Interlude.
A little earlier.
The doors closed behind Skywalker with a soft hiss, cutting off the noise of the outside world. Sheev Palpatine remained alone, surrounded by the warm glow of lamps and the crimson reflections of the setting sun. The mask of the "kindly old grandfather" slid from his face, revealing a cold gaze fixed on nothing.
With a heavy sigh, the Chancellor approached the terminal and activated the data projection recovered in the Elroy system. Blue light carved the massive armored figure of the Sith out of the dimness.
Palpatine slowly ran his fingertips along the edge of the desk. Tyranus… his dear, aging apprentice. The Count had always been a slave to his own heritage—an aristocrat to the core. He preferred possessing "instruments" over using them to their fullest potential, treating them like collectible wine or a rare tome.
Savage, Ventress… and now this Brute. Palpatine had known where things were heading from the moment his spies reported that a new, powerful Sith had appeared among the Confederacy. And what Dooku had done now was equally clear.
Tyranus had always had a weakness for theatrical gestures, and this "leak" was an elegant, aristocratic way of testing how vigilant his master's eye truly was. Oh yes, the information about Brute was one of those rare moments of novelty Sidious actually valued—another tiny, unexpected blot of color on the perfectly painted canvas of his Grand Plan.
Had Sidious still been the reckless acolyte of the Dark Side he once was, such unjustified independence from an apprentice would have provoked a burst of rage. But he had long since learned to appreciate the ambitions of his servants. Anger was far too valuable a resource to waste on an old man merely trying to delay the inevitable.
There was no need to punish Tyranus too harshly, but reining him in—and watching his game more closely—would do no harm. For when a tool begins to think itself the master, it becomes either twice as useful… or completely useless.
Palpatine narrowed his eyes, studying the orange‑black flame of the blade on the recording. There was none of the purity of a Sith's crimson crystal, forged in the crucible of hatred, but there pulsed within it another kind of power—ancient and primal, unbound by the dogmas and rules Sidious himself had followed for decades.
Oh yes, if Brute crushed Anakin on Raxus—if he forced the "Chosen One" to howl in helplessness as he stared at the ruins of his own pride—that would be… well, it would be magnificent. Skywalker hated losing, and every defeat left wounds on his soul—unseen, but very real. Wounds that could be pressed at just the right moment to provoke the desired reaction: anger, fury… To defeat an enemy like Brute, Anakin would have to cast aside Jedi teachings about self‑control and stare into the abyss deeper than ever before, searching for the same fire Brute flaunted so brazenly.
And if Skywalker died? Even with Sidious personally overseeing events through trusted agents? Even with the Force itself shielding him, at least partially? Even in conditions as controlled as a greenhouse?
Palpatine's gaze drifted indifferently to a distant speck of an airspeeder outside the window.
Then he had been a mistake. A beautiful but fragile tool that snapped under the first real strain. Sidious could imagine circumstances in which another Sith might mourn a fallen apprentice—but such weakness belonged to those he had long surpassed. If this Taales proved more effective than the Chosen One… well. He would simply become Sidious's new project, though it would be highly inconvenient, requiring many adjustments. Sidious had no doubt he could bend him. One who has already served someone is always easier to train—especially if the new master is stronger. Still… it was undesirable. Too troublesome to deal with the aftermath. Better to keep him as a contingency plan—and prepare for that possibility just a little.
But he was getting distracted.
Dooku… Dooku deserved a lesson for imagining he could act too independently the moment he acquired a suitable tool. He believed no one would see through his scheme, that his master would remain a passive observer, letting events unfold on their own…
And that was the greatest mistake of Sidious's still‑apprentice.
He already saw how to tilt the board so the pieces would move more obediently in the desired direction. The Jedi mission to Raxus must not be a simple hunt, and through his channels he would ensure that Kenobi and Skywalker found themselves in a situation where diplomacy and stealth became impossible. He would create conditions that forced them to act… excessively. Ruthlessly. In ways unbecoming of Jedi.
The Chancellor slowly sank into his chair. His face smoothed over again, becoming the mask of a weary, burdened old man. But deep in his pupils, a predatory yellow glow still smoldered.
Tyranus's little game had amused him, but in this galaxy, only one mind sets the rules. And he would tolerate no competition.
"We'll see which of you breaks first," Palpatine murmured aloud, slowly closing his eyes. Perhaps the Count would not be the one to teach the lesson—if Sidious's suspicions were correct. But in that case…
End of Interlude
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The maps of the Unknown Regions that my character dragged with him out of a thousand‑year oblivion in a cryo‑capsule were our greatest treasure—and at the same time, a personal headache for me. Staring at the flickering markers of ancient shipyards and abandoned outposts of Vitiate's empire, even I understood: all that dead metal was useless on its own. You could be a Sith three times over, but if you didn't have spare hyperdrive parts, food for workers, and all the other necessities, you couldn't just snap your fingers and conjure them out of thin air like some fantasy wizard. We did have some resources already, but nowhere near enough.
