakin was barely human. "You... are... not... *here*." It was denial spat like venom. The Force coiled within him again, preparing to obliterate the impossible phantom blocking his path to destiny.
The air thickened, humming with unleashed power. Anakin's knuckles whitened impossibly around his saber hilt, the blue plasma flaring brighter, casting stark, shifting shadows that danced like phantoms across his tormented face. His entire posture radiated the coiled tension of a nexu about to spring, every muscle vibrating with the need to annihilate this impossible obstacle. Revan remained poised, statuesque. The violet blade hummed its resonant counterpoint to Anakin's snarling blue energy. Inside the mask, the wearer's mind raced – Skywalker was a maelstrom, unpredictable and devastatingly powerful. Engaging him here, amidst Anakin's self-inflicted agony, was suicide. Yet... the sealed Council Chamber doors loomed behind the fallen Jedi Knight. Revan felt the faint, flickering signatures within – terrified initiates huddled together. His borrowed instincts mapped the chamber layout – ventilation shafts hidden behind ancient tapestries near the ceiling. Escape routes Skywalker hadn't yet sealed. The utility droid whirred urgently, scanning Anakin. "Hostile signature power level critical, Master. Gravitic anomalies detected. Recommend immediate--" Anakin roared. The denial shattered. Pure, obliterating rage erupted. His blue blade became a blinding whirlwind aimed not at Revan, but at the sealed Council doors themselves, channeling his fury into a single, catastrophic strike to breach the sanctum. The moment of confrontation was upon them, and Revan moved.
He didn't charge Anakin head-on. Instead, Revan flowed sideways like dark smoke, both sabers snapping horizontal. The violet blade intercepted Skywalker's descending arc meant for the door seals halfway through its descent. The impact wasn't a clean deflection; it was a brutal shove, violet plasma grinding against blue with a tortured shriek of conflicting energies, forcing Anakin's blade down and sideways into the polished stone floor in a spray of molten rock. Simultaneously, Revan's crimson saber lunged low, not at Anakin himself, but at the durasteel floor just ahead of Skywalker's leading boot. The superheated plasma sliced a deep, glowing trench, forcing Anakin's lunge off-balance as molten slag surged upward. Anakin snarled, wrenching his blade free from the molten stone trap, eyes blazing pure molten gold. He pivoted, the Force gathering around him like a crushing fist aimed squarely at Revan's chestplate. The utility droid screeched a proximity alarm, futilely trying to shield Revan with its small chassis. The sheer pressure made the durasteel armor groan.
Revan met the crushing wave not with resistance, but redirection. He spun on his heel, violet saber snapping upwards in a spiraling arc that sliced *through* the kinetic energy Anakin projected. The raw force didn't dissipate; it fragmented and surged past Revan, tearing chunks from the already damaged pillars flanking the Council Chamber doors. Anakin stumbled forward, momentarily unbalanced as his focused assault splintered harmlessly. Revan pressed the advantage instantly. His crimson saber became a crimson blur, striking not to kill, but to disarm – a series of lightning-fast thrusts aimed at Anakin's saber hand and wrist, forcing desperate, clumsy parries that drove Skywalker backwards away from the sealed doors. Each clash sent sparks cascading like miniature supernovas into the gloom. The violet blade remained a humming shield, intercepting stray bolts from clone troopers appearing cautiously at the antechamber's far archways, their shots deflected harmlessly against shelves or walls. Anakin roared again, a sound of pure, frustrated agony, his strikes becoming wilder, fueled by dark fury rather than precision. The utility droid zipped frantically, scanning the troopers converging at the periphery. "Perimeter breach imminent! Probability of flanking fire: 98.7%!" Revan knew he couldn't hold this position forever against Skywalker *and* clones.
With a final, jarring parry that forced Anakin's blade wide, Revan disengaged explosively. He didn't retreat towards the main corridors choked with clones. Instead, he spun and leaped backwards, boots striking a shattered statue plinth, propelling him upwards towards the ceiling. His crimson saber lashed out, a precise streak of plasma slicing through an ancient tapestry near the apex of the dome. Behind it, the dark, circular maw of a ventilation shaft yawned open – an escape route forgotten by Skywalker in his singular focus. Revan landed silently back on the dais, twin blades casting conflicting pools of light – violet and crimson – onto the blood-slicked floor directly between Anakin and the sealed Chamber doors. He stood unmoving, a dark sentinel deliberately blocking Skywalker's path once more. His masked visor locked onto Anakin's burning golden eyes. The clones hesitated, rifles trained but unnerved by the duel between titans. Anakin seethed, chest heaving, his saber dripping molten stone onto the floor beside Revan's crimson trench. The Chamber doors remained intact. Inside, the terrified signatures pressed closer together. Outside, Revan stood ready, sabers humming the only answer to Anakin's choked silence. The utility droid hovered beside him, photoreceptor fixed on Skywalker. "Master... he gathers the Dark Side again." Revan tightened his grip. Skywalker's fury was a storm barely contained. The reckoning was postponed, not avoided.
