LORD HEUSMAN'S PERSONAL QUARTERS – BASTION
The room is cold. Silent. Lit only by the dim red glow of a suspended training holocron. I stand shirtless, my skin slick with sweat, old scars burning across my body like ancient Sith runes, which, to be honest, was probably his intention. Only a loose pair of trousers clings to me — the rest exposed.
I've been at this for hours. Driving myself past exhaustion. Rebuilding my instincts from muscle to mind. Even with memories of the old routines — Korriban's punishing trials, Vader's brutal training — memory alone isn't enough. I needed to feel it again. To bleed for it again. To remember what it means to earn power through pain, and rebuild the fortress of my body from the ground up. Every strike is a promise. Every breath is a challenge.
As I weave through their fire, the turrets track me with live blaster rounds. Blasts kiss the air, sparks spraying as I pivot and deflect. Above, a holodroid flashes images — Jedi, clones. I don't blink. I strike.
It fits my body like a second skin—aggressive, powerful, relentless. Vader taught it to me. No, beat it into me. He hated that anyone else could use it as he once did. He would watch every motion with surgical precision, and the moment I slipped—too slow, too wide, too hesitant-he struck. Again. And again. Until my bones ached and my blood dried on the floor.
But in that fire, he taught me something else: that Form V is domination given form. It turns defence into a counterstrike. Turns your enemy's offence into their death. Where others dodge, I advance. Where others parry, I break.
Now, as I face the sabre droids, that training takes over. I don't just defend—I punish. Their strikes become openings, their aggression a liability. Every clash is answered with overwhelming force. Every mistake is shattered steel.
This form wasn't made for elegance. It was made for conquest. For the glory of battle itself.
I hurl a weighted droid into the wall, spin, cut through another — my movements fluid, brutal.
The Dark Side coils tighter. Thick. Present. Watching me like a predator watches prey.
"There is only the Force," I mutter. "I will be its Master."
I deactivate my blade and step toward the mirror. Peeling away my custom-built oxygen deprivation mask, when you spend a lot of time with Vader, you learn a few things, including how to build stuff. I stare into the glass. Hair dishevelled. Skin pale. Eyes are simmering magma.
"I should feel guilty. I killed two who did me no wrong. I could've convinced them taken the time to explain my reasoning. But why didn't I? Why do I feel... nothing?" I drag my hands over my face, tired mentally.
The lights die. The cold washes in.
A voice coils into my mind:
"The weak will always be victims. The strong take what they want. The weak deserve to suffer."
Another joins it:
"The Sith'ari will be free of limits. The Sith'ari will destroy the Sith... and raise them stronger than ever."
I exhale sharply. My hands tremble.
"But I thought Bane… or Palpatine—"
A third voice answers — calm, intellectual, terrifying Plagueis.
"The Sith are powerful because we are not afraid to feel. We embrace joy. Despair. Hatred. Victory. We walk whatever path the Dark Side commands."
I stumble back.
"This is a test. A trial." My face twists into a snarl "You dare, you pull me into this Galaxy this world and throw another's memories into mine.
I drop to one knee. Meditate. Pull in my rage. My hate.
And then…
"I can feel your anger. It gives you focus. Makes you stronger."
FEAR.
"You have done well, my former apprentice. Now, First Brother… go and bring peace and security to your new Empire. Everything is going as I have foreseen."
I freeze. Not from exhaustion. From terror, the memories of the First Brother come rushing back in the pain, the laughter,r the torture.
The voice isn't a memory. It's him. But I killed him.
Master.
Old wounds tear open — the lightning, the commands, the cold smile. The throne room. The leash he held wraps around me once more, I nearly drop to my knees, old muscle memory coming into play.
I can still feel him through the force. I know it's him I would never forget what he felt like.
Not his body, though.
His will. His iron-clad will wrapped around me like a snake. Squeezing my soul.
I grip the broken window's edge. Force myself to breathe. But the fear... It's carved into me nearly 20 years of servitude of PAIN.
Even in death, Sidious still owns the stars. And he still owns me. His shadow still looms. His grip never loosened.
I am not free. Not yet.
