Somewhere deep within the building, another muffled explosion thundered, and the concrete slab above them split apart, collapsing so fast that even Anakin's Force‑enhanced reflexes barely gave him time to register what was happening. The next instant, the floor simply vanished beneath his feet, replaced by a yawning void. In the final second before the fall, Skywalker caught a glimpse of Obi‑Wan and Ahsoka leaping upward in perfect sync. They had no other choice: massive decorative statues and chunks of ceiling were tilting dangerously over the heads of terrified Confederate officials and bankers gathered in the main hall. As long as the Jedi remained above, holding back tons of stone from turning the "pride of the nation" into a layer of bloody paste, Anakin plummeted downward—never taking his eyes off his target.
The fall didn't last long, but adrenaline and the Force stretched each moment, giving him more than enough time to form a plan. He saw the masked man falling somewhere to his right, disturbingly calm, controlling his posture even in mid‑air. At last, Anakin's boots struck solid ground. He tucked into a roll, dispersing the impact with a short pulse of the Force.
The lower level greeted him with the choking stench of smoke and a cloud of dust that instantly triggered a dry cough. This place was likely a storage area for museum exhibits—abandoned, forgotten, filled with endless rows of heavy containers and stacks of spare parts for obsolete droid models. Anakin ignited his lightsaber, the blue blade humming as it sliced through the gray haze, illuminating the figure in the strange mask. The man stood several dozen meters away, casually adjusting the collar of his suit as if they were at a gala, not in a ruined basement.
"You have nowhere to run," Anakin said, his voice low and threatening, echoing off the concrete walls. "Surrender, and the Republic will give you a fair trial—if you live long enough to see it."
Brute let out a short, dry laugh.
"Run? Oh no, Jedi, I have no intention of running, though your interference has added a bit of chaos to my script. But don't worry—the performance is simply entering its second act. And believe me, this one will be far more educational for you."
He snapped his fingers theatrically—a gesture Anakin instantly recognized as misdirection. The real work was done through the Force. A moment later, old projectors and terminals behind Brute flickered to life. The space filled with dozens of holograms: recordings of corrupt deals, faces of murdered officials, and diagrams of financial flows formed a shimmering barrier between them. Skywalker lunged forward, intending to cut through the illusions and end this with a single decisive strike, but Brute refused to fight on the spot. He moved smoothly, almost blurred, and instead of blocking the blow, he dramatically shielded a civilian who had fallen down with them—whether by accident or design, Anakin didn't know, nor did he care. The man looked absolutely terrified of the Jedi.
"Stay back, Aurelius!" Brute shouted, his voice filled with such convincing alarm that even Anakin hesitated for a heartbeat. "This Jedi was sent by the Republic—to eliminate you, of course! But don't worry, I'll protect you."
"That's a lie!" Skywalker roared, bringing his blade down in a powerful overhead strike—when something unexpected happened.
The Sith used the Force, and Anakin braced for a push—but instead of the usual broad wave, Brute struck with a narrow, focused impulse aimed precisely under Skywalker's right shoulder blade. And though the enemy stood in front of him, the push somehow came from behind. A highly advanced trick, requiring immense control, and it pierced through Anakin's defenses, which weren't prepared for such precision.
Skywalker staggered forward, his breath catching for a moment. His blue blade sheared the lid off a nearby container, sending a shower of sparks flying. From the outside, it undoubtedly looked like an attempted execution—one from which the noble masked "protector" had just saved the helpless victim. Baron Aurelius, seeing the humming blade mere centimeters from his face, stopped only by Brute's intervention, trembled even harder, cowering behind the Sith as if he were the only thing keeping him alive.
Regaining his footing, Anakin attacked again, and the duel resumed—but now Brute used the environment even more aggressively. The cane he still held in his left hand suddenly emitted a blinding flash, momentarily stunning the Jedi. At the same time, distorted laughter echoed from several terminals at once, creating a sound illusion that forced Anakin to whip his head around, searching for the Sith who had slipped into the shadows for a heartbeat. In the heat of battle, desperate to corner his elusive opponent, Skywalker failed to notice that one of his swings toppled a heavy statue, which crashed to the floor barely a meter from the Baron, nearly crushing his legs.
"See?" Brute immediately seized the moment, pointing at the rubble with the tip of his blade. "What more proof do you need?"
