Public calls for full mobilization roared through the Core Worlds.
Palpatine convened his inner circle—not Senators, but the architects of the Republic war machine.
Kuat Drive Yards. Rendili Stardrive. Rothana Heavy Engineering. Techno Union defectors. Representatives of production dynasties and neutral systems loyal to profit alone. They gathered not in the halls of the Senate, but in a fortified bunker beneath the Defense Ministry, beyond even the Jedi's reach.
The holotable glowed blood-red, casting angular shadows on their faces as phase-tier schematics projected over galactic maps riddled with Separatist incursions and black-marked "anomalous loss" zones.
Palpatine stood at the head of the room, hands clasped behind his back. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
"We will double the output of capital ships," he said. "The Clone Army is only phase one. You will begin preparing for phase three."
A murmur swept the room.
"And phase two?" asked one of the defense barons—Rothan-born, cautious.
Palpatine's smile was thin.
"Already underway."
He let the silence hang.
Then, with a gesture, a new series of schematics bloomed to life above the table—advanced clone variants, sub-orbital carriers, modular dreadnought hulls, and Jedi-deployment walkers.
And something else: a blurred silhouette of an exosuit—labeled Redacted-OBX-Null Class.
"What is that?" Kuat's representative asked.
"A tactical exo-chassis. Jedi-compatible. In prototype. It will remain off-record."
He didn't speak the word MJOLNIR, or mention Serion, or the Mandalorians field-testing the armor on unlisted worlds. Not yet.
"I expect convergence," Palpatine said, voice cool. "There are... things beneath the Separatist war. Forces that wear masks. The Jedi believe they fight darkness. But I have seen what lies beyond the shadows."
Not one in the room disagreed.
None dared.
The next morning, the Senate chambers erupted.
Dozens of systems called for action, not diplomacy. The failed peace summit—sabotaged before it began—was all the proof they needed.
"The Jedi failed to protect the envoy!"
"The Separatists attacked under the guise of truce!"
"The Republic should strike preemptively!"
Amid the thunder, Chancellor Palpatine raised a hand. The uproar fell away as if by command.
"We must not let grief blind us to resolve. The Republic's strength lies in unity. And unity requires action."
More cheers. More approval. Even systems once hesitant joined the call for escalation.
In the gallery above, Senator Padmé Amidala sat in silence, arms crossed. At her side, Bail Organa watched grimly.
"He's tightened the chamber," Bail said. "Even neutral delegates cheer. No one wants to be the next target."
Padmé's eyes didn't move from the floor. "They never stood a chance. That summit was never meant to succeed."
Bail turned to her. "You think it was a trap?"
"I think someone wants this war to last forever."
She didn't say who. But the thought burned in her mind—Sidious, or someone worse.
She remembered the encounter on Tatooine. The phantom she hadn't seen, but felt. A presence that moved with Jedi discipline, but wielded something else. Something colder.
In a dim hangar on Serenno, Count Dooku stood before the Separatist Council. Projections of the latest battles hung above them—Jedi falling in Jabiim, Republic fleets pushed back in three sectors, and reports of new droid classes outperforming even the ARC troopers.
"The Jedi are wavering," Dooku said. "Our enemies fight shadows they cannot name. Their knights fall. Their fleets fracture."
Nute Gunray frowned. "But our forces have not accounted for all these victories."
Dooku's eyes narrowed. "No. Because some victories… were not ours to win."
He switched the display—showing grainy footage: Mandalorian silhouettes moving through ash-covered ruins, wielding exo-suits the Republic had never fielded. Vessels that emitted no readable energy. A single frame of a Seed pulsing behind shattered walls.
"A new factor has entered the war," Dooku said. "But they are not enemies. They are… allies. For now."
The Council stirred, uneasy.
Wat Tambor growled. "You trust this phantom?"
"I trust his results," Dooku answered. "And I know better than to oppose what I do not understand."
That same day, the Peace Faction met in secret.
Padmé, Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, and Riyo Chuchi sat in an abandoned office beneath the Senate tower.
"Entire systems are vanishing from the map," Mon Mothma said. "Refugees claim black ships appear out of nowhere. No banners. No orders. Just destruction."
Padmé looked down. "And no one is asking the right question: Who else is fighting this war?"
Bail spoke softly. "I've heard whispers. Cloaked vessels. Weapons that make Jedi collapse before striking. The Force… twisted."
A long silence.
"What if this isn't a war between two sides?" Padmé asked. "What if there's a third one—older, hidden, and waiting?"
Far across the galaxy, Serion stood before the third Seed, newly recovered and pulsing within its stasis field.
Three of seven.
Each one awakened new layers of Keshl, the Overseer AI now integrated across the Void Forge. The Seed's data fed into machines faster than organic minds could comprehend.
"The Republic escalates," Keshl reported. "The war accelerates as predicted."
Serion turned to Taliya Marr, who stood watching silently.
"And the Jedi?" he asked.
"Suspicious," Keshl replied. "But blind."
He gestured toward the forge's deeper vaults.
"Then it's time we begin shaping what comes next."