I grit my teeth. Rage floods through me, but the fear remains.
The glass explodes. Wind howls. I drop to a knee.
And I say the words that anchor me:
"Peace is a lie.
There is only Passion.
Through Passion,
I gain Strength.
Through Strength, I gain Power.
Through Power, I gain Victory.
Through Victory, my chains are broken.
There is only the Force — and I am its master."
I rise.
My eyes burn in the mirror.
And I stare into myself and the force, and I smirk, it's not a happy smirk.
"I won't be a pawn no more. I am my own master. And when I've finished cleansing this galaxy... I will come for you."
I turn away from the shattered glass — my steps resolute. The Dark Side howls behind me in victory and pleasure.
I enter the sanctum — my private temple, which is a recent addition. I had my quarters from the Devastator emptied and brought here. Rows of armour stand waiting.
I lay my hands on the chestplate. Draw a breath. Reclaim myself.
Chest-plate. Gauntlets. Cloak.
Piece by piece, the ritual completes.
Last, the helmet. I lower it, and it seals with a hiss. My vision sharpens, bathed in crimson.
Aide (from outside): "My Lord, a priority transmission from Admiral Thaddeus is awaiting you in the war room. He wishes to speak with you via hololink."
LOCATION: CORRIDOR TO WAR ROOM – THE BASTION
POV: LORD HEUSMAN
The corridor feels longer than usual — not because of its length, but because of the weight I carry within. Each step feels like a reckoning, a silent reflection of the burdens I've chosen to shoulder — the plans I've set in motion, the enemies I've buried, the truths I dare not speak aloud.
The Bastion has changed since I seized it — no longer a relic of the old order, but the crucible of something sharp and brutal. The grand statues that once lined these halls were melted down and reforged into raw materials for the war effort. Honestly, it was like Palpatine wanted every palace to be drowning in decadence. I even found a few bars of beskar stashed away. Typical. I hate him. Every trace of his bloated ego has been burned or repurposed. If something can't serve, it dies. If something can't adapt, it breaks.
A sharp crunch echoes through the corridor as the Force bends to my anger, collapsing a segment of the wall plating without warning. I need too stop doing this, well it can be buffed out hopefully.
The banners of the old order were torn down, replaced by nothing but cold steel and calculated design. The décor speaks of silence, of order. Perhaps, when my empire is secure, something beautiful can return. I've always loved the arts — sculpture, composition, performance. Even in my past life, before all this. But for the moment, beauty must wait. Only function matters. Only victory matters.
My boots strike the polished floors in perfect rhythm — each step a countdown to judgment. Officers and aides scatter before me like leaves before a storm. Heads bow. Words die in their throats. I feel their fear trailing behind me like smoke. Some try to hide it. Most fail. Their fear nourishes me. Most Sith relished it. I understand why. Fear is the clearest form of truth. It cannot be faked.
The armour I wear was reforged on Mustafar — reborn in the crucible of the Dark Side. I remember the heat. The pain. The sound of steel breaking and being made whole again. Vader stood over me, watching. To call it a reward would have been generous. It was punishment. A lesson. Always a lesson. He was always angry — maybe at the Emperor, maybe at the galaxy. Maybe at himself. Either way, I bore the brunt of it. And I survived. Which means I was right to.
It was just before the Inquisitorius was purged, just before the Death Star was reduced to myth. This armour carries no titles, no ceremony — only function. Matte black plating, trimmed in subtle crimson circuitry. Light. Durable. Efficient. Engraved with only the Galactic Empire on the shoulder. The helmet seals me off from distraction — vision, sound, even breath. It lets me close my eyes without weakness. But it does not silence memory. Sometimes, it makes the memory louder.
Memories of Earth claw at the edges of my mind. Of real coffee. Not this caf substitute. I remember hearing about an old comic once — Han Solo crash-landing on Earth, he died, and Chewbacca became Bigfoot. I wonder now if that comic holds any tangibility, something to think upon and throw at an officer one day. Sometimes, I think about writing it down. Sometimes, I think about forgetting it altogether, but I will get real coffee.
The Force opens around me — and in it, I see the galaxy burning. It's not a vision. It's a certainty.
