The Ithorian Jedi Knight was crying.
Not the dignified, stoic tears of a warrior facing death with acceptance—no, these were ugly, heaving sobs that caused the alien's hammer-shaped head to wobble in ways that Vader found genuinely distracting. Mucus was involved. It was deeply unpleasant.
"P-please," the Ithorian blubbered, his twin mouths producing a stereo effect of pure pathetic. "I-I renounce the Jedi! I'll serve the Empire! I'll do anything!"
Vader stood in the ruins of what had once been a moisture farm on Tatooine's southern hemisphere, his boots planted firmly in sand that he remembered hating from a previous life. The Ithorian was backed against a vaporator unit, his green lightsaber lying deactivated in the dust where Vader had casually Force-yanked it from his grip approximately thirty seconds ago.
This is embarrassing, Vader thought, genuine disappointment coloring his mood. This is a Jedi Knight. A survivor of Order 66. He evaded the Inquisitors for over a year. And he's sobbing like a youngling who dropped his ice cream.
"Your offer is noted," Vader rumbled, his vocoder somehow managing to convey profound disdain. "And rejected."
His crimson blade ignited and descended in a single, merciful stroke. The Ithorian's head separated from his shoulders with the wet hiss of cauterized flesh, and the body crumpled into the sand without further drama.
That's twelve this month, Vader calculated, deactivating his weapon and surveying the carnage around him. Twelve Jedi, and not a single one provided an adequate challenge. Either the Order's standards dropped significantly in its final years, or the competent survivors are better at hiding.
He suspected it was the latter. The Jedi who had truly been skilled—the ones like Obi-Wan Kenobi, like Yoda, like a handful of others whose names appeared in no Imperial database—had vanished so thoroughly that even Vader's enhanced senses couldn't locate them. They were out there, somewhere, biding their time.
Good, he thought, striding back toward his shuttle. Let them hide. Let them prepare. When we finally meet, I want them at their best. I want a fight worth remembering.
His internal chronometer chimed, and Marcus Chen's consciousness surfaced briefly from the depths of the Vader persona.
Three days, he realized. Three days until Empire Day. Three days until...
Until Leia's first birthday.
The thought sent a complicated surge of emotions through his circuits—joy and grief and longing and fear, all tangled together in ways that even the Dark Side couldn't fully process. He had been tracking his daughter's development through carefully cultivated intelligence sources, monitoring her health, her security, her every public appearance. He knew that she was thriving under the Organas' care, growing strong and healthy and completely unaware that her biological father was the galaxy's most notorious monster.
It was better that way. He knew it was better that way.
But that didn't stop him from wanting to see her.
One year old, he thought, his mechanical heart doing something that felt dangerously close to aching. She's going to be one year old, and I've never held her. Never heard her laugh. Never been there for any of the moments that fathers are supposed to cherish.
The guilt was familiar by now—a constant companion that lurked beneath his Sith persona, reminding him of everything that Anakin Skywalker had destroyed and everything that Marcus Chen could never fix. He had learned to compartmentalize it, to channel it into the cold fury that fueled his power, but on days like this, it pressed against his defenses with unusual insistence.
I can't be her father, he reminded himself firmly. Not openly. Not safely. But I can protect her. I can watch over her. And maybe...
Maybe he could give her a birthday present.
It was a stupid, sentimental, completely impractical idea. The kind of idea that got Sith Lords killed by observant Emperors who noticed their apprentices developing inconvenient attachments. Vader should dismiss it immediately and focus on his mission objectives.
Instead, he found himself calculating travel times to Alderaan.
I am absolutely going to regret this, he thought as his shuttle lifted off from Tatooine's surface. But I'm going to do it anyway. Because apparently, being reincarnated as Darth Vader doesn't cure you of being a sentimental idiot.
The mission to Alderaan required careful planning, because Vader was many things but stupid was not one of them.
He couldn't simply show up in his Star Destroyer and demand an audience with the royal family—that would raise exactly the kind of questions he wanted to avoid. He couldn't use official Imperial channels to request a visit, because every such request was logged and eventually reviewed by Palpatine's endless bureaucracy. And he absolutely could not be seen anywhere near Princess Leia Organa, because even the Emperor's spy networks might eventually connect the dots between Vader's unusual interest in a specific infant and the circumstances of said infant's adoption.
