The dark cloaked man stepped inside the monolithic temple, glad to be out of the freezing winds of the ice world he had recently arrived at. He was not however glad to be out of the winds because he was cold, no his power burned in his soul that never left him cold. No, he was glad he was in the temple because at long last, after nine long years, he would be able to finish what he had started. After nine years, his vengeance would be complete.

The cloaked man looked around the entrance hall of the great temple, a temple he had come to call home all those years ago. How long had it been since he had first come to these great doors seeking power and strength? Thirteen, fourteen years? They had passed so quickly he could not, and did not wish to count them. As he stared around and the dimly lit chamber, he reflected on the past.

They all stared down at him, as he knelt before the master. Faces masked in the shadows of dark hoods, bodies lost in clouds of black cloaks. Living shadows, darkness incarnate. The master was seated on a sandstone throne in front of the kneeling teenager. Nothing was said. Silence filled the young man with anxiety, bordering on fear. No! He thought desperately, trying not to show his emotions from his supplicant position. I must not fear them! He opened his eyes and stared at the master, who in turn seemed to be staring at the boy, as far as he could tell.

"What do you seek?" The voice was barely a whisper, but seemed deafening in the great hall. The boy cleared his throat so that he might be heard.

"I seek power." He held his gaze on the master, fear no longer holding him.

"How shall you obtain this?" again, only a whisper.

"Through the teachings of your Order." He continued to stare.

"By what means are you willing to obtain this power?"

"All means." With every word, the boy felt stronger and stronger, he chided himself inwardly for being afraid.

"Complete devotion to the Order?" The whisper rose in volume on a fraction, but noticeable enough it was.

"Complete." That one word would set into motion a chain reaction of events that would change the boy's life forever. He could not be completely certain, but he was almost sure that the master had smiled.

"Prove yourself."

In the blink of an eye the boy was on his feet, and figures surrounding him backpedaled away, taking off their cloaks. The boy squared his footing, in a long forgotten combative position, he awaited the first move. The first black robed zealot jumped at him in a flying kick. Letting his hands and legs flow as one, he leapt into the air and spun his leg around to catch his attacker in the chest. He fell to the floor and shoved his foot backwards, catching the second combatant in the stomach. He spun his leg around, giving himself momentum and turned to face the new threat. Balling his fist, he slammed it into the side of the robed one's neck. He was rewarded with a satisfying crack as his victim hit the floor. He smiled wickedly and spun to face the rest of the group, hands in the combative pose.

"Well, well, well. You could prove to be very promising indeed." The whisper, though barely audible, violently shook the boy from his revere. He looked over at the hooded master, who was now standing up. He raised his hand and pointed down the corridor.

"You must rest now my son, for tomorrow begins your path to greatness."

He chuckled to himself as he walked on, gazing at the ancient stone statues of great masters long past, at the intricate sigils and characters engraved on every inch of the dark brown sandstone. They again brought him back to another memory. A memory that was the greatest moment in his life, yet the most painful. It stood as a testament to his undying loyalty to the laws and the teachings of the order. Of his complete devotion. He thought back to that day. To the fires. To the incense. To the smoke. To the pain. To the power.

He knelt before the cloaked assembly again, but this was different. Here was no longer a student. Now he would become a master. Eight years it had been since he came to the temple in search of his goal. Now he had it, but he wanted more and he knew the only way to attain his new found desire was to follow in the foot steps of those that had taught him. This was the first step. The true first step towards greatness, the first step towards a power that exceeded the great one he already held now. But such is the way of the order he thought, as he watched the hooded figures ready the branding irons and inking rods. Once you have want you want, you find something else to want. Such is the way of the order. Such is the nature of power.

The master stood before him in the same manner he had those many years ago, but this time, the soon to be master now sensed something different, pride. He could almost see the smile that his master, soon to be equal, wore on his face, if it were not for the shadowy hood that covered it.

He held his hands over the kneeling supplicant and looked directly into his eyes as he spoke.

