Mandalore – Sundari Citadel, Central Forum
The hall was ancient, carved from gray stone and iron, its acoustics designed for ceremony, not war. Duchess Satine Kryze stood at the heart of the platform, her silhouette framed by the broken sunlight of Mandalore's storms. Her voice carried through the room—not with power, but with conviction.
"This war will not save us," she said. "It will only burn us again."
Above her, holoscreens displayed footage from the Outer Rim: clone battalions clashing with upgraded droid formations, Separatist fleets emerging from hyperspace deeper into Republic territory than ever before.
"I have seen what war brings. It hollowed our cities. It shattered our faith. It turned our ancestors into exiles on their own soil."
She looked to the crowd—some attentive, some scornful. Few still believed in the New Mandalore she had tried to build.
"There is no victory in joining this madness. No future in blood. Only fire."
Silence.
Then a voice from the assembly floor: gravel-edged, bitter.
"We already burn, Duchess."
A thousand holoprojectors flickered alive across the room, showing images not from Republic sources—but from within: training camps deep in the Sundari Wastes, where clan warriors drilled with MJOLNIR-style commando armor, outfitted by unseen hands. Serion's armor. His doctrine.
And his influence.
"The clans have risen," said the speaker. "We no longer take orders from pacifists. Not while the galaxy makes weapons of us."
Cheers rose. Satine's breath caught.
She saw them: young Mandalorians, many barely adults, already field-tested under Serion's black-armored commandos—silent, brutal, precise. No banners. No pride. Just purpose.
The war drums of Mandalore had returned.
And they no longer listened to her.
Across Mandalorian Space – Hours Later
The signal came like a pulse through the stars:
"To all clans. All blood. Return."
Ships launched from hidden hangars. Old allegiances were unearthed. Mercenaries vanished from Rim contracts. Entire systems darkened their transponders and vanished into hyperspace.
Mandalore had called.
And the Mandalorians answered.
Coruscant – Strategic Response Command, Military Spire
Admirals, Jedi generals, and war analysts gathered in grim silence around the tactical table.
Chancellor Palpatine stood in the shadows of the upper gallery, watching without comment.
A fleet officer gestured at the map, which now showed four Core World incursions, three of them conducted by droid forces not of known Separatist origin.
"They're using something new. Something smarter."
"Confirmed contact with unknown infantry units—humanoid, but enhanced. Possibly Mandalorian."
Mace Windu stepped forward. "The armor they wear—our scouts report neural interfacing. Feedback resistance. Tactical coordination beyond standard Mandalorian doctrine."
An aide hesitated. "How? That kind of tech doesn't exist on their world."
Palpatine finally spoke.
"It does now."
Silence. Then—
"We strike back," Windu said. "Hard. Before they gain more territory."
Palpatine's eyes glinted.
"Permission granted."
He didn't mention Serion.
He never did.
Zereth Prime – Inner Sanctum
Serion stood before the activation chamber as Harbinger Units flanked the walkways. Their mirrored visors reflected the faint pulse of the Seed lattice buried within the structure—now fully integrated.
A Mandalorian representative, visor half-lowered, knelt before him.
"The clans rally, my lord. The armor you gave us... has returned our pride."
"Not pride," Serion said. "Purpose."
The Mandalorian hesitated. "And the Republic?"
Serion looked skyward, through layered forcefields and steel. "Let them scream."
Zelon – Deep Core Ruin
Master Yoda's ship touched down on the blackened cliffs of Zelon, a world lost to history, scarred by time and war. The planet held no strategic value. No settlement. Only ruins.
And voices.
Old ones.
Yoda moved alone through the shattered pathways of an ancient citadel, long buried in Jedi records and sealed by Order decree. Even the Council had stopped speaking of Zelon generations ago. The Force here didn't flow—it echoed.
At the center of the ruin, he knelt.
And the visions came.
Within the Force
He stood in darkness.
But it was not empty.
A great forge rose before him—not physical, but shaped by memory. Flames of thought. Machines built from emotion. And in the center:
A child.
Not Serion. Not yet. But broken.
Not born, but made.
Yoda saw hands—Rakata, twisted by time—designing him in secret. A living experiment. A vessel for power that even the Force tried to reject.
He saw him grow—alone, hated, hidden—until he learned to command.
Not just machines.
But meaning.
He saw Serion walk through history, unseen.
He saw him whisper in Dooku's ear. Feed Palpatine's fears. Twist the war through shadows.
He saw the future:
A world split between silence and screams. Jedi consumed by logic machines. A final Seed—buried in something not alive, not dead.
A mirror that devoured truth.
And through it all—Serion stood.
Unmoving.
Unbent.
Yoda gasped—pulled back by the Force, sweat beading on his brow.
"No Sith, is he…"
"No Jedi…"
"But something we let grow."
He looked up at the red sky.
"Too late, are we."
Outer Rim – Vanqor Shipyards
Grievous struck again.
This time, he didn't even wait for retreat. He unleashed Serion's newest droid models—compact, four-legged shock units with predictive combat AI. Jedi fell. Troop carriers shattered before unloading. The shipyard's main reactor detonated as the droids turned the facility's power grid into a weapon.
The Republic had to abandon the sector.
A Jedi cruiser was lost with all hands.
Coruscant – Amidala's Balcony, Nightfall
Anakin stood in silence, cloak drawn tight.
"You heard?" he asked.
Padmé nodded. "The war's changed again."
"Not the war. The enemy."
He looked out over the lights, face unreadable.
"I couldn't stop them on Atrin. I didn't stop them on Gyndine. And now… they're here."
Padmé touched his arm.
"You're not alone in this."
"But I feel alone."
He turned to her.
"And every time I win... I feel further from myself."
She didn't speak.
He kissed her, then turned and walked into the dark.
Mandalore – The Deep Halls
The war chant began as embers over metal.
Clans gathered in armor, young and old, chanting in unity as commando instructors—Serion's operatives—walked among them like prophets. The MJOLNIR suits gleamed beneath torchlight. Weapons forged from designs older than Mandalore's current cities were distributed like relics.
No more neutrality.
No more pacifism.
The Mandalorians were at war.
Zereth Prime – Core Depths
Serion stood before the final Seed chamber.
Keshl's voice trembled with reverence.
"Fifth signal… awakening."
He placed a hand upon the crystalline door.
"Then the final shape approaches."