Warlords squabble over ruins. Petty fiefdoms rise and fall like smoke. Each pretends to rule. Each believes they're owed something. They measure their power in bodies and call it dominion.
They are wrong.
I do not fight them for control. I fight to clear the board. I fight to wipe the slate clean.
Because something worse is coming.
The Yuuzhan Vong.
Twenty-five years. Maybe less. If nothing changes, three hundred sixty-five trillion lives will vanish. Civilisations will shatter. Worlds will fall silent. The Force itself may scream.
I won't let that happen.
Everything I do — every conquest, every execution, every oath crushed beneath my heel — is a stone laid in the foundation of survival. That survival happens to benefit me. As it should. I am no martyr. I am no hero.
I am Sith. I want the throne. I want power. I want the galaxy to witness me — to kneel. I want them to remember my name in awe and fear.
But that doesn't make the threat any less real.
WAR ROOM – THE BASTION
POV: LORD HEUSMAN
The reinforced doors of the war room hiss open as I step inside, my boots striking the durasteel floor in slow, deliberate strides. My cloak flows behind me like a liquid shadow, whispering across the surface. The air shifts the moment I enter. Officers straighten, commanders lock their gazes forward. The atmosphere is no longer one of routine — it is one of reverence. Of fear. Of anticipation. The distinction between these emotions matters little to me. What matters is that they feel.
Above the circular table, flickering holograms cast cold light across the chamber — scans of Ord Mantell's atmosphere, its orbital defences, troop deployments, and intercepted transmissions. Static bursts and lines of data shift across the display. It's a familiar mess. A familiar challenge.
My war council surrounds the projection, arranged like figures in a play rehearsing their final act. Some earned their place through fire and blood. Others clawed their way upward from the chaos of the battle of Endor, emerging from shattered systems still gasping for order. Zsinj remains loyal in name, for now. But he has pulled away from Ord Mantell. What remains is a garrison left to rot, and a former enforcer who's crowned himself king.
They stand before me not as equals, but as witnesses. Their loyalty is held not by dreams, but by the shadow of my will. The lights dim further. The central holoprojector activates with a low hum.
The image of Admiral Thaddeus flickers into place — a flickering spectre above the table. He speaks from the Harbinger, his voice crisp despite the distance.
"My Lord," he says, bowing. "Ord Mantell's garrison has been overrun. Vanko's forces, remnants of the garrison Zsinj left behind, have seized planetary control. He's rallied criminal syndicates and splinter cells under his banner. He's issued a transmission. Addressed to you directly."
He gestures. The image distorts and then refocuses.
Warlord Vanko.
Swollen with arrogance and layered in ill-fitting ceremonial armour. Slouched on a repurposed throne, he exudes the kind of rot that comes from within. His voice is as theatrical as it is hollow.
"To the so-called First Brother… the Inquisitor the galaxy forgot. I don't know what game you're playing — hiding behind masks and recycled titles — but you're no Vader. You strut around cloaked in shadows, thinking fear alone will see you through. There is no Empire anymore. Just ashes and scavengers. Ord Mantell is mine now. And if you want it, I'll torch it myself before bowing to a relic."
The recording ends.
The silence that follows is thick, not with uncertainty, but reverence. It is the stillness before a storm. The kind of silence that crackles with consequence.
I take one step forward. The tactical holomap flickers across the edge of my visor.
"His arrogance will be his downfall. It is time for the galaxy to remember me."
The words strike like thunder.
"Order the Devastator to break from patrol and enter low orbit above the Bastion. I will be aboard within six hours. Not a second later. Then we deal with Ord Mantell."
Officers shift. One dares to inhale — to question, perhaps — then thinks better of it. His silence is his wisdom.
"Assemble a precision force. One hundred elite Death Troopers — Stormtroopers, armoured support. I want an overwhelming, targeted force. Let this planet be an example. I want the capital pacified — then the entire world — before its sun rises."
I turn, cape whispering against cold metal, and stride toward the massive viewport. The city outside glimmers. Not Coruscant — not yet — but still a monument of ambition. Golan platforms drift above. Old Clone Wars defence structures blink back to life. The Bastion will become my jewl within the rim.
