This is my story of the First Jedi Purge, a conflict of the Dark Wars, which came directly after the Sith Civil War (which followed the Jedi Civil War, a product of the Mandalorian Wars).

I changed the story up a bit. Instead of Katarr being a ruse to lure out Malak's assassins, it was the location of a convent, where the majority of the surviving Jedi hide. Then one of Star Wars most underrated villains does his thing.

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The war ended abruptly.

Revan – then Dark Lord, to some the Revanchist – had committed himself and whoever among the Jedi would follow him against the Mandalorian Neo-Crusaders, and in a year's time turned the tide of the Mandalorian War against its namesake. Their efforts came in time to face the Outer and Mid Rim's raped form, civilian populaces torn asunder, planets aflame. It was the product of years of unobstructed campaigning – or plundering, if you would - on the part of the Neo-Crusaders.

The Republic Army hadn't been ready to face the Mandalorians, but the Jedi had been.

Still, the Jedi chose not to intervene, which was what originally goaded Revan, his apprentice, and their cohorts to join the war as exiles. The council continued thusly as Revan's war effort turned dark. It wasn't long before Revan's group of fallen Jedi became a Sith order, and a counter offensive became a genocide.

Of all these things I'm sure you're aware. These are events you followed when they happened. But I think it necessary to commit a basis to the situation that followed the Mandalorian War's abrupt end. To explain, I could have said, 'our story began at Malachor V,' but that's simply fallacious. Without an understanding of Darth Revan's genocides, of his afflictions of wounds upon the force, there would be no understanding of what followed – or rather, what fled – the Mass Shadow's of the grave that was Malachor.

So the war ended abruptly, when Revan's general – the name of whom escapes me – set off the weapon that is now and once was the Mass Shadow Generator, a creator of gravitic anomalies, thereby bringing about the deaths of not only the Neo-Crusaders bulk force and much of Revan's present force, but the planet itself. And yes, this was at Malachor V.

In short order following his most recent genocide, Revan's Sith Empire collapsed. Without an organized enemy, the Sith consumed themselves, as Sith often do. These particular events aren't of prudence to the story following. You see, at this point, the death of Katarr had already been set in motion. Suffice it to say, regardless, Revan was lost and the Sith without order. Malak, Revan's apprentice and then, by his cause's nature, his betrayer, took command.

So we Jedi disbanded. Coruscant's temple stood abandoned. The majority of us - padawans, knights, masters – gathered on Katarr. And with our flight ended the Jedi order as it had been known for centuries preceding.

Permit me to now relay upon you my experiences in the events that are now called the Jedi Purge.

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Katarr was beautiful. It was green and open and alive, the force thick and cleansing to all of the senses. Our meager fleet arrived and the despair upon us, the Jedi host, quickly dissipated.

Even the buildings – I decided as we landed and disembarked – even the buildings were of a natural appearance. They were white and of stone and wood, flowing like the cities of Alderaan, intermingling with the forestry. I felt in our time there the wound on our psyches might heal.

Let me recount our number… It was I as a knight, perhaps twenty of equal rank but varied seniority, and in the realm of fifty padawans, as well. It might have been ten masters, but we weren't present long, and the masters spent little of that time with us.

The rest of the Jedi were fleeing Coruscant in every which way, as I understand it. You surely know more there than I.

We had a convent on Katarr, this you know. The masters – grimness and solemnity abound and in abundance – secluded themselves to the council chambers. Any other rank waited and rested.

I don't think it's fully relevant, but it had taken a great strength to keep oneself from joining Revan's force, years before. Some of our number were simply afraid of fighting or too conflicted to decide, but for the rest, a confidence in morality was necessary. We all hated the Neo-Crusaders, and seeing our brothers and sisters leaving to fight without us made it harder and harder.

This internal battle, compounded with lost friends, the questions of ethics and non-interference, and the pain of loss from the Malachor V genocide, put a strain on all of us. Some of the padawans, young as they were, wept, unable to cope with the despair inflicted by the sheer feeling of wrongness, the ever present pain of the force wounds.