Anakin's patience finally snapped. He tried to explain, to shout that they were here only to capture Brute—but every movement he made, every powerful, anger‑filled strike, only reinforced the Sith's narrative in Aurelius's terrified eyes. Brute, meanwhile, maintained the perfect image of the "lesser evil"—calm, polite, almost protective, even in the middle of a duel.
Then, with a metallic screech, the hangar doors at the far end of the hall slid open, and ranks of B1 battle droids marched in. The tin cans assessed the situation instantly and, without wasting time on useless commands like "Drop your weapon and surrender," unleashed a barrage of blaster fire at the clearly visible target—the Jedi. Anakin was forced into a defensive stance, deflecting bolts and fighting on two fronts at once.
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While Skywalker carved through the droids, turning them into a growing heap of twisted metal, Brute made his move. He leaned close to the Baron's ear, ignoring the blaster bolts hissing past, and spoke in a soft, coaxing tone.
"Look at him, Aurelius. A true berserker, hungry for blood. If you stay here—and if by some miracle you aren't killed on the spot—the Jedi will hand you over to a Republic tribunal, where you'll be strangled in your cell before the first hearing. I, on the other hand, offer you… let's see… how about a partnership? A real, honest partnership, and your rightful place in my coming new order."
Naturally, Aurelius—driven entirely by survival instinct—could respond with nothing but agreement. He nodded so violently it looked painful, stammering, "Yes… yes, of course!" several times for good measure. The Sith smiled faintly beneath the mask; the first act of his performance had ended, and the audience was now fully in his grasp.
At that moment, an earsplitting shriek of tearing metal echoed from above, and a massive figure crashed down onto the technical level, kicking up a storm of ancient dust. The impact alone sent deep cracks spiderwebbing across the concrete floor. Kem landed with a heavy thud, his hulking silhouette lit only by the blue glow of Skywalker's blade. Baron Aurelius lost the last remnants of his composure. The dashiid let out a guttural roar—more beast than man—and his predatory gaze locked immediately onto the banker, who pressed himself against the containers as if trying to merge with the metal.
"Don't be so frightened, Aurelius. This is merely our personal emergency evacuation service, arriving right on schedule," Brute said in an almost casual tone, his voice cutting through the blaster fire and the roar of battle.
Anakin tried to break through the living wall of B1 droids, which—following some hidden algorithm—kept throwing themselves under his blade, heedless of losses, piling the floor with their smoking parts. Skywalker saw the masked man give him a graceful salute with his cane, as though bidding farewell after a successful performance. The gesture ignited a fresh surge of fury in the Jedi, driving him into a sharp, aggressive strike.
The next moment, Kem—wasting no time on pleasantries—hoisted the heavy banker over his shoulder like a sack of grain and, with a single powerful leap, vanished into the dark opening of a previously unnoticed maintenance shaft. Brute followed, dissolving into the shadows, and Anakin—no longer paying attention to the blaster fire—charged after them, driven solely by the need to prevent the cursed Sith from escaping.
The chase quickly devolved into an exhausting sprint through a maze of service tunnels, thick with the smell of dampness, overheated cables, and stale coolant that stung the lungs with every breath. Skywalker followed the heavy pounding of the dashiid's steps and the occasional flicker of the black‑and‑white figure ahead, who used every turn and protrusion of the walls to stay out of direct reach. Anakin felt the distance shrinking, and his righteous—and definitely not Sith—anger gave his legs the speed needed for a final push.
At last, at the end of a long straight corridor, he saw the Sith's back. Brute had stopped beside a cluster of massive coolant distribution pipes, as if waiting for him.
"End of the show, Sith. Now you'll answer for everything!" Skywalker shouted, preparing to leap—ready to tackle his enemy and end this drawn‑out game.
Brute turned slowly, the dim emergency lighting casting a menacing shadow across his mask. He touched a hand to a control panel on the wall, and in the same instant, a pre‑planted charge detonated behind him—combining the force of a thermal grenade with the overpressure of liquid‑nitrogen tanks. The flash was blinding. The blast of freezing gas expanded violently, slamming into Anakin's chest like a physical hammer. The Jedi was thrown back a full ten meters, crashing into a metal bulkhead and losing all sense of orientation amid the thunder of collapsing structures.