"Let them think I am a myth. Let them whisper my name like an omen. But they will learn the truth."
LOCATION: HANGAR BAY – THE DEVASTATOR
POV: HANGAR COMMANDER
The hangar bay was silent.
Not out of error, but ritual.
When the First Brother arrived, there was no fanfare. No drums. No horns. Only the echo of his boots on durasteel, the hiss of hydraulics, and the steady thrum of a ship that had broken countless rebellions.
He emerged from the shuttle ramp like a shadow pulled from the void. The air thickened. Tech officers lowered their heads. Stormtroopers straightened by instinct. Even the servodroids moved slower, as if aware that something far more than steel had passed through.
His cloak rippled behind him, untouched by wind, and his visor gleamed like obsidian fire beneath the hangar lights. He did not speak. He did not need to. His presence said everything.
A lieutenant dropped to one knee. "My Lord, we—"
He raised a hand. The officer froze, mouth open, breath caught.
Then the First Brother moved past, and the room exhaled.
LOCATION: STRATEGIC BRIEFING ROOM – ABOARD THE DEVASTATOR
POV: LORD HEUSMAN
The chamber hums with energy as the Devastator sails into high orbit. Below us, Ord Mantell spins slowly — a polluted jewel of industry and syndicate rule. For now.
Around the table, officers in crisp white uniforms and polished plastoid sit in tense anticipation. A holomap of Ord Mantell glows in the centre — Vanko's fortress, troop zones, power grids, artillery nests, criminal gangs, and probable insurgent strongholds all marked.
I stand at the head, arms behind my back. The stormtrooper general flanks my left. The commander of the 23rd Armoured Cohort stands to my right. Tactical officers await orders.
"Vanko's forces are embedded across the capital. Civilian zones have been turned into makeshift shield generators and munitions caches," the stormtrooper general reports. "We anticipate resistance from both his garrison and criminal cells."
"He's turned them into martyrs," I reply coldly. "We will destroy them and grind their symbols into ash. Make the people hate Vanko for what follows."
I gesture to the map.
"Three coordinated strikes. Armour breaches from the eastern city limits — blast corridors through the slums. I want the 23rd rolling in under the cover of orbital disruption."
I turn to the fleet tactician.
"Before we begin the descent," I continue, "a final matter. Captain, report on orbital resistance."
A tactical officer steps forward, activating a secondary holomap showing the upper orbital layers of Ord Mantell. Several red icons pulse at the edge of the display.
"A Victory-class Star Destroyer, Vindicator, accompanied by three Arquitens light cruisers and assorted local picket ships. They've formed a defensive screen over the northern hemisphere — likely guarding Vanko's last tether to offworld support."
I nod once. "Break them."
A low murmur rolls through the table.
"The Devastator will lead the assault. Our forces will flank the Vindicator's screen with auxiliary gunboats and support ships. Target their engines — not destruction. If possible, disable one of the Arquitens intact. I want it boarded and seized. Let it serve as our new forward reconnaissance vessel. Cripple the Vindicator, and with it, their space command. If we can capture more, good. If not, destroy them. If we can't use them, then no one will."
I pause, then gesture toward the starfighter command.
"Five turbolaser volleys — at full power. Disable planetary defences and saturate the northern grid. Do not level the capital. Yet."
He nods sharply. "Yes, my Lord."
The stormtrooper captain, helmet under his arm, speaks next.
"We'll deploy from drop barges on the western ridgelines. Death Troopers lead. Suppression teams follow. Sector 3 must be cleared for our command node to establish."
"Good. Make them run. And when they run, we hunt."
The holomap shifts. I narrow my eyes on Vanko's fortress, nestled within a crater of repurposed industrial spires.
"I will land here. Personally."
The room hesitates.
The armoured commander bows his head. "Shall we escort you with the Titan?"
"No," I answer. "They must see me descend. Let them believe it's a ghost. A shadow. By the time they understand what's happening, it will already be over."
I let the silence hang.
"Begin planetary bombardment. Ready the dropships. We descend in one hour."
