The "Jump-Snap" into the Ilum system was as smooth as a glass of aged Serenno wine, but far more jarring to the senses. One moment, the Black Pearl was bathed in the warm, ambient light of hyperspace; the next, it was suspended in the freezing, star-dusted silence of the Unknown Regions. Below them, Ilum hung like a fractured marble of white and crystalline blue—a planet that was more of a holy site than a world, the ancestral heart where the Jedi sought their Kyber crystals.
"Atmospheric sensors are reporting -120 degrees Celsius at the primary landing site," Cortana's voice hummed through the cockpit, her blue avatar shivering slightly in a purely aesthetic display of empathy. "The stealth field is holding, but the thermal output of our engines is creating a localized fog bank. If the Temple's automated scanners are looking for anomalies, we're currently a very large, very warm cloud."
Revan Shan didn't look up from the small, bronze-lit Rakatan shard sitting on his lap. He was dressed in his full Phrik-filament robes, the hood pulled low. "Let them look, Cortana. The Council is currently too busy auditing their own shadows to notice a rogue cloud. Besides, Ilum is a big place. Plenty of room for a cloud to have an adventure."
R2-D6 issued a series of sharp, rhythmic whistles, his dome spinning toward the long-range comms array. He sounded urgent, almost annoyed.
"I know, D6," Revan sighed, finally looking at the console. "The Council. They've been pinging us since we cleared the Serenno sector. Master Vernestra is persistent. I'll give her that. She's got the stubbornness of a bantha with a stubbed toe."
"They are requesting an immediate return to Coruscant," Cortana added. "Official orders, Revan. They want a full briefing on the Count Gora situation and the Vek Syndicate's interest in Rakatan sites. And... they have updates on the Ueda investigation."
Revan's fingers tapped rhythmically on the Beskar-alloy gauntlet. "Master Indara. I know. They think it's an isolated incident—a vengeful girl with a sharp knife. They don't see the smiling man whittling wood in the steam. They don't see the thread."
He looked back down at the holocron shard. Through the Force, he felt a pull. It wasn't coming from the Jedi Temple or the crystal caves. It was coming from a desolate ridge ten miles east of the primary Temple landing pad.
"We're not going back. Not yet," Revan decided, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "An adventure isn't something you put on pause because the bosses are calling a meeting. We're here for the journey, and right now, the journey is buried under ten meters of permafrost. Cortana, bring us down at Grid 7-Lambda. R2, prep the thermal excavators and my heavy cloak. It's about to get very chilly."
The Frozen Echo
The trek across the Ilum wastes was a masterclass in endurance. Revan utilized Force Enhance to keep his blood flowing and his muscles from seizing in the sub-zero wind. Behind him, R2-D6 struggled through the snow, his upgraded thrusters occasionally firing to keep him from sinking into a drift.
"We're close," Revan shouted over the howling gale. "The shard... it's singing, D6! It's not Rakatan anymore. It's family!"
He stopped at the edge of a jagged ice shelf. The Force here was vibrant, a localized pocket of memory that felt like a sharp, metallic tang on the tongue. Revan knelt, sweeping away a layer of fresh snow to reveal a patch of ancient, translucent permafrost.
Frozen beneath the ice, looking remarkably well-preserved, was a chassis. It wasn't an astromech or a protocol droid. It was a combat model—rusty orange in color, with a spindly, lethal frame and photoreceptors that, even in death, seemed to hold a predatory glare.
"Oh, hello," Revan whispered, his breath a white plume. "I've heard stories about you. The 'Meatbag' specialist."
R2-D6 rolled up and let out a long, fearful whistle. He recognized the silhouette from the Old Republic archives Revan had shared.
"Yes, D6. It's an HK-series Assassin Droid. But not just any model. If the holocron led us here, this is the one. HK-47."
Revan reached out, utilizing Mechu-deru. He didn't just touch the metal; he dove into the droid's dormant logic gates. He felt the echo of thousands of years of silence, the cold of Malachor V, and a core personality that was currently screaming in a digital void.
