## Chapter 230: The Relic That Refused to Die
The void above Centax-2 was quiet in the way only deep orbital space could be—silent, patient, and heavy with history.
Suspended against the stars, the *Exquisite* loomed like a fossilized titan.
Ancient.
Unyielding.
Alive.
---
Captain Biron Mittermeier stood at the center of the bridge, hands clasped behind his back, posture as rigid as the ship he commanded. His uniform was immaculate, his expression carved from decades of discipline.
Forty years.
Forty years aboard dreadnoughts like this.
And still, the bridge felt like home.
"Status," he said calmly.
"All systems nominal, Captain," his first officer replied. "Reactor output stable across all three cores. Navigation locked in holding pattern."
Mittermeier gave a small, approving nod.
As it should be.
His gaze swept across the bridge—young officers at their stations, many of them newly assigned. Fresh faces. Curious eyes. Some still carried that barely-hidden disbelief.
*This ship is still operational?*
He could see the question in them every day.
It never changed.
And every time, the answer was the same.
Yes.
Because ships like the *Exquisite* were not built to fail.
They were built to endure.
---
Three thousand years.
The number alone meant nothing to most.
To Mittermeier, it was legacy.
The Indomitable-class dreadnoughts had been born in an age of total war—constructed by Rendili StarDrive, with support from Wauftau Shipyards, in direct response to the rising military threat of Alsakan.
The Seventeenth Alsakan Conflict had not been a war.
It had been annihilation stretched across decades.
And these ships had ended it.
His eyes drifted briefly to the forward viewport.
"They called you monsters," he murmured under his breath.
Two thousand meters of armored will.
A cylindrical hull reinforced with protruding bulwarks—functional, brutal, efficient. Some had mocked the design, claiming it resembled a Jedi lightsaber.
Mittermeier had never entertained such nonsense.
This was not symbolism.
This was engineering.
Three fusion reactors powered its massive systems.
Two dozen heavy turbolasers.
Fifty lighter cannons.
Corpuscular shield projectors—primitive by modern standards, but sufficient once.
And armor.
Layers upon layers.
Durasteel reinforced with exotic alloys—carvanium, lommite, melinium, neutronium—interwoven with neuranium mesh that disrupted scanners and even resisted the touch of a lightsaber.
Two meters thick in some sections.
A fortress.
A relic.
A survivor.
---
"They don't make them like this anymore," Mittermeier said quietly.
His first officer allowed himself a faint smile.
"No, sir. They don't."
Because they couldn't.
Not like this.
Modern ships favored efficiency. Speed. Shielding over raw mass.
But the Indomitables had been built in an era where war meant impact. Where kinetic weapons ruled. Where survival was measured in how much punishment you could take—and still fire back.
And they had done exactly that.
They had shattered Alsakan fleets.
They had burned through Sith armadas.
They had held orbit over Ruusan during the final battles of the New Sith Wars, refusing to fall even as the surface below became a graveyard of Jedi and Sith alike.
Mittermeier exhaled slowly.
"And now…" he muttered, "they call you obsolete."
---
A sharp tone cut through the bridge.
"Captain," the sensor officer called. "Incoming shuttle—approaching on direct vector."
Mittermeier turned slightly.
"Identification?"
There was a pause.
Longer than expected.
"Sir…" the communications officer said, clearly unsettled. "They're transmitting Republic command codes."
"That's not unusual."
"No, sir… but the authorization—"
"Out with it."
The officer swallowed.
"They're stating we've been reassigned."
The bridge stilled.
"To whom?" Mittermeier asked.
A beat.
"…High General Marek. Twelfth Sector command."
Silence.
Then—
A quiet, measured breath.
"Repeat that."
"Reassigned to High General Marek's fleet, sir. Orders confirm immediate redeployment to Lantilles. We are to prepare for departure."
Mittermeier turned fully now, eyes narrowing slightly.
*Marek.*
The name carried weight.
Even out here.
Stories had already begun circulating—impossible victories, unconventional tactics, a Jedi who fought like a warlord and survived things no one should.