LOCATION: BRIDGE OF THE DEVASTATOR
POV: LORD HEUSMAN
The stars flash past the viewport as the Devastator plunges into battle. The Vindicator holds position above Ord Mantell's northern hemisphere, its flanking Arquitens-class cruisers adjusting their vectors with nervous precision. But it's too late for them to run.
"All batteries," I command, voice even. "Fire."
Green lances of turbolaser energy slice across space. One Arquitens turns too slow — its engines bloom white, then vanish into a spiralling explosion. The others scatter, already breaking formation. Panic.
"They were not ready," I murmur. "But they will learn."
The Devastator surges forward, accompanied by fast-attack gunboats and refitted support ships. Our gunners cripple the second Arquitens with precision fire — not a kill, but a message. Boarding parties, already prepared, latch onto her flanks with magnetic clamps. Within moments, stormtroopers breach.
"Report," I say.
"Boarding team en route to the bridge, my Lord. No resistance worth noting."
The Vindicator opens fire — too little, too late. Her forward shields collapse. The Devastator answers with a focused barrage. Hull breaches blossom like open wounds.
"Target her engines. Let her crawl."
Flames jet from her stern. She lists — crippled, adrift.
"Clean the field," I command. "Then begin atmospheric entry. I want Mantell trembling before I land."
LOCATION: VANKO'S STRONGHOLD – ORD MANTELLPOV: WARLORD VANKO
The bunker walls groan. Dust sifts from the ceiling. Somewhere deep above, something has exploded — again. Not one of the usual tremors from the city's unstable infrastructure. No, this was different. Sharper. Closer. Deliberate.
Vanko grips the edges of his command throne — an opulent seat looted from some noble estate, now surrounded by flickering holo-panels and sweating aides. His jowls quiver with each tremor. The air is hot and tight. Too many bodies in too little space. He curses the heat, the stink, the way his uniform sticks to his skin.
"Report!" he snaps.
"Sir—the Vindicator is gone. Engines disabled. Their Arquitens screen—one captured, the others destroyed."
He stares blankly. "What?"
Another officer speaks, voice tight. "My Lord… It's the Devastator. It came in under full power—nothing escaped. We lost contact with Fleet Command six minutes ago."
Vanko rises slowly, trying to appear composed. He adjusts his shoulder guard, already sliding out of place. He imagines how this all looked when he first took the city. The grand parades, the cheers of the gangs. Now it feels like a tomb.
"No… no, this is posturing. The Empire's broken. This 'First Brother' is just a ghost in someone else's armour."
A junior aide whispers: "They say he was once below Vader."
Vanko rounds on him. "Vader's dead! And this... this thing parades around like him! What does he think this is? A holodrama?"
The ground shakes again. This time, harder. Lights flicker. Panels crackle. Ceiling dust turns to falling chips of ferrocrete.
Vanko lowers into his throne again, muttering.
"Have the syndicates rallied?"
A grim nod. "Most of them, yes. But some are going dark. Word is spreading. The eastern quadrant is lost. Our forces are pulling back."
"Then silence it! Lock down all city comms. I want every gang loyal or buried by dawn. And someone get me eyes on the sky—"
A siren howls. The room flashes crimson. On the nearest screen, descending drop barges burn like falling comets. Troop signatures saturate the lower districts.
One figure stands atop a black-winged craft, arms folded, cape streaming in the wind. No words. Just presence. Dread.
Vanko's breath catches. "No. No, it can't be…"
He's heard the stories. Whispers from the Outer Rim. An enforcer who made governors vanish. A monster the Emperor sent when Vader was not needed.
And from somewhere deep in his gut, the first hint of a feeling he hadn't known since the academy on Coruscant when he saw the Emperor and Lord Vader:
Fear.
LOCATION: WESTERN OUTSKIRTS – ORD MANTELL SURFACE
POV: STORMTROOPER SERGEANT – 23RD ARMOURED COHORT
We hit the ground like thunder.
The western ridgeline is a mess of shattered duracrete and scorched mud. Smoke coils from impact craters as far as the eye can see. Drop barges hiss open, and stormtroopers pour into the chaos, shouting orders and establishing temporary cover as the first salvos land.