I need to be invisible, Vader concluded. I need to enter and exit Alderaan without anyone knowing I was ever there.
Fortunately, invisibility was becoming something of a specialty.
The Nightsisters had taught him concealment magicks that went far beyond simple Force cloaking. Their techniques didn't just hide the user from sight—they erased the user from perception, making observers' minds simply skip over the cloaked individual as if they didn't exist. Combined with a carefully modified shuttle that had been stripped of all Imperial identifiers, Vader could theoretically infiltrate Alderaan without triggering any of the planet's considerable security systems.
Theoretically.
If this goes wrong, he thought as his shuttle dropped out of hyperspace in the Alderaan system, I'm going to have to kill a lot of Royal Guards. Which would upset Leia's adoptive parents. Which would upset Leia. Which defeats the entire purpose of this expedition.
So I simply won't let it go wrong.
The shuttle descended through Alderaan's atmosphere under cover of darkness, its stealth systems active, its pilot's Force presence compressed to the point of near-invisibility. Vader had chosen his approach vector carefully, threading between the planet's orbital sensor platforms and descending toward a forested region approximately fifty kilometers from the capital city of Aldera.
The landing was silent, the shuttle settling onto a carpet of fallen leaves without disturbing so much as a twig. Vader emerged into the cool night air, his respirator adjusting for Alderaan's pristine atmosphere, his optical sensors switching to low-light mode.
The Royal Palace is approximately ninety minutes away by foot, he calculated. I could cut that time in half using Force-enhanced speed, but that would create disturbances that security might detect. Slow and steady wins the race.
He set off through the forest, moving with a predator's patience, his black armor blending into the shadows between the trees. Alderaan's wildlife gave him a wide berth—not because they recognized him as a threat, but because the Dark Side energy radiating from his body triggered ancient instincts that even the most evolved creatures couldn't ignore.
Smart animals, Vader thought, stepping over a stream that sparkled with reflected starlight. Smarter than most sentients I encounter.
The Royal Palace came into view approximately eighty-seven minutes later, its white spires rising from the landscape like fingers pointing toward the stars. Vader studied the building from the treeline, his enhanced optics identifying guard positions, sensor arrays, and potential entry points.
The nursery is on the third floor, east wing, he noted, cross-referencing his intelligence with the building's layout. Two guards on the balcony, one inside the door, rotating patrols every fifteen minutes. Breha typically checks on Leia at midnight, which is...
He consulted his chronometer.
Forty-three minutes from now. I have a window.
He moved.
The concealment magicks wrapped around him like a second skin, bending light and attention away from his massive frame. The guards on the perimeter didn't see him pass within meters of their positions. The sensor arrays didn't register his presence despite his mechanical components. Even the small security droid that crossed his path simply continued on its programmed route, its simple mind unable to process what it couldn't perceive.
The wall of the palace was no obstacle—not for someone who could enhance his jumps with the Force. Vader ascended in a series of silent leaps, finding handholds in the ornate architecture, pulling himself upward with mechanical strength that felt no fatigue. In less than thirty seconds, he was on the balcony outside the nursery, pressing himself into the shadows beside a decorative column.
The two guards stationed there continued their quiet conversation, completely unaware that Death itself had just arrived.
"...heard the Princess is getting a whole party," one of them was saying. "Half the nobility invited. The Queen's been planning it for months."
"Must be nice," the other replied. "Being royalty, I mean. Having people plan parties for you."
She deserves every party, Vader thought, easing past them toward the balcony doors. She deserves every good thing this galaxy has to offer.
The doors were locked with a sophisticated biometric system that would have taken a professional slicer hours to crack. Vader bypassed it in approximately three seconds using a focused application of Force energy that convinced the system's sensors they were detecting Queen Breha's palmprint.
The door clicked open. Vader slipped inside.
The nursery was warm and soft, decorated in pale blues and creams that spoke of wealth and taste. Toys were arranged on shelves with careful precision—plush animals, educational holos, building blocks in various shapes and colors. A mobile of stylized starships hung above the crib, rotating slowly in response to air currents from the ventilation system.
And in the crib, sleeping with the absolute peace of the truly innocent, was Leia.
She had grown.