The captain studied the incoming shuttle icon on the display.
"…Bring them in," he said at last.
---
Far below, within the shuttle descending toward the ancient dreadnought, Dagon Marek sat in silence.
The Force around him shifted subtly with each passing second.
Not unstable.
Not yet.
But different.
Sharper in some places.
Hollow in others.
The wound Hoth had warned him about lingered—quiet, watchful, like a fracture beneath the surface of reality itself.
He ignored it.
Because right now—
He had something far more interesting in front of him.
The *Exquisite* filled the viewport.
And Dagon smiled.
"Yeah…" he murmured. "You'll do just fine."
---
Minutes later, his boots struck the deck of the dreadnought.
The interior was exactly what he expected.
Old.
Industrial.
Built to last, not to impress.
Crew members snapped to attention as he passed, uncertainty flickering across their faces. Jedi were not common aboard ships like this.
Jedi like him?
Even less so.
The bridge doors opened.
And Dagon stepped inside.
---
Mittermeier turned to face him.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
They simply observed each other.
A veteran of forty years.
A warrior who had lived multiple lifetimes in one.
"Captain Biron Mittermeier," the older man said finally, inclining his head slightly.
"Dagon Marek."
No rank.
No title.
Just the name.
It was enough.
"I've read the reports," Mittermeier continued. "Didn't believe half of them."
Dagon shrugged.
"Good. Means they're still underestimating me."
A faint smirk tugged at the captain's lips.
"Perhaps."
A pause.
Then—
"You intend to use this ship?"
Dagon stepped forward, glancing around the bridge, taking in every detail.
Every system.
Every limitation.
Every possibility.
"Not just use it," he said quietly.
"I'm going to rebuild it."
The officers exchanged glances.
Mittermeier's expression remained neutral.
"That would require significant resources."
Dagon finally looked at him.
"I have them."
"How much?"
Dagon's answer came without hesitation.
"Over nine hundred million credits."
The bridge went completely silent.
Even Mittermeier's composure cracked—just slightly.
"…That is," the captain said carefully, "a considerable sum."
"Enough to turn this 'piece of junk' into something the CIS won't see coming."
Dagon stepped closer to the central display, bringing up the ship's schematics.
"They're going to start fielding heavier ships soon," he continued. "Dreadnought-scale. Maybe bigger."
He tapped the projection.
"I'm not walking into that with just Venators."
---
His mind was already moving.
Faster than anyone in the room could follow.
Twelve thousand crew capacity.
Reinforced hull capable of taking punishment modern ships couldn't survive.
Space for internal restructuring.
Layered armor that could be enhanced rather than replaced.
And most importantly—
Potential.
"I've got ten of these total," he said. "Nine after this one."
Mittermeier corrected him quietly.
"Ten, including this vessel."
Dagon smirked.
"Good. Even better."
He began pacing slowly.
"Phase one—reactor overhaul. Replace fusion cores with hybrid systems. Integrate kyber-assisted energy amplification."
Murmurs spread across the bridge.
"Phase two—weapon refit. Strip outdated turbolasers. Replace with heavy modern arrays. Add flak grids for anti-fighter suppression."
His eyes gleamed slightly now.
"Phase three—shielding. Layered deflector systems. Redundancy. I want this thing to take a beating and keep moving."
Mittermeier watched him closely.
Not dismissing.
Not interrupting.
Evaluating.
"Phase four," Dagon said, voice lowering slightly, "internal restructuring. Hangar capacity. Troop deployment. Command integration."
He stopped.
Turned.
"This isn't just a ship anymore."
A pause.
Then—
"It's going to be a fortress."
---
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Meaningful.
Then Mittermeier nodded once.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"…Very well, General."
The title carried weight now.
Respect.
"Then I will ensure this 'relic' survives long enough to become your weapon."
Dagon's smirk returned.
"Good."
He looked back at the massive holographic image of the *Exquisite*.
Ancient.
Outdated.
Forgotten.
Not anymore.
Because in his mind—
It was already something else entirely.
Something new.
Something dangerous.
And soon—
The galaxy would learn to fear it.