Above us, the sky is ablaze — crimson streaks of starfighters and flaming wreckage crisscrossing through grey cloud cover. The wreck of an Arquitens frigate burns in the upper atmosphere like a falling star. Anti-air batteries scream as our gunships peel low across the rooftops, launching precision missiles into reinforced gang towers.
"Push forward! Forward, damn you!" I yell, signalling our AT-ATs into a forward crawl. The earth trembles under each step. Walkers fire in staggered rhythm, levelling fortified barricades and sweeping through gang-supplied resistance nests. The ground is shaking so badly I can barely stand. One of our tanks shreds through a syndicate line with rotary cannons, while a second is hit by a shoulder-mounted ion launcher. The troopers inside don't even have time to scream before it's engulfed in fire.
Vanko's men and their syndicate scum hit hard — ambush tactics, improvised explosives, choke-point fire. They know the alleys and the tunnels. They use the city like a shield. But we have armour. We have coordination. And we have Him.
Word spreads fast — too fast. A dark figure has landed deeper in the city. They say he walks unharmed through blaster fire. That Death Troopers follow in silence. That the wind itself bends from him. Some of the newer men mutter prayers. Others stay quiet. I grip my rifle tightly and keep moving.
Shrapnel screams past as another building collapses — taking both Vanko scum and one of ours with it. Screams echo, and the smell of burning flesh hits us like a wall. A squad medic drags a wounded soldier behind cover, and a flamer unit torches the last of a resistance nest from behind a stack of containers.
We dig in beside a half-collapsed cantina turned bunker. Blaster bolts tear overhead, and a trooper to my left takes one to the neck — he doesn't scream. He just drops. I bark for cover, pulse pounding, ears ringing, the thunder of war crashing around us. But my eyes keep flicking to the east.
Because something is coming. And we all feel it now.
LOCATION: INNER WARDS – ORD MANTELL
POV: DEATH TROOPER 6
We breach the market courtyard with zero delay. Resistance minimal. Targets: syndicate foot soldiers, light infantry, fleeing civilians. All are threats. The First Brother gave no distinction. No mercy expected.
We clear entry points using flash charges and micro-thumpers. No warnings. No questions. Movement is priority — fluid, precise, unstoppable. Target acquisition cycles faster than breath.
My HUD maps three hostiles behind a shattered tram unit. A flash grenade arcs, followed by a precision burst. Their screams are brief. My partner, Beta-2, eliminates a fourth attempting to feign death. Our formation tightens, sweeping left.
Civilian movement logged. Non-combatants or disguised fighters — distinction is irrelevant. Command protocol 7.3: full compliance or immediate termination. We follow that protocol with efficiency.
The streets reek of cordite, blood, and smoke. Above, debris rains from orbit — the broken husks of loyalist vessels, shattered in the void. Burning wreckage carves across the skyline like hell-born comets, casting molten light over broken durasteel and twisted bodies.
We advance past a collapsed tower. One of Vanko's lieutenants stumbles into view — no uniform, just fear in his eyes. Beta-6 fires once. Centre mass. Clean kill.
We are the spear.
The First Brother is the storm.
And nothing stands in the storm's path.
LOCATION: INNER WARDS – ORD MANTELL
POV: LORD HEUSMAN
The dark side is a storm at my back.
With each step, the Force sings in fury. It hisses, tempts, and seduces. "Burn them. Cut them. No survivors."
And I do not resist it.
A syndicate mercenary opens fire — I raise a hand. His weapon twists, spine snaps, and he folds into the street like broken cloth.
"Advance," I command. Death Troopers move ahead, silent and swift. My blade activates — crimson light blooming like war incarnate.
We carve through the outer barricades. Their walls crumble, their lines scatter. My mind is ablaze with memory — Mustafar, pain, Vader's fist, and the quiet hiss of Palpatine's mockery. All of it forged me.
A child screams nearby. I do not flinch. Let the war scar them. Let them remember this day and never rise again.
The palace is closed now. I can sense Vanko — desperate, trembling. And beneath that, something purer:
Fear.
I welcome it.