The realization hit Vader with unexpected force, driving the breath from his lungs—or it would have, if he had lungs in the traditional sense. His daughter was no longer the tiny, fragile infant he had observed during his inspection visit. She was bigger now, her dark hair longer, her features more defined. She looked like...
She looks like Padmé, Vader thought, and the pain of that recognition was sharp enough to cut through even the Dark Side's embrace. She has her mother's face. Her mother's strength.
He stood over the crib, watching his daughter sleep, feeling something that he couldn't name stirring in the ruins of his heart. For a long moment, he simply... existed. Not as Darth Vader, terror of the galaxy. Not as Marcus Chen, displaced soul from another universe. Just as a father, looking at his child, wishing things could be different.
I brought you something, he thought, reaching into a concealed compartment in his armor. It's not much. I couldn't exactly walk into a store and ask for gift-wrapping. But I hope you like it.
The object he withdrew was small—a pendant on a delicate chain, sized for a child who would grow into it over the years. The pendant itself was a stylized flower, carved from a single piece of white kyber crystal that Vader had spent weeks locating and purifying. The crystal contained a fraction of Force energy, attuned specifically to Leia's signature, designed to grow stronger as she grew older.
It wasn't just jewelry. It was protection.
The kyber would resonate with any Force-based attack directed at its wearer, creating a split-second warning that even an untrained child could learn to recognize. As Leia's sensitivity developed, the crystal would enhance her natural abilities, helping her to trust her instincts, to sense danger before it materialized, to survive in a galaxy that wanted her dead.
The Nightsisters helped me enchant it, Vader thought, placing the pendant gently on the small table beside the crib. Mother Shelish called it a 'ward of the dark mother'—protection that works regardless of whether the wearer knows it exists. You'll think it's just a pretty necklace. But it will keep you safe.
It's what I can give you, little one. It's all I can give you.
Leia stirred in her sleep, her tiny face scrunching up as if she sensed something unusual in her environment. For a terrifying moment, Vader feared she would wake, would see him, would scream and bring guards rushing in.
Instead, she simply rolled over, mumbled something that sounded like "bantha," and continued sleeping.
Bantha, Vader thought, a surge of affection threatening to crack his composure entirely. She dreams of banthas. Of course she does. She's perfect.
He lingered longer than he should have, watching her breathe, memorizing the curve of her cheek and the way her small fist curled around her blanket. He knew he needed to leave—knew that every second he remained increased the risk of discovery—but leaving was harder than he had anticipated.
I love you, he thought, projecting the emotion carefully, hoping that some fraction of it might reach her through the Force. I love you, and I'm sorry I can't be there for you. I'm sorry for everything I've done, everything I've become. You deserve so much better than me.
But I promise you this: no one will ever hurt you. Not while I exist. I will burn the galaxy to ashes before I let anyone harm a hair on your head.
It was a Sith promise—dark and possessive and absolutely sincere. Marcus Chen might have balked at the extremity of it, but Darth Vader embraced it fully. His daughter would be protected. Whatever it cost, whoever had to die, Leia would survive.
Happy birthday, little one, he thought, finally forcing himself to turn away. I'll see you again. Somehow. Someday.
He slipped back out onto the balcony, past the oblivious guards, down the palace wall, through the gardens and into the forest. His shuttle was waiting where he had left it, untouched by patrols or wildlife.
As the ship lifted off from Alderaan's surface, Vader allowed himself one final moment of weakness—a single, silent acknowledgment of the love that his new existence had taught him to contain rather than express.
Then he locked it away, deep in the furnace of the Dark Side, and set course for his next mission.
There were Jedi to kill. An army to inspect. A fortress to complete.
Being a secret father was exhausting, but the galaxy didn't stop turning just because Darth Vader had feelings.
The rancor was approximately twelve meters tall.
This was unusual because standard Rancors—the variety found on Dathomir and in Hutt palace basements—typically topped out at around five meters. This particular specimen was a "jungle rancor" from Felucia, a subspecies that had evolved in an environment of mega-flora and correspondingly mega-fauna. It was covered in bony plates that could deflect blaster fire, possessed claws that could shred durasteel, and had apparently been very, very upset about being transported to Mustafar.
Vader found it beautiful.