Sure, I could focus on my personal development right now, or go swing a lightsaber on some battlefield, but leaving this planet with only the scraps I'd gathered so far would doom "R.G.A." to the fate of some pirate gang scraping by on the fringes of space. I needed a foundation—and if not the whole thing, then at least a slice of the Confederacy's industrial power, its logistics chains, and most importantly—credits.
"Boss, you're staring at those maps again like you're about to blast them with your 'Force lightning,'" Elara's voice drifted out from under a pile of cables, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Our new 'sponsor' has been found, just like you asked. Though he doesn't know it yet…"
I turned toward her, careful not to snag a hanging cable with my massive shoulder plate. Her little workshop smelled today not of chemical snacks, but of burnt toast—Elara, as always, was combining breakfast with work.
"Meet Baron Aurelius," she said, pulling up the face of a plump humanoid with thin, disdainfully pursed lips. "Chief treasurer of the Banking Clan here on Raxus. Every weapons‑purchase transaction in this sector goes through him. And judging by what I pulled from his personal terminal, the baron really hates putting all his eggs in one basket, because five to fifteen percent of every military loan goes to 'consulting services' for shell companies on Nal Hutta… The sneaky bastard is clearly preparing himself a soft landing in case someone kicks him off the perch he climbed onto."
I chuckled, and the respirator mask I'd long since stopped noticing answered with a low hiss.
"Good work, as always. A politician, a coward, a thief, and a pragmatist… People like that are much easier to control—and predict—than someone like Dooku. If we squeeze him properly, he might become our unwilling… 'sponsor,' as you put it."
"There's one problem," Elara said, crunching loudly on her burnt toast. "Finding Aurelius isn't easy. He usually hides out at his private villa, and nobody knows where it is. As much as it pains me to admit it, my skills aren't enough to track him down… But there's good news! He'll be at the Confederacy History Museum tonight. Charity gala with the local high society… ugh. All that disgusting small talk and social etiquette—you get the idea. Anyway, if you just barge in there waving your sword around, tomorrow every holo‑channel from Coruscant to Tatooine will be screaming about it. Pfidfyotsya fto‑tfo dymatf," she added, biting down on the last piece of toast, stretching her arms, cracking her spine, and finishing the ritual with a relieved sigh.
"So the 'kick down the door and threaten everyone' plan is off the table… Shame. Kem would've loved a good fight." I looked down at my hands, encased in armored gauntlets—and suddenly an idea struck me. I'd been reminiscing about Earth and my past the night before, so I was in a nostalgic yet oddly upbeat mood.
"You know the secret behind stage magicians? No, they don't have the Force like Jedi—they just prepare extremely well. I remember reading a book about it… I'm no Klein, but we can give them a proper show, don't you think? Can you set up a 'blind spot' in the museum's cameras?" I asked, grinning in unusually high spirits.
"You wound me, boss. I'm already 'there'… By the way, who's Klein?"
"Well, that's not something you explain in two words. Oh, right. If you ever see a man with a monocle on his right eye—run. Ah, no, that won't help… Fine, I'll start from the beginning. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a planet called…" I began weaving the fog of mystery, already anticipating a very condensed retelling of a rather good book. What? Someone has to introduce these local savages to high art.
XXXXXXXXXXX
Interlude
The old Star Wanderer‑class cargo transport shuddered as its engines shifted to subsonic speed in Raxus's atmosphere.
Anakin Skywalker sat on a crate of spare parts, methodically checking the joints of his prosthetic. His movements were sharp, almost twitchy—an open reflection of his mood before the mission. Obi‑Wan, standing by the viewport, could see in the reflection how his apprentice's fingers clenched into a fist so tightly the metal gave a faint, strained creak.
"Anakin, calm yourself. I can feel your impatience in the Force even from here. It's unacceptable," the Jedi said gently, without turning. "If there's anyone on the planet capable of sensing the Force, they'll detect us before we even step off the ramp."
"I can feel him, Master," Anakin growled, lifting his gaze. The blue lights of the control panel flickered in his eyes. "That stench… Darkness mixed with something else… And it's everywhere here. On Mandalore I let him go because we were playing by the rules, but this time I won't let him win!"
"But the rules are what separate us from the Sith, aren't they, Master?" Ahsoka remarked with a hint of irony. She sat cross‑legged in the corner, looking composed, though her montrals twitched slightly, picking up her teacher's unease. "Still, I agree with you on one thing—this place feels… wrong. Too calm for the capital of the Confederacy."