"You are anger." He whispered. The first of the hooded ones stepped forward and seared an archaic sigil into his flesh. The pain was immense, yet strangely satisfying. But pain was not a new feeling to him. He and others of the order were taught to put such petty thoughts from their minds, and he did so now. He must focus on the ritual, must focus on himself, and his master. He must focus on the power.

"You are pain." Another searing bite from the brand, another sigil. Another mark of devotion. Complete devotion.

"You are hatred." The pain seemed to lessen, while the voice, still just a whisper, seemed to ring through out the chamber and in his skull.

"You are shadow." The voice rose again as the pain lessened with each tattoo, each symbol. He began to treat it just as an annoyance, yet focused on the words as if they were the only thing in the universe that mattered. They were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

"You are death." His tension greatened, the pain came back in full force now, searing and marring his skin. Complete devotion. He focused on the words now, the only things that mattered any more. Complete devotion. He had memorized the ritual long before this day, and now he was seconds away Devotion.

"You are power!" This time his master's voice was more than a whisper, yet not a shout. The final symbols and tattoos were being engraved now, they must cover his body to stand as a testament to his loyalty and teachings. All the hooded figures worked at once so that they might be done in time. Then, the master spoke the final words that would ensure the newly made master's power…

"You are Sith!"

That day still brought a smile to his face, even on a grim day such as this. He neared his objective now, as he came to the end of the entrance hall and neared the great doors to his former master's "throne room". As if the old man had any right to claim a throne of any sorts. He was too blind in his devotion to the order to see it then, but he know possessed the clarity of mind to understand that his former master had no right to retain his title as a Sith Lord. He was a disgrace to the society, to the order, to his students. A traitor to their teachings. But these were the least of his crimes and not why the man was here this night. No, his master had done something far worse than shame the Sith. He had betrayed his student.

The great iron doors were again inscribed with the same sigils and archaic symbols as the rest of the temple, and loomed above him. This barrier did not deter him in the slightest from his objective. He reached out with the Force, with his power and pushed the doors open slowly. As he entered his eyes swept in the familiar sight of the ancient audience hall, and took in all it had to offer.

It was quite as massive as the entrance hall, only a little more so. From its domed ceiling hung enormous chandeliers that effectively lit the entire chamber. Towards the back of the room there was a fairly large platform with steps leading up towards the obsidian stone throne of the temple master. And upon the chair of black rock sat the master of the temple, who now wore a look of shock that greatly pleased the man. Surrounding the platform must be his new students, ten of them at least and he felt their power through the Force. Oh yes, they had power, but not nearly the kind they would need if they hoped to confront him.

"Greetings my master, it is good to see you after these many years." He grinned as he removed his hood and strode slowly towards the shocked group of dark acolytes. His black hair was pulled back into a pony braid so as not to interfere with battle. His face bore many tattoos that were a mark not only of his rank and status, but of his devotion and power. His eyes however, were the most intimidating aspect of him. They were yellow rimmed with a deep black that seemed to pierce into the soul that one was given the impression and feeling of pain when they gazed upon you. This was the same feeling that the temple master felt now as he saw his past catching up with him.

"How…your supposed to be…" he stammered in a mixture of bewilderment and anger as he rose from his seat.

"Dead?" the man finished for him as he stopped his progression. His eyes flashed pure hatred at him.

"You never thought I'd be as powerful as I am now, or did you? Is that why you sold me out to those mercenaries? To those barbarians? Well, rest assured, you were wrong to send them. The first thing you ever taught me was that if a being wrongs you, return the blow ten fold. I am here to do just that. It has taken me nine years to find you again, and I will have satisfaction." With that he threw off his cloak, revealing his bare chest and bracered arms, as well as the hundreds of Sith symbols inscribed, inked and burned into his flesh. From the back of his belt he drew a long silver handle, and glaring pure venom at his former teacher, ignited both ends of the saber.