The Force stirs in me like a tidal current, rising higher with each breath, each scream, each fracture of defiance beneath my boots. I step over the broken form of a gang leader — his vibroaxe still clutched in dead fingers — and the whispers grow louder.
"Strike deeper. Spill more. They are nothing."
The dark side does not lie to me. It does not flatter. It demands. It commands. And I obey, because in the heat of battle, I am more alive than any Emperor's court ever made me feel.
The flames from a nearby wreck flicker against my armour. Blood and soot stain the cracks. Around me, the Death Troopers carve a path through steel and sinew alike — efficient, silent, obedient. Yet even they pause when I move. Not out of fear, but reverence.
I feel the storm building. Not of weather, but of fate.
With every kill, I draw deeper into the well that Palpatine once kept me from. That Vader tried to beat into me. That the galaxy will soon kneel before.
And at its centre, one thought remains:
He will not live to see another dawn.
LOCATION: OUTER WALLS – VANKO'S PALACE – ORD MANTELL
POV: STORMTROOPER SERGEANT – FIRST PERSON
The city's on fire.
Not metaphorically. Not even categorically, historically, I mean actually on fire — smoke rising from a dozen impact zones, buildings split open, flames crawling up the sides of once-rich towers.
We came in heavy. Hundreds of us. Stormtroopers, Death Troopers, repulsor tanks, full armour columns. TIEs screamed overhead, hammering rooftops. AT-STs stalked the avenues like wolves. No shortage of firepower.
Didn't matter.
Vanko's gang had fortified every floor, every alley, every blind corner. They'd mined intersections, set ambushes in department stores and casinos, and turned half the civilians into meat shields. Urban warfare hell.
And we're still pushing.
Block by block. Wall by wall. House by house.
My platoon's on point. We've got three squads ahead, two flanking, one behind to mop up stragglers. We take a speeder garage — clear it with frags. Move across a plaza — get pinned by turret fire from a balcony. Return with a barrage. Smoke. Screams. Blood.
We lose some people. But we don't stop.
Because ahead of us walks him.
The Lord Inquisitor.
I don't know his name. I don't want to know. The rank is enough. He moves through the war like it's not even real. Cloak flowing in the dust. Steps measured. Unhurried. Like gravity moves for him.
He doesn't give orders. Doesn't carry a comm. Doesn't need to.
Troopers get out of his way without being told. Doors open. Fire bends. I saw a man die just from looking at him. A sniper, a smart shot, took aim from a high-rise. Didn't even pull the trigger. Just... dropped dead. Heart stopped. Med droid said it was like he'd been choked by a fist a kilometre wide.
Now we're close.
The palace rises ahead, black and brutal, half of it already collapsing under our artillery strikes. But the main gate still stands — thick durasteel, fused shut, scarred from hours of pounding.
I move up with the breach team. We plant the charge, set the timer, and pull back.
Then he lifts one hand.
No need for the detonator.
The Force moves.
And the gates begin to scream.
Metal tears like fabric. Steel curls in on itself. I feel it in my teeth. The breach team stumbles back, one of them puking in his helmet.
We came in with overwhelming force.
But he's what ends the war.
LOCATION: VANKO'S PALACE – ORD MANTELL
POV: LORD HEUSMAN
With but a flick of my hand, the blast doors creak and groan — their structure warping under the weight of the Force. With a roar of fire and tearing metal, they explode inward, ripped from their hinges in a storm of smoke and scorched steel.
Thick haze floods the throne room. Firelight flickers across fractured stone and broken marble. Bastardised banners of the Empire — vulgar red and gold — hang in ribbons from the scorched rafters.
I do not emerge at once.
The smoke coils into the chamber. Shapes move within it.
A squad of Vanko's stormtroopers fan out near the throne, weapons raised. There are nine of them — black-marked armour, custom paint, no insignia—bastard troopers, loyal to credits and delusions.
"Stand your ground!" one shouts.
No reply comes—only the faint hiss of leaking fuel and crackling flame.
Then —
A crimson blade flares to life within the smoke.
"Open fire!"
Blaster bolts flash through the fog. Some vanish mid-flight. Some rebound, redirected into skulls and throats. One trooper turns to flee and is yanked backwards, spine-first, into a pillar with a sickening crack.