"That calm is deceptive," Obi‑Wan finally turned. His face looked tired. "Our objective is capture. Not your personal duel, and certainly not revenge. Understood, Anakin? We need to learn how Dooku found this 'Relic' and how many more like him he has tucked away. The commando squad is already in position on the lower levels."
Anakin rose, and for a moment the Force around him seemed to thicken, becoming a heavy pressure. "The intel they sent us… It says 'our' Sith will be at the History Museum tonight. It feels too much like a trap."
"Perhaps," Kenobi nodded. "As always, isn't it? The only way to learn the truth is to walk into it—and survive. Try not to draw attention. According to our cover, we're simple technicians sent to repair the climate control systems."
Skywalker smirked, adjusting the collar of the worn jumpsuit that barely hid the hilt of his lightsaber. "Technicians? Again? Obi‑Wan, you really need to work on our cover stories. Last time we were exposed in five minutes because of your 'too proper' accent."
"This time I'll stay silent," Kenobi promised as the ship touched down on the landing platform with a dull thud. "And I suggest you do the same."
End of Intrlude
XXXXXXXXX
The Confederacy History Museum was a monumental structure of polished black granite and transparent steel. Inside, everything was bathed in soft golden light, and between the exhibits—from the earliest models of cargo‑loader droids to fragments of Republic cruisers—the "elite" of Confederate society strolled at a leisurely pace. Exotic fabrics, precious stones, the scent of expensive wines—this was how the building greeted its guests. It was worth noting, however, that aside from staff, technicians, and security, only the wealthiest and most influential individuals were ever allowed inside. A strange model for a museum, perhaps, but the place had long since become a private gathering spot "for insiders," especially after Nute Gunray bought it.
I stood on the second‑tier balcony, hidden in the shadow of a massive statue of some Techno Union figure. My usual attire—crimson half‑coat, armor, and respirator—remained in my quarters. For this mission, I wore a long, heavy cloak concealing a flawless black tailcoat, and a white mask to complete the image. And yes, it was that mask—the Guy Fawkes one. I doubted anyone here would understand the meme, but I couldn't resist. Getting inside had been far easier than expected: the entrance was guarded only by droids, and the human attendants performing checks needed nothing more than a small dose of old‑fashioned mind‑trickery to hand me an honorary guest pass like the rest of the wealthy patrons.
And if everything went sideways—if I failed to negotiate or extract funds, and Dooku learned about my little freelance operation—the mission would simply be reclassified as another "punitive action" against bankers embezzling Confederacy funds. We even prepared evidence, though I doubted the Count was unaware of their crimes if even we managed to dig them up.
"Target at three o'clock," Elara's voice crackled in my earpiece, and I immediately adjusted my course. "Baron Aurelius just finished exchanging pleasantries with a Trade Federation representative and is heading to the Hall of Great Achievements. It's empty right now—I locked the doors for everyone else under the pretext of a 'technical malfunction.' You've got three minutes."
I dropped silently from the balcony, landing on a soft carpet. The Force responded with its familiar cold tingle, but this time I wove it around myself, creating a thin illusionary shell of suggestion and refracted light. First rule of a stage magician: make the audience look the wrong way.
Baron Aurelius stood before a display case, examining some ancient info‑crystal, looking disgustingly self‑satisfied. Or so Elara told me over the comms—she was watching the "performance" and had enjoyed my earlier stories enough to personally find the artisan who crafted my mask.
Walking through the hall, I made my footsteps echo strangely, as if they came from every direction. Of course, the trick worked only on one mind.
"I asked not to be disturbed," Aurelius said without looking at me. "If this is business, leave the report with my assistant."
"Reports, reports… how petty and dull, Baron," I said, my voice distorted by the special vocoder built into the mask, making him flinch. "I'm here to discuss your accounts on Nal Hutta. The ones that will greatly upset Dooku if he were to… suddenly learn about them."
Aurelius spun around, and upon seeing me—a tall man in a tailcoat and a strange black‑and‑white Guy Fawkes mask—froze. His olive‑toned face turned ashen gray.
"Who… who are you? Guards!"
He reached for his comlink, but I snapped my fingers. His arm halted mid‑air as if hitting an invisible wall. I used the Force to lock his joints like a marionette—an idea Elara had suggested, surprisingly imaginative as always.
"Shh…" I pressed a gloved finger to the mask's lips. "The first act has only begun. We're here to discuss your generous investments in… the future. Let's call it a 'luck tax.' Your Nal Hutta accounts make an excellent insurance policy, but tonight, I am your insurance agent."
At that moment, my Force‑sense exploded. Light—blinding, furious, painfully familiar.