When the ringing in his ears finally dulled, Skywalker pushed himself up, coughing violently as dust and coolant settled on his tongue with a metallic aftertaste. He reached out with his senses, searching for the enemy's presence—or even the Baron's lingering fear—but found only a cold, ringing emptiness devoid of life. Where Brute had stood was now an impassable mound of shattered ceiling plates and twisted pipes, hissing steam pouring from ruptured lines. To Anakin, there was only one logical conclusion: the deranged "magician" had miscalculated the blast and buried himself along with his hostage under tons of concrete, choosing death over defeat.
Behind him came hurried footsteps and the bright beams of flashlights cutting through the settling dust, illuminating the scale of destruction caused by the deliberate collapse. Obi‑Wan and Ahsoka arrived with a squad of clone commandos. Kenobi surveyed the wreckage and exhaled heavily, clipping his lightsaber back onto his belt with a mechanical click that marked the end of the operation's active phase.
"Looks like we're too late," he said grimly, his voice lacking its usual calm, mentor‑like steadiness. "The museum's security footage is already being broadcast across Raxus, and the Confederacy will undoubtedly frame this as the Jedi staging a massacre to eliminate the Banking Clan leadership. Not good… Though honestly, even if we'd done everything perfectly, they'd still twist it into something worse and blame us—and the entire Order—for whatever suits them."
Anakin wasn't listening. His attention was fixed on a small object lying at the edge of the blast zone, miraculously untouched by fire or debris. He stepped closer and picked up a rectangular piece of thick cardstock—a card depicting a jester cheerfully stepping into an abyss under the gaze of an unseen observer. On the back, written in elegant calligraphy, were the words: "The client pays for the performance. The bill will arrive later. Sincerely yours, T.B." Skywalker's fingers clenched so hard the paper tore beneath the pressure of his metal prosthetic.
"He's alive. I'm as certain of that as I am of standing in this tunnel," Anakin growled, watching the shredded pieces scatter across the floor with each heavy breath. "He planned all of this, Obi‑Wan. He didn't die under that collapse—he just made us think he did while he slipped away through a pre‑prepared exit."
Ahsoka, who had been studying her wrist terminal and analyzing residual signals in the sector, suddenly looked up, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Master, the situation might not be as hopeless as it looks—if we consider one technical detail that Brute clearly overlooked." She projected a hologram of the artifact the Sith had taken from the museum display. "The cane he grabbed and used as part of his act—it's an exhibit called the Navigator's Rod. Its specifications list an active identification beacon for ancient security systems. That beacon constantly emits a very low‑frequency signal, and our 'magician' won't be able to disable it. The device is embedded deep within the ancient metal and requires special access codes."
Anakin froze, feeling his helpless rage rapidly shifting into something else—genuine excitement, rekindling his drive to act. He looked at Obi‑Wan, who was already calculating the odds of a renewed pursuit, and slowly unclenched his fist, letting the remnants of the card fall into the grime at his feet.
"Without the Coruscant archive codes, he can't shut it off. Which means he'll broadcast his location to us," Ahsoka concluded, a faint but confident smile appearing on her face.
"Assuming it's not a trap…" Obi‑Wan cautioned, though he didn't sound entirely opposed.
Skywalker straightened, feeling his confidence return—replacing the sting of failure with the hunger for retribution.
"Move. Head to the evac sector, regroup with the clones. We need to get back to the ship and recalibrate the sensors immediately," Anakin ordered, his stride once again swift, predatory, purposeful. "We have a signal—and I intend to track down this 'performer' and rip off his mask before he has time to wash off his makeup and vanish into the galaxy."
They left the ruined museum behind as a crimson dawn rose over Raxus, painting the sky in ominous colors. The hunt continued—and this time, the Jedi held a trump card their opponent didn't even know existed.
Or so they believed.
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Inside the automated cargo hauler, the air smelled of old slag, cheap synthetic oil, and stale coolant still evaporating from my armor. The cramped container vibrated with the drone of the engines, every jolt echoing through the metal walls with a sharp, metallic rattle. I sat on a low crate, leaning my back against the ribbed paneling, listening to Kem Val's heavy, rasping breathing. The dashiid filled nearly half the available space, his massive frame swaying slightly with the movement of the bot, amber eyes fixed on the curled‑up figure in the corner.