The silence stretched, thick with ozone and the phantom screams echoing from distant halls. Anakin remained frozen before him, a statue carved from rage and agony. Revan dipped his head slightly, the Mandalorian mask tilting down towards the crumpled form of the Gran Master lying nearby. Inside, behind the impassive visor, the wearer's mind clawed through fragmented memories – Jedi Codes debated in hushed tones across smoky cantina tables on Taris, Sith philosophies dissected during late-night Korriban study sessions. He saw Anakin's pain, the galaxy-shattering betrayal bleeding through the Force. Not Revan's pain – *his*. The wearer's voice, amplified and distorted by the mask, cut through the suffocating dread like a vibroblade through duracrete – deeper, slower, resonating with millennia of borrowed certainty. "Skywalker." The name wasn't a challenge; it was an invocation, heavy with the weight of galactic history Anakin himself had studied. "This path…" Revan's free hand gestured deliberately towards the sealed Chamber doors, the violet blade humming softly beside the gesture, "*This* is not strength. It is surrender. To Palpatine's whispers." He paused, letting the accusation hang. "Fear consumes you. Anger chains you." His masked gaze shifted back to Anakin's golden eyes, unflinching. "A slave… *again*." The words landed with the force of a starship collision. Anakin flinched violently, a raw, wounded sound escaping his lips. For a microsecond, the golden fire flickered wildly, revealing the tortured blue beneath – Skywalker, drowning. Silence crashed back, heavier than before. The clones shifted uneasily. Even the utility droid stopped its frantic whirring. Revan stood immovable, twin blades unwavering beacons. He had gambled everything on a phantom Jedi Knight's understanding of Skywalker's deepest wound: *freedom denied*. Would the gambit hold? Or unleash annihilation?
"Master?" The youngling's voice, thin as spider-silk, pierced the stillness from behind the sealed bronzium doors – muffled, terrified, impossibly innocent. The sound tore through Anakin like a physical blow. He staggered back a half-step, his grip on the saber faltering for a heartbeat. The molten gold in his eyes churned violently, warring shadows of horror and fury twisting his features. Revan seized the fractional opening. He didn't attack physically. Instead, he projected pure, cold *understanding* through the Force, a psychic echo amplified by Revan's own history of betrayal and redemption. It wasn't compassion; it was recognition. *I know this darkness. I chose it. I wore it like armor… until it became my cage.* The projection slammed into Skywalker's fractured psyche. Anakin gasped, clutching his head as if struck. A choked sob escaped him – raw, human, agonizing. The blue blade sputtered wildly. For a single, impossible moment, the Dark Side's suffocating grip seemed to loosen. His gaze flickered wildly between Revan's impassive mask and the sealed Chamber doors, haunted by the phantom cries of younglings past and present. The clones watched in stunned silence, rifles lowering slightly. The utility droid emitted a low, questioning hum. Revan remained poised, sabers held defensively. Had he pierced the armor? Or merely angered the beast within?