"Release it," he commanded, standing in the combat arena that the construction droids had completed only three days ago. "And seal the doors. I don't want it escaping into the fortress."
The Nightsisters observing from the elevated gallery exchanged glances that suggested they questioned their patron's sanity. Mother Shelish, however, simply nodded and keyed the release sequence.
The containment field dropped.
For a moment, the rancor simply stood there, its tiny eyes blinking in the arena's harsh lighting, processing its new environment. Then it saw Vader—a small, black figure standing in the center of the sand-covered floor—and its limited brain reached an obvious conclusion.
Prey.
The roar that emerged from its throat was less a sound than a physical force, shaking dust from the arena's ceiling and causing several of the watching Nightsisters to cover their ears. The beast charged, each footfall sending tremors through the volcanic rock, its massive claws extended for a killing strike.
Vader waited.
Now this, he thought, a grim satisfaction filling his mechanical heart, is more like it.
He ignited his lightsaber at the last possible moment, sidestepping the rancor's initial lunge with Force-enhanced speed. His crimson blade carved a burning line across the beast's flank as it passed—not deep enough to cripple, just painful enough to enrage.
The rancor screamed and spun, faster than its bulk should have allowed. Vader ducked under a claw swipe that would have bisected a normal human, rolled between the creature's legs, and slashed at the tendons of its left ankle as he passed.
Blood sprayed. The rancor stumbled but didn't fall.
Tough bastard, Vader acknowledged approvingly. Those bony plates extend below the surface. I'll need to find weak points.
He leaped backward as the rancor's tail—which he had momentarily forgotten existed—swept through the space he had occupied. The impact with the arena wall sent cracks spiderwebbing through the stone, demonstrating exactly what would have happened to his body if he had been a fraction slower.
Weak points, Vader repeated to himself, circling the wounded but very much still dangerous beast. Eyes. Mouth. The gap between the skull plates.
The rancor charged again. This time, Vader didn't dodge—he met it head-on, using the Force to anchor his feet and absorbing the impact with his mechanical frame. The collision drove him backward, his boots carving furrows in the sand, but he didn't fall. His lightsaber stabbed upward into the soft tissue beneath the rancor's jaw, piercing through the roof of its mouth and into its brain.
The beast's forward momentum carried it another three meters before the message reached its muscles. Then it collapsed, crashing to the arena floor with a thunderous impact, twitching once before going still.
Vader withdrew his blade, watching the light fade from the rancor's eyes.
Six seconds, he calculated. Better than the last one. But still not fast enough.
He turned toward the gallery, where the Nightsisters were applauding with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Mother Shelish looked impressed; Sister Karis looked disappointed that the fight hadn't lasted longer; and Mara Jade—who had somehow materialized in the fortress without Vader noticing her arrival—looked like she was about to spontaneously combust from sheer admiration.
When did she get here? Vader wondered irritably. I thought I sent her to investigate those rumors on Kashyyyk.
"Lord Vader," Mara called down, her voice carrying easily across the arena. "That was... incredible. The way you moved, the precision of your strikes—"
"What are you doing here, Mara?" Vader interrupted, not in the mood for sycophantic commentary. "Your mission on Kashyyyk should have taken another week at minimum."
"I completed it early." Mara's expression shifted to something approaching smug satisfaction. "The rumors were accurate—a small Jedi enclave was hiding among the Wookiees. I eliminated them and returned to report."
She killed Jedi, Vader noted. Multiple Jedi. At fifteen years old. Palpatine trained her well.
"Your efficiency is noted. Report to my command center in one hour—I want full details of your operation."
"Yes, Lord Vader." Mara's enthusiasm was barely contained. "And may I say, watching you fight... I've never seen anything like it. The Emperor speaks of your power, but seeing it in person..."
She trailed off, apparently unable to find words adequate to express her feelings.
Great, Vader thought. Her obsession is getting worse. I need to find a way to redirect this energy before it becomes genuinely problematic.
"One hour," he repeated, and turned his attention back to the fallen rancor. "Send the processing droids. The hide should be salvageable for armor components."
As the arena began clearing, Vader noticed Mother Shelish descending from the gallery, her silver hair catching the red light of Mustafar's eternal fires.
"She grows more attached to you each day," the Nightsister observed quietly, falling into step beside him. "The Emperor's Hand. Her devotion is becoming... concerning."
