Malachor.
A name spoken in fragments across forbidden archives and half-erased Jedi records.
A rocky, hostile wasteland in the Chorlian sector of the Outer Rim — a planet forever marked by the Great Scourge of Malachor. Thousands of years ago, Jedi and Sith had clashed within its temple. A superweapon had been activated. No victor emerged.
Only silence.
Only stone.
From orbit, the surface resembled a graveyard frozen mid-scream. Jagged terrain. Ash-gray plains. Long shadows cast by unnatural stone formations that resembled figures caught in agony.
Beneath the crust lay the Sith temple — a structure entombed under layers of petrified devastation. Reports described the landscape as resembling an ocean of liquid carbonite flash-frozen in motion. Pyramidal stone foothills dotted the terrain in eerily symmetrical patterns. Along the central latitude stretched a vast crater encircled by thin, needle-like spires reaching upward like broken teeth.
It had taken only an hour to reach Malachor.
That alone disturbed me.
The coordinates I had used were fragments from what, in another era, would be known as the Sanctuary Pipeline — an obscure hyperspace route designed for covert Rebel movement during the Battle of Endor, referenced in an obscure light novel archive. I had not expected it to function in this era.
Yet it had.
The *Starburn* dropped from hyperspace into silent orbit.
"Atmospheric conditions hostile," the navigator reported. "No life signs detected."
"Begin surface scanning," I ordered.
The readings were chaotic — residual energy signatures still lingering millennia after the Scourge. Deep beneath the crust, power fluctuations pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
"There," I said quietly.
A location near one of the equidistant stone foothills.
"Targeted orbital strike. Low yield. We are not destroying the site — merely opening it."
The forward batteries fired.
Scarlet bolts tore into the crust, vaporizing rock and carving a widening shaft. Dust plumed outward in a silent cloud, then settled.
"Landing aperture sufficient," the pilot confirmed.
"Maintain position. No one leaves the ship."
"General?" the captain asked.
"I will proceed alone."
---
The surface was worse up close.
The ground felt brittle underfoot, like stepping across ancient bone. The air carried no wind, no scent — only stillness.
I descended into the blasted opening.
The deeper I moved, the colder it became.
The cavern beneath opened into something vast — a subterranean expanse resembling a frozen sea. Waves of blackened stone were locked in violent motion, crests reaching upward, bodies twisted mid-strike.
Petrified.
An entire battlefield turned to stone.
Thousands of figures — Jedi and Sith — caught in their final moments.
I walked among them slowly.
Lightsabers lay scattered everywhere. Some still clutched in stone hands. Others half-buried in the frozen terrain.
Most were obsolete. Power cells long dead. Emitters corroded.
But the kyber crystals remained.
I knelt and carefully removed one from a shattered hilt.
Dull.
Sleeping.
Yet intact.
These crystals would serve another purpose. Refined, recalibrated, integrated into shield modulation arrays and weapon focusing systems — they could transform my assault ship into something closer to a true battleship.
I continued collecting them, storing dozens within a reinforced satchel.
Then I felt it.
A pull.
Not downward.
Inward.
Deeper within the temple structure stood a massive triangular gateway carved into black stone. Ancient Sith runes glowed faintly along its edges.
A holocron pedestal sat before it.
The device resting upon it flickered to life as I approached.
A crimson holographic figure formed — armored, severe, eyes sharp with calculated intensity.
"Identity," it demanded.
"Dagon Marek."
A pause.
The figure inclined its head slightly.
"I am Darth Alim Nox," it said. "You stand within the grave of ambition."
"I am aware."
"You carry conflict," Nox observed. "Not the blind rage of the untested. Nor the serenity of the deluded. You seek power for war."
"For survival," I corrected.
The hologram studied me.
"Malachor tests the unworthy. Many who seek its secrets shatter."
"I have already been shattered," I replied evenly. "And rebuilt."
A faint shift in the projection's expression — approval.
"Beyond this gate lies the Gauntlet of Shadow," Nox continued. "An artifact forged to conceal presence within the Force. More effective than primitive masking techniques."
A masking device capable of obscuring my presence from Jedi perception.
Useful.
"And further," Nox said, "the Mind Prison."
The air seemed to thicken.
"A temporal distortion construct. Within its confines, perception of time accelerates exponentially. One hour beyond its threshold equals one thousand years of internal experience."
I did not react outwardly.
"Most who enter are destroyed," Nox added. "Their minds collapse beneath accumulated memory."
"And those who survive?"
"They emerge… transformed."
I stepped closer to the pedestal.
"I have seen war," I said quietly. "I have faced annihilation and endured. When you witness devastation and choose to stand again, you understand something."
"Hope?" Nox asked with faint disdain.
"Purpose," I corrected. "Hope is fragile. Purpose is not."
The hologram considered this.
"Very well, Dagon Marek. The Gauntlet will accept you. The Mind Prison will judge you."
The gateway behind him began to glow.
Stone shifted.
Passage opened.
I secured the collected kyber crystals and stepped toward the threshold.
Behind me, Malachor remained silent — its petrified army forever frozen in their final charge.
Ahead lay concealment, accelerated mastery, and risks that had destroyed Sith Lords stronger than I.
But hesitation had no place here.
If war was escalating — if fleets were mobilizing — then time was the one resource I could not afford to waste.
And on Malachor, time could be bent.