The moment shattered like glass. Anakin roared, a sound ripped from the depths of a soul tearing itself apart. The golden fire blazed brighter than ever, fueled by unbearable shame – shame at the weakness exposed, shame at the phantom Jedi's accusation striking true. Pure, obliterating hatred surged through him, directed squarely at the armored figure who *dared* to know him. He lunged forward, no longer aiming for the Chamber doors, but solely at Revan, a whirlwind of blue fury unleashed. "LIAR!" The scream echoed off the dome. His saber screamed towards Revan's helmeted head with blinding speed – a killing blow fueled by millennia of Sith rage condensed into one fallen Knight. Revan's violet blade snapped up instantly, meeting Skywalker's strike with a deafening *CRACK!* of clashing plasma. Sparks exploded like miniature stars. The sheer kinetic force drove Revan back half a step, boots grinding furrows in the stone floor. The crimson saber lashed out low, forcing Anakin to leap back, snarling. The clones scrambled, rifles snapping back up. The utility droid shrieked, "Flanking vectors confirmed! Hostile fire imminent!" Revan felt the clones' targeting lasers painting his armor. He'd bought seconds, not salvation. Skywalker was lost. The Chamber remained sealed. The grim calculus of survival demanded retreat. He poured borrowed power into his legs, preparing to leap towards the vent shaft high above. *Now!*
Revan exploded backwards, not towards the vent, but diagonally away from Anakin and the converging clones. His boots hit a tilted statue base, launching him into a controlled fall backwards through the air. As he spun mid-air, facing the enraged Skywalker and the advancing troopers, his right hand snapped out. Not clutching his crimson saber, but forming a fist. Then, with deliberate, mocking slowness, the fist unfurled. A single, black-gloved finger extended. He crooked it towards himself – a universal, contemptuous, *come-hither* gesture amplified by the Mandalorian mask's stoic glare. Twin blades spun into a humming defensive weave – violet forming a shimmering shield before him, crimson tracing a deadly arc beside it. The message was clear, wordless, and designed to ignite Anakin's incalculable pride: *Too scared to chase a ghost, Skywalker? Finish what you started.* The clones froze, rifles wavering. The utility droid wailed. Anakin Skywalker's burning eyes locked onto that single, beckoning finger. Rage, hot and pure, eclipsed the shreds of tortured doubt. A bestial roar ripped from his throat. He sprang forward, blue blade a comet trail. The clones hesitated, caught between orders and the terrifying spectacle. Revan landed lightly in a crouch, sabers held ready. The trap was primed. The vent shaft shimmered like salvation behind him. Anakin descended upon him like a dark god unleashed. The clones opened fire, crimson bolts slicing the air.
Anakin hit like a meteor. His blue saber hammered against Revan's violet defense in a blinding cascade of sparks, each impact jarring Revan's arms even through Revan's augmented strength. Revan flowed backwards under the onslaught, boots skidding across the blood-slicked stone, using Anakin's furious momentum against him. Crimson bolts hissed past, deflecting off the violet shield or melting into walls. One seared a black scar across Revan's right greave. Another clipped the utility droid, sending it spinning with a distressed whine into a pile of rubble. Revan didn't break his defensive weave, the violet blade a humming blur intercepting Skywalker's relentless strikes, the crimson blade a flickering counterpoint, forcing Anakin to twist and sidestep molten trenches scored in the floor. He heard the clones shouting, trying to reposition, trying to find a clear shot. He felt Anakin's raw power beating against him like a physical tide, the Dark Side warping the air, making the stone groan. Each parry was a fraction slower. Each step took him closer to the vent shaft hidden beneath a shattered archway near the chamber's rear wall. The violet blade hummed lower, strained. He needed Skywalker committed. He needed him *blind*. He saw the molten gold eyes fixed solely on him, consumed by hatred for the phantom daring to mock his fall. Revan feigned a stumble, violet blade dipping fractionally. Anakin saw the opening. He lunged, committing fully to a downward decapitating strike aimed at the mask.
Revan exploded upwards *into* Anakin's lunge. He didn't retreat. He surged forward, ducking impossibly low beneath the blue blade singing inches above his helmet. His violet saber snapped sideways, not at Anakin, but slicing through a thick power conduit running along the base of the wall beside them. Sparks erupted in a blinding fountain, showering Anakin and momentarily obscuring the clones' aim. Simultaneously, Revan's crimson blade stabbed upwards, not to kill Skywalker, but aimed precisely at the locking mechanism of Anakin's heavy utility belt. The superheated tip sheared through durasteel. The belt, laden with equipment pouches and grenades, clattered loose onto the floor between Anakin's boots. The surprise caused Anakin to falter mid-strike, instinctively glancing down. That microsecond was all Revan needed. He twisted violently, planting his boot against Anakin's chestplate and shoving off with every ounce of borrowed strength. He shot backwards through the spray of sparks and smoke, propelled by the Force-enhanced kick. He hit the archway beneath the vent shaft entrance hard, the impact rattling his bones inside the armor. He didn't pause. Both sabers whirled in a final, blazing defensive arc scattering a volley of clone bolts, then vanished into the into the chute, plunging into the darkness below.