The acolytes seemed to know what must be done, for after all, it was expected of them to protect their master. He used to be a master the adorned warrior corrected himself as he sized up his opponents. Five of them looked to b no more than initiates, novices in who would soon not only be incapable of serving a master, but would find themselves without a master to serve. They stepped down from the platform, eager to do battle, eager to prove themselves worthy of the next level of mastery. Eager to die. The threw off their outer cloaks with a bravado and cockiness that the braided warrior would never have had in his days as a novice. This only convinced him more his master, former master, was going soft, one was killed in those days for acting without proper respect. They all took their light sabers from their belts and ignited them. Purple, two yellow, an orange, and only one with the true blades men's red saber. Well, he thought to himself, lets see if their courage has foundation. And with that, he reached out to the Force, and did not let it control him like a mindless Jedi, he seized control of it.

One of the yellow sabers slashed in a fury of attacks spinning round and round, in a loopy offensive gait, that the master Sith not only blocked with ease, but was sure to be followed up with acrobatics. The boy was trained in Ataro style. A wild style used for the brash and unfocused. A well suited description. Thrust, stab, slice, dodge, parry deflect dodge. Were all of the students so unrefined in their technique as this one?

In the blink of an eye, the master's prediction came true. The apprentice leapt into the air to flip over him. A mistake. At the apex of his opponent's flip, the tattooed warrior slashed a one handed strike with his saber staff and separated his adversary's torso from his legs. The master had not even time to hear the two thumps of the deceased hitting the ground before the purple and orange were attacking him at once.

Purple slashed to his throat as orange tried to hamstring him. They showed more skill than their previous ally. They seemed to adepts in Dejm- So, a nearly complete offensive style. Aggressive to the utmost and deadly at the least, it had a major flaw if the duelist was not a master, it left you open to attack. He would take them on the next flurry of attack.

Purple charged at him intent on a vicious stab to the chest which was apparent five steps ago when he began to show signs of becoming unfocused. To live, you must stay focused. The Sith lord jumped over him as orange charged in at least ten paces behind his friend. There was ample time. Purple was still being carried forward by his thrust's momentum when his opponent landed behind him. It took one backwards stab of his saber to ensure he wouldn't see the light of day again. He closed his eyes and felt out with the Force to time his strike perfectly. He became one with his opponent. One with his weapon. One with the Force. Obviously enraged by his two fellow novice's quick deaths, orange swung his saber carelessly in a horizontal arc, intent on cutting his opponent in half. The master knelt to the floor so that the blade passed over his head with a foot to spare, turned off one end of his saber, and with a swift one handed Vaapad style swing, sliced his opponent's footing from under him. In a whirl of red color, he spun around and stood up as his legless opponent hit the floor and slammed the blade into his upper back. The body twitched once and then remained still. The master turned back to face the remaining novices, raw power and hatred shown in his eyes.

So sad that they would have to die. The remaining five stepped off of the platform, saber's ignited, death in their hands. This fight would be a sight more challenging. More focus would be required for this. He reached out with the force, and took control of it. He gripped it in his iron fist and bent it to his will. All else but his saber and enemy's faded to dust. Death became what he held in his hand and those five insipid "warriors" would soon taste it.

The first two charged him from the steps while the other three remained up on the dais, to protect their master. The Sith lord ducked the first horizontal swing, a novice move which ended the attackers life. His swing had carried him off balance. He was over confidant. All his over confidence brought him a savage upward thrust from the kneeling master's saber into his chest. He was weak. Weakness must not be tolerated. The Force pulsing through him, taught him this. He tore his weapon from the corpse and spun to face his next enemy who was in the same vein of attack as his clan mate. Another simple swing, this time over hand.

In one spinning motion, the Sith master withdrew his saber staff from the chest of the first combatant, and spun around into a kneeling position, and his weapon swung with him. The second combatant's two remaining haves split in half and thudded to the floor. Weakness. It angered him. His anger boiled inside him, the thread of the Force that he held throbbed in his grasped, eager to be free to deal death as its master wished. And so it shall, he thought. Enough of this charade, the game is over. He spun around from his kneeling position on the stone cold floor, and used his momentum to carry him into a standing position. While he did this, he used a sliver of the force to unlatch the special catch locks on his saber handle.