You recognize that pain, don't you? I think all force users do, even those that weren't born when it happened. It wanes over time, but that directionless, throbbing ache, that hole you feel in the galaxy…

I'm sorry, I'm getting sidetracked.

We were left in waiting when it happened – and I'm still not entirely sure what it was. I can tell you, though, that if not for the split second decisions of Master Badab and Master Verken, not nearly as many would have survived. The whole Jedi order could have died there.

They, walking alone, separate from the council, sensed the danger coming and grabbed me and two padawans. They silenced our questions with thinly veiled panic and pulled us aboard one of the few landing craft in the hangar. We were off the planet with only seconds to spare.

Please don't regard my masters as cowardly. They knew it was the only way to protect the order, by fleeing. It was tragically unfortunate that there wasn't time to warn the others, that it didn't occur to them soon enough…

Regardless, when our ship hit high orbit above Katarr, we faced down the twenty vessel graveyard fleet that was lair to the Lord of Hunger.

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Silence and tension gripped the little transport as it flitted onwards, past clouds and out of the atmosphere. The silence persisted between the two in the cockpit as the massive black fleet dropping out of Hyper Space filled the viewport.

"Is that…?" Master Verken, a young male Quarren, gasped in disbelief. Master Badab, a female Zabrak of her waning years, nodded.

"Revan's fleet from Malachor," she murmured grimly, struggling to understand the sight. They had both been at Malachor, and seen these very ships be consumed whole by the grasp of gravity. The ships – warships, capitol ships, escorts – were dead, some barely void worthy, others obviously not. But they all fell into a tight blockade around the central ship as it proceeded to low anchor.

"Can we get around them?" Verken asked, astonished at the sight.

"Not if they make chase," Badab responded, voice falling as they both felt a similar feeling.

It was what had warned them down on Katarr. The aching pain of the soul, the sudden breathless agony and terror. They both knew it too well, from Malachor's death. Something terrible was aboard that ship.

"Alert the council, there might still be time," Badab ordered, hiding her panic.

As Verken made an attempt to force the communication equipment into compliance, a young Twi'lek boy by the name of Milo came upon the bridge.

"Masters Badab, what's…?" he stopped, his usually wily nature crushed by the sight of the dead fleet.

"Go back to the hold, with Vall," she ordered, whipping around to face the boy down. He retreated, terrified by the sight. Badab turned back to Verken. "Keep us out of firing range."

"We've been in this whole time," he said, confused, "they're not even trying to find a firing solution. Their guns are cold."

The final question went unspoken in the last seconds before the death of Katarr.

What was happening?

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Again, I'm not sure what happened next. I was in the hold below with the padawans Milo and Kira, a human girl, watching through a small window down to the planet as we all sat in silence.

Despair took us, but it was more debilitating than any pain I had ever felt before. All of a sudden, and for a time following, millions of lives cried out in pain and fear.

Perhaps it was clearer from the surface. But from where I sat, it appeared that the planet's atmosphere swirled for a moment, and then the whole area disappeared from the force. We were all blind and mewling, but I could see the oceans evaporate, the environment ripping itself apart, cities and forests erupting into flame and smoke, mountains crumbling to be swallowed by shifting continents.

Everything died in a blur, as the surface of beautiful Katarr reshaped itself. The devastation – the horror – persisted for near an hour, until Katarr was no more than a ball of sand. Our masters saved us from certain death by mere seconds.

But still, I'm not entirely sure what had happened. Katarr was simply dead, and in our minds, so was the Jedi order.

And I don't remember the reactions of the two younglings as the horrid wound tore into us. I remember feeling empty and sick after a while, knowing everything below me had simply… died. it was all gone. It's something that pains me still.

… Were any of you at Malachor when it died? Do you know the omnipresence of death on your senses? It's different to have been there, understand that… I'm surprised the masters were even able to think straight as things progressed.

It was shortly after, amidst shocked silence and pained moans that our little shuttle shook itself for a second. It registered to me distantly, as Verken and Badab stumbled into the hold, lightsabers ready, that we had been taken into the tractor beam of the capitol ship.

I took my weapon up as well.