Anakin!?
"Damn it," I hissed under the mask. "Elara! You said I had time! Why are there Jedi here!?"
"Boss, I… I don't know!" her panicked voice shot back. "There are three of them! Oh, what barbarism—they just sliced through and kicked down the service entrance door!"
I glanced at Aurelius. He was trembling, eyes wide with terror.
"Baron, it seems we have additional spectators," I said with a theatrical half‑bow. "Kem! Cover my flank if things go south!"
A deep, pleased growl from a nearby shadow confirmed the dashiid's readiness. And I—already fully in character—didn't bother hiding. Instead, I swept my cloak aside and used the Force to extinguish every lamp in the hall except one—the one hanging directly above the center, creating a perfect stage spotlight.
The doors exploded into splinters. Through the cloud of dust and sparks stepped a silhouette with a blue blade. Anakin Skywalker—and oh, he was furious. Behind him, more restrained but no less dangerous, came Obi‑Wan Kenobi, with Ahsoka following close behind. The legendary trio, all together… But how did they find me? I'd masked myself in the Force, wore a disguise… What nonsense was this? And once they realized who the guests here were, they'd be hunted across the galaxy. Honestly—not my problem.
"You!" Skywalker spat, stepping into the circle of light. "This time you won't hide behind politicians!"
I stood ten paces away, leaning casually on a cane I had "borrowed" from a nearby pedestal.
"Good evening, Jedi," my voice boomed through the hall, amplified by the Force and the mask. "Delightful to see the Council finally allocate funds for tickets to my little show. Shame you missed the opening act… Someone was just about to make a donation."
"Drop your weapon and release the civilian," Obi‑Wan said, stepping forward, voice cold and steady. "You're surrounded."
"Surrounded?" I chuckled. "A true illusionist is never surrounded—he simply stands at the center of attention. Anakin, you look… tense. Did Mandalore leave such a bitter aftertaste?"
Skywalker lunged in a single explosive motion. His blue blade carved a downward arc toward my shoulder—at least he wasn't trying to kill me. Not yet.
But at the last moment, I used the technique I'd spent nearly all my free time mastering after the fight with Keiro—something I'd stolen from him, then refined through meditation with Exar Kun's holocrons: the Shadow Step. Not usable at close range, but with a second or two of preparation…
Just as Anakin's blade was about to touch my coat, I vanished. His strike cut only air—and a handful of crimson rose petals I'd tossed upward a heartbeat before shifting.
"First trick: disappearance," my voice echoed from the far end of the hall, atop a massive sarcophagus.
"Enough games!" Anakin spun, eyes blazing.
"Games? Oh no, Skywalker. This is called a performance. But you're terrible spectators—you missed the most important part."
I snapped my fingers again. A dull thud echoed from the far corridor—Elara's traps sealing the hall from security droids. But I also felt another detonation, weaker, somewhere outside. That was… not ours. Someone else had prepared this stage. Someone who lured the Jedi here with "intel" that I'd be alone with civilians—without mentioning that these civilians were some of the Confederacy's most important figures.
Damn it.
"You know the difference between you Jedi and me—the real magician?" I said, playing to the audience (none of the politicians had even thought to flee; they cowered behind displays instead). I slowly drew the hilt of my blade but didn't ignite it yet. "You believe you're in control. But that's an illusion. The world never stands still, and those who fail to adapt end up buried beneath its ruins."
"Obi‑Wan, you're the diplomat here, right? Tell me—what's the value of all the lives in this museum compared to your mission to eliminate me? According to my intel, while you're chasing me here, someone else is planting thermal detonators in the building's foundation… And it's definitely not me or my people."
I pressed the switch, and the orange‑black blade roared to life, humming with a low, vibrating growl. Once again, I reminded myself I really needed a spare saber for better cover. Next time I'd "borrow" one from Ventress—she had two anyway.
"And now…" I raised the blade theatrically, as if on a real stage. "Let's see who among us is better at flying—because that skill will decide who walks away from this."
The floor trembled beneath us, a subtle but unmistakable warning: my first performance had officially entered the stage of… catastrophe.
And that, as they say, is how dreams get crushed.
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Author's Note: In future chapters, whenever necessary, I'll probably stop using labels like "Interlude" and simply mark the shift with "***" before switching to another character's point of view. It gives me far more flexibility as a writer when it comes to delivering information, and I'm currently experimenting with this approach.
Also, a small reference popped into my head, and I added it without much hesitation. I don't think the fandoms overlap enough for most readers to catch it — it'll be a miracle if even half understand what it's about… On the other hand, Lord of the Mysteries recently got an anime adaptation, so I'm hoping at least a few people will recognize it.