Baron Aurelius was beginning to regain consciousness. He let out a muffled groan, twitched, and froze the moment his gaze landed on Kem's clawed hand resting on his knee. I reached up and unfastened the clasps of my mask. The cool, chemical‑tainted air of the basement felt cleaner than a mountain breeze after everything that had happened—especially since I'd been forced to wear the mask without climate control or a proper filter. I didn't remove it entirely, just shifted it aside enough for the Baron to see part of my face.
"Welcome back to the real world, Baron," I said dryly, my voice stripped of theatricality. I'd already decided to drop the persona—fun while it lasted, but enough was enough. "I trust your… relocation didn't cause too much discomfort."
Aurelius tried to speak, but only a hoarse rasp escaped his throat. His eyes darted between me and Kem, filled with a fear that was entirely reasonable under the circumstances. I activated a small datapad and held the display in front of him.
"Let's clarify the situation right away so we don't waste time on foolish questions," I said, scrolling through the files Elara had prepared. "You don't actually believe I saved you from the Jedi out of love for the Banking Clan, do you? If the answer is somehow 'yes,' allow me to disappoint you: these are copies of your transactions from the last three years. Fraud in the Confederacy fleet supply chain, hidden accounts on neutral worlds, and a few particularly unpleasant episodes of personal enrichment at the Confederacy's expense."
I paused, giving him time to absorb the numbers. His face turned a sickly gray.
"I wiped the main archives on Raxus before we blew the Banking Clan's vault under that 'museum,'" I continued, putting the datapad away. "Now the only surviving copy of this evidence is in my possession. But if this information reaches the Count… well, I don't need to explain how he deals with traitors, do I? And the Republic… you saw Skywalker yourself. He'd happily watch you rot in a Coruscant cell—assuming he didn't take your head off on the spot."
The Baron finally found his voice, though it trembled like a leaf in a storm.
"What… what do you want? If you work for Dooku, you should have delivered me to him."
"That's the point—my ambitions extend a bit further than playing the role of the Count's attack dog," I leaned forward, closing the distance. "It would be such a waste for someone as… interesting as you to end up in a morgue or in the darkest cell Dooku can throw you into. But if you were to… say, finance certain endeavors of mine and my associates, then… well, you understand."
Aurelius froze, processing the implications. He was smart enough to realize he had no way out. Refusal meant immediate death. Compliance… at least offered a chance.
"You will become my personal asset," I concluded, fully confident in his answer. "And I will ensure your safety and cover within the Confederacy—while you provide funding for my enterprise."
The Baron nodded slowly, understanding he had no choice left. Now we were bound by a shared secret and a shared threat—and in this galaxy, such bonds were often stronger than any oath.
The cargo bot jolted sharply and began to slow. We had reached the extraction point I'd designated earlier—a derelict repair hangar in the industrial sector, where our prepared transport awaited. Kem rose, hauling the Baron to his feet with a single pull, and without waiting for instructions, led him toward the exit.
I waited until they were gone, then activated a secure channel to Elara.
"Boss… online," she answered curtly. "Everything's ready."
"Good," I exhaled, feeling the exhaustion of the past hours finally catching up—but it wasn't time to relax yet.
"Elara, pack up everything you have on Raxus and wipe your logs. All of them. I know you people… you love keeping little stashes 'for a rainy day.' All objectives on this planet are complete. The only thing left is to present Aurelius to our other allies, and they'll keep an eye on him."
I looked down at my hands, still tingling faintly with the remnants of the Force I'd used in the fight. Manipulation, tricks, political games—this had all been preparation. I'd had my fun today, but the time for games was over. It was time to return to the truly important matters—and I already had one in mind. All that remained was to come up with an excuse for Dooku, but I had that covered. The Jedi's sudden appearance had helped immensely; my alibi would be airtight.
What I had planned for the future would sound insane to anyone—especially considering whom I had "recruited" (a generous term) as an ally long ago. And the fact that this individual still hadn't exposed me, still hadn't broken character, still played his role flawlessly… meant he was at least willing to give me a chance.
And that was all I needed.
Something inside me kept whispering: the harder it is, the better. And at this point… I was already invested.
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Author's Note: Regarding the end of the chapter — this isn't a retcon. I intentionally did not include one extremely important dialogue in the text, a conversation that, one could say, changes everything. However, so that it doesn't feel too sudden when the time comes, I'm giving a small piece of information about it now.