"I am aware."
"And you have done nothing to discourage it."
"Discouraging it would raise suspicions." Vader's vocoder flattened his tone into something approaching boredom. "Palpatine assigned her to observe me. If I push her away too forcefully, she will report the rejection, and the Emperor will wonder why his apprentice is avoiding his spy."
"So you allow her to become increasingly infatuated while doing nothing to encourage the attachment." Mother Shelish's lips curved into a knowing smile. "A delicate balance."
"Everything in my life is a delicate balance."
They walked in silence for a moment, ascending the stairs that led from the arena to the fortress's main levels.
"The training is progressing well," Mother Shelish said, changing the subject. "Your Force lightning has improved dramatically since our initial sessions. I believe you are ready for more advanced techniques."
"Good. I want to master the essentials before—"
Vader stopped mid-sentence, his attention caught by an incoming communication alert on his internal display.
"Lord Vader." The voice was Nala Se's, transmitted through the secure channel he had established with Kamino. "The first cohort is ready. Your soldiers await inspection."
A surge of anticipation cut through Vader's carefully maintained composure.
The clones, he thought. Finally.
Kamino's eternal storms had not improved since his last visit. If anything, the rain seemed heavier, the lightning more frequent, the winds more determined to demonstrate the planet's hostility toward all forms of life.
Vader found it refreshing.
His shuttle descended through the cloud layer, breaking into the narrow band of visibility between the ocean's surface and the storm's ceiling. Tipoca City rose before him, its domes and platforms gleaming white against the gray water, a testament to Kaminoan engineering and stubbornness.
They built a civilization in the middle of an eternal hurricane, Vader reflected. One has to respect that level of commitment to impractical locations.
Nala Se was waiting on the landing platform, her elongated form somehow projecting eagerness despite her species' typically reserved body language. Behind her stood four figures in armor that Vader didn't recognize—not the standard clone trooper design, but something sleeker, more aggressive, finished in matte black with red accents that matched his own aesthetic.
"Lord Vader," Nala Se greeted him as he descended the shuttle's ramp. "Welcome back to Kamino. As promised, your first cohort is ready for deployment."
"These are the command units?" Vader studied the four armored figures, reaching out with the Force to probe their minds. He found... nothing. Not emptiness, but shielding—their thoughts were protected by some kind of mental barrier that he couldn't immediately penetrate.
"Force-resistance training," Nala Se explained, apparently sensing his surprise. "We incorporated techniques derived from the Mandalorian resistance methods used during the ancient wars. Your soldiers cannot be mind-tricked, cannot be influenced by Force suggestion, and are highly resistant to Force-based interrogation."
They're immune to Jedi tricks, Vader realized. And Sith tricks. Including mine.
"You created soldiers that I cannot control with the Force," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Explain why this is not a concern."
"Because their loyalty is absolute, Lord Vader. Not through mental conditioning—that can be broken—but through genetic imprinting. Their very cells recognize you as their commander. They are biologically incapable of betraying you."
One of the armored figures stepped forward, removing his helmet to reveal a face that was both familiar and strange. The base template was clearly the Jango Fett genome that all clones shared, but the features had been refined, sharpened, made somehow more intense. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and utterly devoid of the servile vacancy that characterized standard stormtroopers.
"Lord Vader," the clone said, his voice deep and resonant. "I am Alpha-One, commanding officer of First Cohort. We exist to serve your will."
"You speak for yourself?"
"We all speak for ourselves." Alpha-One's expression didn't change, but something in his tone suggested dry amusement. "The inhibitor chips that controlled our predecessors were removed during our development. We obey because we choose to obey. Because we were created to fight, and you offer us the opportunity to fight for a worthy cause."
Soldiers who serve by choice rather than compulsion, Vader thought, studying Alpha-One with renewed interest. That's either incredibly useful or incredibly dangerous. Possibly both.
"Show me the cohort," he commanded. "All of them."
Nala Se led them through the facility, past laboratories and growth chambers, until they reached a massive parade ground enclosed by a transparent dome. Beyond the dome, Kamino's storms raged. Within it, standing in perfect formation, were five thousand soldiers.
Five thousand soldiers who represented everything the original clone army had been, enhanced and refined to the absolute peak of genetic engineering.
