The war map hovered between us, rotating slowly above the tactical projector.
Blue light washed across the bridge of the *Terminus*, painting the durasteel floor in shifting patterns of hyperspace lanes, star systems, and fleet markers. The clones stationed at their consoles worked quietly, disciplined as always, but my focus remained on the figure standing across the holotable.
Captain **Ntor Ragnos**.
The Zabrak officer studied the projection with the same still intensity he brought to every battlefield discussion. Horns framed his head like a crown of obsidian spikes, and the faint red glow of the tactical display reflected in his eyes.
I had always liked that about him.
He listened.
Not just to orders—but to strategy.
"Officially," I said slowly, folding my arms as the map shifted to highlight the Banking Clan territories, "my orders are simple."
Ragnos glanced up.
"Capture Muunilinst."
He nodded once.
"Yes, General."
Simple orders.
Deceptively simple.
But the more time I spent thinking about it, the more I realized something interesting.
The orders never specified **how**.
And that gave me room to maneuver.
A lot of room.
My mind drifted back to the moment that had changed everything.
Force walk.
A dangerous technique.
One I rarely used unless absolutely necessary.
But the glimpse it had given me into the quiet conspiracy between **Palpatine** and **Dooku** had been… enlightening.
Muunilinst wasn't just another Separatist world.
It was bait.
A trap disguised as a target.
The Banking Clan capital was already being reinforced quietly. When the Republic fleet inevitably attacked, the Confederacy would spring the ambush and crush a large portion of the Republic navy in one decisive battle.
Clean.
Efficient.
Devastating.
If I followed my orders directly, I would be walking straight into it.
Which meant I needed to change the battlefield.
"Instead of attacking Muunilinst," I continued, zooming the hologram outward toward the Halla sector, "we attack **Boz Pity**."
Ragnos' brow creased slightly.
"A diversion?"
"More than that."
I enlarged the Boz Pity system until its orbit lines dominated the projector.
"The system hosts a fleet staging area and ten major droid production factories."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"If those are destroyed…"
"CIS leadership panics."
I tapped the holotable.
"They believe Muunilinst is threatened by a major Republic offensive. They divert fleets to defend their core economic world—or to secure Boz Pity."
Ragnos studied the map for a long moment.
Then he nodded slowly.
"You intend to draw them out."
"Exactly."
War wasn't about brute force.
It was about movement.
Pressure.
Control.
"The battle for Boz Pity itself should last roughly an hour," I continued. "Long enough for their command structure to recognize the threat."
I shifted the projection again.
"Then we wait."
Another holographic timer appeared.
"Five hours."
Ragnos tilted his head.
"Reinforcements."
"Yes."
Separatist fleets rushing to defend what they believe is a critical industrial hub.
And when they arrive…
"They walk into an ambush."
The Zabrak's sharp teeth showed slightly in what might have been a smile.
"And after that?"
I expanded the map again.
**Mygeeto.**
Another Banking Clan stronghold.
Their financial heart.
"The CIS fleet will already be weakened. We strike Mygeeto next and cripple their defensive force there."
He nodded slowly.
"And Muunilinst?"
"Last."
Because by then…
Their navy would already be bleeding.
"When we finally attack Muunilinst," I said quietly, "we do it openly."
A proper battle.
A decisive one.
No trap.
No ambush.
Just overwhelming force.
Ragnos crossed his arms.
"It is… ambitious."
"Yes."
"But possible."
He studied the hologram again.
Then gave a single nod.
"I will prepare the fleet."
As he walked away to relay orders across the bridge, my attention shifted to the other part of the war.
The part most generals rarely thought about.
Troops.
I now commanded a ridiculous number of elite soldiers.
Apart from Puck, Lucky, and Devil—three of the hundred legendary **Alpha-class ARC troopers**—my forces had expanded dramatically.
Two hundred **Clone Commandos**.
Ten thousand **Clone Marines**.
And waiting at **Lantilles**…
Fifty **Null-class ARC troopers**.
The most dangerous clones ever created.
Puck had explained their background earlier.
The ARC troopers currently serving the Republic were technically successors to the Alpha-class—more stable, more disciplined, but still extremely independent.
Their legendary commander was **Fordo**.
I remembered him vaguely.
Not from this life.
From another.
From old animated records I had once watched long ago.
Back when the Clone Wars were just stories on a screen.
History had a strange sense of humor.
Most of those ARC troopers would eventually vanish after the war. Some would disappear quietly into the galaxy.
Others…
Joined Mandalorian factions.
The Empire never trusted soldiers who could think for themselves.
But right now?
They were mine.
Alongside the regimental commanders.
Blam.
Zilo.
H.
Enok.
Turn.
Plasma.
Chuck—leading the commando units.
All loyal.
All deadly.
And most importantly…
All trusted me.
That part still confused me sometimes.
Clone loyalty was… complicated.
Some sources claimed it came from **behavioral inhibitor chips** embedded in their brains.
Others insisted it was simply the result of **genetic conditioning and training**.
And some believed it was both.
Honestly, I wasn't sure which was true.
But after Jablim…
After the battles we had fought together…
The clones followed me with absolute loyalty.
Not blind obedience.
Trust.
Which was far more powerful.
My thoughts drifted again.
Away from the war.
Toward the people waiting on Coruscant.
I had spoken with **Ahsoka** earlier before departing.
She stood in one of the temple gardens, orange skin glowing softly in the evening light as she practiced meditation.
Visenya had been with her.
Along with Kayla, Stella, and Flare.
An unusual group.
Even by Jedi standards.
Visenya fascinated me the most.
Zeltrons were naturally empathic beings. Their species possessed a subtle ability to sense emotions and connect mentally with others—almost like a mild form of telepathy.
It made them exceptional diplomats.
And dangerous Force users.
Apparently many Zeltrons had dormant Force sensitivity, though their powers manifested differently.
More emotional.
More instinctive.
Almost like a natural **mind meld** with people they bonded with.
I still found it strange.
Not long ago Visenya had simply been an unlucky journalist trying to board a diplomatic shuttle.
Now…
She traveled with me across battlefields.
War had a way of reshaping lives.
Mine most of all.
In both of my lives…
I had spent most of my time alone.
Partly by choice.
Partly because circumstances demanded it.
The memories rose unbidden.
Fighting machines beneath the shadow of Everest.
Training with monks in silence and snow.
Battles against cultists and warlords across ruined cities.
Always the same image afterward.
Blood.
Ash.
And people looking at me with the same expression.
Fear.
Respect.
Sometimes both.
To many observers I looked like something born from war itself.
A dark warrior carved from endless battlefields.
Even though the people closest to me knew the truth.
Still…
The loneliness had been real.
Which made the present feel almost surreal.
Ahsoka.
Kayla.
Stella.
Flare.
Visenya.
Five women who had chosen to stand beside me despite everything.
Despite the war.
Despite the darkness surrounding it.
Despite the strange path my life had taken.
I leaned slightly against the viewport as hyperspace streamed past in endless blue light.
For most of my life…
I had walked alone.
Now suddenly there were people who cared about me.
Who worried.
Who waited for me to come back alive.
And strangely enough…
It felt good.
Dangerous, perhaps.
But good.
The galaxy outside the viewport stretched into infinite stars.
Ahead of us waited Boz Pity.
And the next move in a war that was only beginning to unfold.
I straightened slightly.
War plans were ready.
Fleets were moving.
The trap was set.
Now all I had to do…
Was let the Separatists walk into it.