When his spin carried him fully around to face the sandstone dais once more, he twisted the staff handle, separating them into twin handles, blades still pulsing with harnessed energy. Now they will know my power, the power they could not even dream of. Focusing on this one act, he used nearly all of the Force energy he held to execute his master stroke.

With speed that defied comprehension, he hurled the two light sabers at the two Sith apprentices on the ends of the dais. Time slowed in his vision as they could not even register death hurtling towards them. Like a grotesque dream the weapons tore through their targets before they knew what happened. The Force flowed through the Sith lord as he gloried in his power, his might. The remains of the two adapts sped rapidly and slammed into the stone floor as time resumed its normal flow in the eyes of the avenger. Checkmate, he thought as the reached out with the Force once again.

The final trainee, shock distorting his face, cried out to his master to save him as he was lifted off his feet and held in the air. He was suddenly jerked forward and sped to the waiting grasp of the man that he had seen slaughter the rest of his adept brethren with complete ease. The last thing he saw was the gaping soulless void that lived behind those yellow and black eyes as his neck came to rest in the clutch of his killer.

A loud snap pervaded the air as the final Sith warrior was cast aside by the might of the tattooed avenger. The old master sat upon his throne and gazed at the man he had once called his apprentice. The man he now knew to be so much more powerful than himself. He knew this next combat would not be fought with sabers, this warrior's skill could not be matched, that much was obvious. No thought he, this next battle would be of the will of the Force.

These same thoughts raced through the mind of the sigil inscribed warrior as he stared at the wretched robed creature that befouled this sacred temple with his very presence. He grasped the Force with all his might and lashed out with it. His strike was a hammer blow falling upon an unbreakable shield. He felt the resistance and rid himself of the notion that it was unbreakable. He was stronger than this pathetic old wretch. His hatred would not be denied.

Neither would that fact that this old pathetic wretch was immensely powerful in the Force as well. Splinters of pain stabbed into his mind, and tore at his soul. He closed his eyes as the sweat began to pour across his face. He was determined not to be beaten by this man. The flood of the Force shield slammed into him. He fought with his might to hold back the wall of power that threatened to engulf him. He felt his footing slip a little. The old fool was gaining ground.

In his mind the wall he held back became a mirror that reflected back the old wretch whom he sought to kill. There he sat, upon his throne, laughing. Laughing! No! He would not lose! Not after what he endured, not after the betrayal. The mirror pushed upon him and stabbed his mind and soul with pain that would have killed lesser mortals.

He stared back at the mirror and focused ever fiber of his being on it, letting the Force consume almost every inch of him, almost being lost to it. If here he did not succeed, then here he would die.

He was anger. He pushed against the mirror.

He was pain. He pushed again. The laughter softened.

He was hatred. He pushed again. The laughter stopped.

He was shadow. He pushed again. The mirror cracked.

He was death. He shoved against the it. The old man stood up. The mirror cracked again

He was power. He shoved again. The mirror cracked once more, larger than before.

He was Sith. He slammed through the mirror, shattering it in an explosion of the Force. He felt the presence of the old master wrenched painfully from his mind and from the Force.

He opened his eyes. Sweat drenched his body and he felt thoroughly weak. He let go of the Force and almost dropped to his knees in exhaustion. Almost. He looked up at the sandstone throne. Only by previous knowledge of it being sandstone was he able to tell that that's what it was made from. The once grand throne was now charred black and smoking. Nothing remained of the man he and wrought vengeance down upon. Not even his robes. The warrior cracked a small smile. It was done. He staggered over to the charred throne and sat upon it, almost falling on the steps. Though it remained searing hot, the Sith lord did not let the heat or the pain touch him. It would never touch him again.

He looked out over the vast hall and his mind carried him off into the future with its endless possibilities. He saw hundreds of black robed pupils before him, training the powerful arts of the Sith order. Warriors of the Force attacked and destroyed in his mind's eye, carrying the power of the Sith to glory. Yes he thought, this is how it will be. So the cycle shall begin again.