They were tall—easily two meters, dwarfing standard humans. Their armor was form-fitting, emphasizing physiques that spoke of engineered strength and impossible endurance. Their weapons were modified DC-15 rifles, upgraded with targeting systems and power cells that Vader recognized as Separatist technology—probably salvaged from the same hidden caches that had funded their creation.
And they were completely, absolutely silent.
Five thousand men, standing in formation, not a single whisper or shuffled foot breaking the stillness. It was eerie in its perfection.
"Cohort!" Alpha-One's voice rang out across the parade ground. "Salute your commander!"
Five thousand fists crashed against five thousand chest plates in perfect unison. Five thousand voices rose in a shout that shook the transparent dome:
"LORD VADER! WE ARE YOURS!"
The sound was physical, a wave of pure devotion that washed over Vader like a storm tide. He felt their loyalty in the Force—not the broken, conditioned obedience of standard clones, but genuine, chosen allegiance. They knew what he was. They knew what he represented. And they had decided, with full awareness, to serve him anyway.
This is what an army should be, Vader thought, genuine satisfaction warming his circuits. Not conscripts or slaves, but warriors who fight because they believe in their cause. Palpatine tried to eliminate the clones because he feared their quality. He had no idea what quality could truly become.
"Impressive," he said aloud, letting his vocoder carry the word across the parade ground. "But capability must be proven in combat. How have they been tested?"
"Extensive simulations," Nala Se replied. "Virtual combat scenarios replicating every major battle of the Clone Wars, plus theoretical engagements against various threat types. They have also undergone live-fire exercises against captured battle droids and... acquired specimens."
"Acquired specimens?"
"Rancors, Lord Vader. A dozen of them, obtained from various sources." Nala Se's voice carried a hint of professional pride. "Your soldiers eliminated them without casualties."
They fought rancors, Vader thought. Plural. And won without losing anyone.
"How long did the engagements last?"
"The longest was four minutes and seventeen seconds. The shortest was forty-three seconds."
Forty-three seconds to kill a rancor. It took me six seconds with a lightsaber, and these soldiers did it with conventional weapons.
He walked among the ranks, studying the soldiers who would form the core of his private army. They stood at perfect attention as he passed, their helmet visors tracking his movement without breaking formation. Through the Force, he sensed their emotions—pride, anticipation, the barely contained eagerness of warriors who had been bred for battle and were finally approaching their purpose.
"You understand," Vader said, his voice carrying to every corner of the parade ground, "that serving me means serving in shadow. You will not appear in Imperial records. You will not receive official recognition. Your victories will be attributed to others. Your existence will be denied."
Silence. Then Alpha-One spoke, his voice matching Vader's in volume:
"We understand, Lord Vader. We were created in shadow. We will fight in shadow. The galaxy need never know our names—only that when darkness falls, something darker rises to meet it."
Poetic, Vader thought. Nala Se programmed them with a flair for the dramatic. I approve.
"Then you are mine," Vader declared. "The Shadow Legion. You will be transported to a secure facility where your training will continue. When I call, you will answer. When I command, you will act. And when I unleash you upon my enemies..."
He let the pause stretch, dramatic timing honed by years of watching Palpatine's theatrical speeches.
"They will learn what true terror means."
"SHADOW LEGION!" five thousand voices roared. "FOR LORD VADER! FOR THE SHADOW!"
The chant continued, a rhythmic declaration of allegiance that echoed through the facility like a war drum. Vader stood in the center of it, surrounded by an army that belonged to no one but him, and felt something that had been absent from his existence since his awakening.
Hope.
Not the fragile, desperate hope of the Light Side—the kind that clung to impossible odds and trusted in the goodness of the universe. This was Dark Side hope, the certainty that power could reshape reality, that strength of will could overcome any obstacle, that the future could be claimed rather than waited for.
Palpatine has his stormtroopers, Vader thought. Millions of mediocre soldiers whose only value is their numbers. I have five thousand supersoldiers who could fight those millions to a standstill.
And this is only the first cohort.
He turned to Nala Se, who was watching the proceedings with the satisfaction of an artist viewing her masterpiece.
"Production continues on schedule?"