I step forward at last, my lightsaber humming low. My free hand lifts, and with a single thought, the remaining soldiers rise into the air, their bodies contorting. The Force squeezes like a vice. One screams. Bones crack. Armour folds inward.
When they hit the floor, none rise.
The smoke thins.
The room is mine.
Ash crunches beneath my boots as I pass through the fallen. No one dares speak. No one dares breathe.
Vanko stands alone at the end of the hall. His absurd velvet throne looms behind him. Sweat beads down his scorched face. Two lieutenants flank him, visibly trembling.
He draws a blaster — it shakes in his grip.
"You think this makes you a god?" he growls. "You're no Vader. Just another thug in a mask."
I do not speak.
The air tightens.
I raise my hand.
The Force answers — silent, suffocating. His lieutenants rise, choking on nothing. Bones snap like brittle twigs. They drop to the stone, lifeless.
Vanko staggers back. His bravado vanishes.
"Wait—no, please—"
My lightsaber spins from my hand, cutting through smoke and silence. It finds his chest. He collapses, puppet-like.
I walk toward his body, retrieve the blade, and extinguish it. The Dark Side coils around me, a warm shroud.
The world burns behind me.
And I walk out alone.
LOCATION: VANKO'S PALACE – MAKESHIFT WAR ROOM
POV: LORD HEUSMAN
The throne is gone.
Vanko's palace is no longer a shrine to his vanity — it's a war room. The gilded banners are ash. The marble floor is cracked, streaked with blood and boot prints. The throne lies in ruins, cleared for a holotable casting tactical maps, fleet reports, and casualty lists in a pale glow.
I stand at the centre, hands behind my back. My cape barely stirs. Around me: stormtroopers, local enforcers, surviving armoured corps — all silent, moving like wraiths. No one speaks unless summoned.
A stormtrooper captain kneels.
"My Lord. Final resistance in the district has collapsed. Vanko's lieutenants were caught fleeing through the southern tunnels. The gang lords are under guard. The 412th reports twenty-seven dead, one hundred twelve wounded. All loyalist corpses accounted for. Civilian unrest remains low under curfew. Burial rites have begun."
I nod.
"See, they're honoured. Send compensation to the families. They bled for this banner."
He salutes. A junior officer steps forward — younger, datapad trembling in his grip.
"The New Territories have fallen in line. Randon, Karlinus, and the surrounding systems are under loyalist control. The old governors have been purged. Imperial officers now govern."
I wave a hand dismissively.
"Stability first. Install interim overseers where needed — military loyalists only. I'll deal with the titles later."
A hush falls as the holoprojector activates—a grainy blue image resolves — Admiral Thaddeus Drax, aboard one of our Victory-class patrol ships.
"My Lord," he says, saluting. "Pacification continues in the Northern Dependencies. Dathullan moons and Targra IV are secured. Resistance was heavier than projected, but losses are within an acceptable range. Civilian infrastructure is intact."
He switches feeds. A red glyph pulses over a system at the edge of the starmap.
"Bilbringi remains dark. No comms. No traffic. Yards are functional… but we don't know who controls them."
"Fleet assets?"
"Ten Imperial-class Star Destroyers, five Victory-class destroyers, 15 corvettes. Enough to pose a significant threat."
"Then we strike the brain, not the bulk," I say. "Precision assault. No delays."
"Understood, my Lord."
The feed cuts. Silence again — just the low hum of war machines being reassembled beneath our boots.
A red icon pulses in the holotable's corner — the execution report.
I press my palm to the console. Names unfold. Ranks. Crimes.
"Vanko's inner circle. Gang lords. Traitor officers. Executed. Today. In the same square where they hanged loyal men."
An officer asks quietly,
"Publicly?"
"Let them choke on the air they poisoned. Make it loud."
I turn to leave, but a pale communications officer steps into my path.
"My Lord… encrypted transmission. Routed through six channels. Origin: Corporate Sector Authority."
I stop.
"Who?"
"Grand Moff Ardus Kaine. He… requests an audience."
A pause.
Then I speak.
"Prepare a channel. I want to see him."