"Statement: Master, I am experiencing a significant degree of thermal-induced irritability," Revan muttered, mimicking the droid's famous speech pattern with a grin.
Suddenly, the Rakatan shard in his pocket flared. A holographic image of the original Revan appeared, standing over the frozen droid.
"The tool of the shadow," the Holocron-Revan spoke, his voice clear despite the wind. "He was lost when the foundries fell. He carries the combat sub-routines of an era where the Sith did not hide. Rebuild him, descendant. You will need a voice that does not hesitate when the night falls."
The Council's Call
"Revan!" Cortana's voice crackled through the comm-link in his ear. "I've bypassed the encryption, but Master Vernestra is using a High Republic priority override. I can't block the signal any longer without it looking like a desertion."
Revan sighed, looking from the frozen HK-47 to the grey sky above. "Fine. Put her through. But give me a second to fix my hair. The wind is doing terrible things to my aesthetic."
The holographic image of Master Vernestra Rwoh flickered into existence in front of him, her purple robes looking stark against the white snow. Behind her, Master Sskeer stood, his reptilian eyes narrowed.
"Knight Shan," Vernestra's voice was stern, devoid of its usual calm. "You are on Ilum. Without authorization. Without a mission profile."
"I'm on a sabbatical, Master," Revan said, his tone sassy and light despite the freezing cold. "The Force told me I needed more Vitamin D, and since Ilum has that lovely blue star, I thought I'd catch some rays. Also, I found a very interesting piece of antique furniture. Needs a bit of a polish."
"Enough, Revan," Sskeer rumbled. "The situation has changed. Master Indara is dead. The Council has confirmed a Force-sensitive assassin. They are calling it a 'rogue element,' but the shadows you reported on Naboo... they are no longer ghosts."
"I told you," Revan said, his voice losing its humor. "It's a thread. And you're all still trying to find the needle."
"The Grandmaster has requested your return," Vernestra commanded. "There is to be a task force. Master Sol is leading the investigation on Olega. We need your... 'eclectic' perspective on the mechanical sabotage we found on Serenno. Return to Coruscant immediately, Revan. That is not a request."
Revan looked at the frozen HK-47 at his feet. He could leave it. He could go back, play the good soldier, and join the "Task Force" that he knew—from his Earth memories—was doomed to fail and be covered up.
"I'll be there, Master," Revan said, winking. "But I'm bringing my new furniture with me. It's a bit heavy, so expect me to take the scenic route. Adventure is a journey, not a destination, remember?"
He cut the comms before she could reply.
Extraction and Loot
"D6, get the winch," Revan commanded. "We're taking the Assassin home. If the Council wants an audit, I'm going to give them a combat-ready HK-47 with a Beskar-Phrik upgrade. That should liven up the meditation sessions."
As they began the arduous process of cutting the droid out of the ice, Revan noticed something clutched in the droid's frozen metal hand. It was a small, ancient cylinder—a lightsaber hilt, but of a design he'd never seen. It was made of black wood and bone, etched with Rakatan runes.
"Ooh, loot," Revan grinned, tucking the hilt into his belt. "I'll keep that for a rainy day. Or a Sith-y day. Whichever comes first."
He also found a hidden compartment in HK's leg, containing several hundred high-denomination Old Republic gold credits—useless for trade, but worth a fortune to collectors on Coruscant.
"See, D6? Adventure pays! We're not broke anymore! We're... well, we're slightly less broke."
They dragged the chassis back to the Black Pearl. As the ramp closed and the heaters kicked in, Revan stood over the rusty orange droid. He felt the weight of the timeline pressing in. The Acolyte was moving. The Sith were watching. And he was currently rebuilding a murder-bot in the cargo hold of a ghost ship.
"Cortana, set a course for Coruscant," Revan said, sliding into the pilot's seat and popping a lemon candy. "Let's go see the green gremlin. I suspect he's going to have a lot to say about my new friend."
He looked out at the stars as the Pearl Jump-Snapped into hyperspace.
"Try to be nice," he whispered to the dormant HK-47. "Do good. But never fail to be kind. And if you have to kill someone... try to do it sarcastically."