"Accelerated, actually. Your funding has allowed us to activate additional growth facilities. The second cohort will be ready in eight months, the third in twelve. Within five years, you will have a standing army of fifty thousand."
Fifty thousand enhanced clones, Vader calculated. Against an Imperial military of millions, that seems insignificant. But fifty thousand soldiers worth ten regular troopers each... that's effectively half a million elite warriors.
Plus the Nightsisters. Plus whatever other forces I accumulate. Plus my own growing power.
Palpatine should be afraid. He just doesn't know it yet.
"Continue production," Vader commanded. "I will send coordinates for the training facility. Transport the first cohort there within the week."
"It will be done, Lord Vader." Nala Se inclined her elongated head in something approaching reverence. "May I say... it is an honor to serve a patron who truly appreciates our work."
"You may." Vader turned toward the exit, his cape swirling behind him. "And Nala Se—begin research on the next generation of enhancements. I want soldiers who can fight Force-users on equal terms."
The Kaminoan's eyes widened. "That would require... significant modifications. Possibly incorporating genetic material from Force-sensitive sources."
"Then acquire such material. I don't care how. Results are what matter."
He strode away, leaving Nala Se to contemplate the implications of his order. Behind him, the Shadow Legion maintained their formation, five thousand soldiers standing in silent readiness for the moment their commander would call them to war.
This is what power feels like, Vader thought as his shuttle lifted off from Tipoca City. Not the borrowed authority of an apprentice, not the hollow terror of a reputation. Real power—forces that answer to me, resources that serve my purposes, an army that would follow me into hell itself.
And we're just getting started.
The journey back to Mustafar passed in contemplation, Vader's mind churning through strategies and contingencies, planning for a future that grew more complex with each passing day.
He had an army now—or the beginning of one. He had a fortress, nearly complete, protected by Nightsister magicks and environmental hazards that would deter all but the most determined attackers. He had allies, resources, and growing power that Palpatine couldn't fully perceive or understand.
But he also had vulnerabilities. Mara Jade's increasing obsession. The Emperor's suspicious attention. The timeline of galactic events that was already beginning to diverge from Marcus Chen's memories of how things were "supposed" to happen.
The butterflies are multiplying, Vader reflected, staring out at the hyperspace tunnel surrounding his shuttle. Every action I take creates ripples that spread in unexpected directions. The clones I'm creating didn't exist in the original timeline. The Nightsisters I've allied with should have remained scattered and powerless. Even my survival on Mustafar might have changed details that I can't predict.
It was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. He was no longer just a passenger in history, watching events unfold according to a predetermined script. He was an active participant, reshaping the galaxy's future with every decision he made.
Luke is still on Tatooine, he reminded himself. Being raised by Owen and Beru, hidden from the Empire, waiting for the day when he'll begin his own journey. That hasn't changed.
Leia is still on Alderaan. Growing up as a princess, learning politics and diplomacy, developing the spirit that will eventually lead the Rebellion. That hasn't changed either.
But everything around them is shifting. The Empire I serve is not quite the Empire that Marcus Chen watched in the movies. The Rebellion that will rise to oppose it will face different challenges, different opportunities. And when my children finally emerge to claim their destiny...
He didn't know what they would find. That uncertainty was both a source of anxiety and a strange kind of freedom.
I can't control the future, Vader acknowledged. I can only prepare for it. Build my power, protect my children, position myself to act when the critical moments arrive.
And try not to die in the process.
His shuttle emerged from hyperspace above Mustafar, the volcanic world glowing beneath him like a coal in the darkness of space. His fortress was visible from orbit now—a black spire rising from the hellscape, surrounded by construction activity that would soon be complete.
Home.
The word felt strange applied to such a hostile location, but it was accurate nonetheless. The fortress on Mustafar was his in a way that nothing else in the galaxy could be. Not granted by Palpatine, not dependent on Imperial authority, not subject to anyone's approval but his own.
Welcome home, Vader thought as his shuttle began its descent. Time to get back to work.
The Shadow Legion was waiting for transport. The Nightsisters were waiting for training. Mara Jade was waiting to deliver her report. And somewhere, in the depths of his fortress, artifacts and holocrons were waiting to reveal their secrets.
There was much to do.
And Darth Vader was just getting started.
[END OF CHAPTER FIVE]