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Chapter 17 - Edit
Katara, Aang, and Sokka strolled down the cobblestone streets of the village, their eyes drawn to this unfamiliar territory. It marked their first encounter with a Fire Nation colony, a far cry from the grim specter of Fire Nation labor camps they had encountered before.
The labor camps were nightmarish crucibles, places where the displaced from various nations were funneled into, both as a means of control and profit. They were a reflection of the ruthless war machine of the Fire Nation, a dark marriage of labor and oppression.
Yet, as they ventured deeper into this peculiar place, the trio's gaze couldn't help but be captivated. The valley lay nestled in nature's embrace, a harmonious blend of lush trees and vibrant crimson hues. Even the Fire Nation's trademark color, red, appeared different here, vivid and inviting.
The streets were adorned with warm, red brick tiles, buildings constructed from neatly stacked reddish logs, and the uniquely foreign architecture of the Fire Nation. It was undoubtedly peculiar, a place that stood out amidst the diverse nations they had encountered. But peculiar was all it was—an enclave carved away by the Fire Nation's iron grip.
"Woah, this place... it's somethin' else!" Aang marveled, his arrow concealed beneath a hat as he strained his eyes to take in every detail. Children, full of life, brushed past the trio, their laughter and playfulness infusing a hint of joy into the moment. Even Sokka, the perpetually aspiring warrior, couldn't help but crack a smile.
"It's almost like the war hasn't reached 'em here," Sokka observed, although the reality of their situation wasn't lost on him.
"Still, don't forget it's a Fire Nation colony. They're only here because they took this valley," Katara reminded them, her voice tinged with the weight of reality.
With a shared purpose, the trio split up to accomplish their individual tasks. Sokka sought a place to acquire a new map, Aang listened for rumors concerning the Jedi or freedom fighters, and Katara set out to gather supplies.
As Katara maneuvered through the bustling crowd, she couldn't help but notice the ever-present Fire Nation soldiers and guards. Their numbers were substantial, likely a response to the Jedi and freedom fighters who had made opposing them a steadfast mission.
In the marketplace, Katara marveled at the array of smells and the throng of people. It was a marked contrast to the frigid environs of the Southern Water Tribe and the sprawling plains of the Earth Kingdom. The atmosphere here seemed to radiate warmth.
She collected the necessary supplies—food and medicine—then approached a clerk to complete the transaction. With the sack held firmly in her hands, she was about to turn away when a gravelly voice called out, arresting her attention.
"Hello... Miss." The words hung in the air, and Katara turned slowly to confront their source, her eyes widening at the unexpected sight.
He towered over Benjamin, an impressive feat considering the boy's towering 6'5" frame and well-muscled build. This warrior was a veritable giant, standing nearly seven feet tall, and his presence alone was overwhelming.
Draped in formidable black plate armor, he positioned himself squarely in front of the waterbender, a looming, ominous figure. His shoulder guards bore menacing black spikes, with elbow guards to match. Katara's gaze was drawn to his helmet, where dark voids served as eye holes, and two raven-like spikes jutted out from the space between the sides of his headgear.
A shaky greeting escaped her lips as she found herself confronted by this behemoth of a man. Sweat began to bead on her forehead as she struggled to maintain composure. Her eyes trailed down to his belt, and they widened as she caught sight of the faint outline of a lightsaber.
It was a formidable weapon, with a lengthy hilt and a parabolic-shaped emitter—a blade that demanded two hands to wield effectively. It all made sense; such a weapon was fitting for a warrior of immense stature.
"Oh, this," he muttered hoarsely, withdrawing the lightsaber from his belt. With a swift ignition, the weapon came to life, and Katara breathed a sigh of relief as she observed the crisp emerald blade—identical in color to Haru's.
Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, "Oh, that's good... I was worried you might be a dark Jedi, like Kiara." She addressed the armored warrior, relief washing over her.
However, Katara was so engrossed in their encounter that she failed to notice the townspeople beginning to disperse, their faces etched with fear at the sight of the glowing green blade and the formidable warrior who wielded it.
"I'm with Benjamin, a guardian of the Jedi Order," she explained further, her eyes locked on the warrior.
He lowered his metallic helmet to face Katara, his voice filled with feigned curiosity as he inquired, "Oh, a Jedi... I've heard rumors of another one, one who travels with the Avatar. Is it true?" His concealed smirk remained hidden beneath that unyielding mask.
Katara returned his smile, her nod of confirmation unwavering as the warrior continued to hold the emerald blade at his side. "Yes, my friend Aang is the Avatar. Benjamin is at our camp."
"Camp?" The warrior's interest was piqued.
Katara confirmed Ben's absence from camp, noting that the past few days had taken their toll on the young warrior, particularly the battles against the dark Jedi and his training with Haru.
"Ah, then please tell me where they are located. I shall..." His words trailed off.
Suddenly, Katara felt a forceful, invisible grip seize her, pulling her backward with a sudden jolt. The sack of supplies she held tumbled from her grasp, spilling vegetables and medicine onto the market's cobblestone floor.
Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, a wave of intense heat washed over her, singeing the air just above her head. The masked warrior, now chest-first on the ground, had been struck by a blazing reddish-orange beam. A small explosion resonated through the marketplace as he was launched into the air, his body colliding with wooden stalls, his grip still locked around the emerald blade. He lay there, momentarily dazed, while the bewildered onlookers tried to make sense of the chaotic scene.
The masked warrior coughed, his hand slamming onto the uneven cobblestone ground as if seeking stability amidst the chaos. His voice, dripping with a sardonic edge, cut through the turbulent air. "You know, Katara. What did I tell you about the color of lightsaber blades?"
Benjamin's words reverberated in her mind as she turned, her eyes locking onto the imposing figure of the young Jedi. He stood tall, his peculiar robes fluttering in the brisk wind, a lightsaber gripped firmly in his right hand. Beads of sweat clung to his furrowed brow.
The masked warrior let out an amused chuckle, his eyes gleaming with a cruel mirth as he finally wrestled himself back onto his feet. He gazed upon the pair with an air of arrogance. "Unbelievable, to think I would have gotten easy pickings. Kiara and that fool... too weak to claim the prize of killing the last of the Jedi."
With a fluid motion, he hoisted himself up, his emerald blade ignited and ready. His stance was poised, the weapon leveled with precision. He announced himself in a thundering proclamation, his voice filled with unwavering confidence. "I am Ketatu, a marauder of the Fire Nation and Sith Empire!"
Benjamin's hand dropped, and the blade of his lightsaber sputtered to life, casting an eerie glow upon his determined face. He held the weapon with both hands, assuming the Shien stance. The juxtaposition of the emerald and purple lightsabers crackled with tension. The masked warrior muttered in recognition, "Another practitioner of the Shien form."
Ben had unleashed a devastating ability, Force Destruction, a technique taught to him by Exar Kun, the former Sith Lord. This dark art accumulated immense energy from the malevolent side of the Force. When channeled with precision, it could unleash a cataclysmic blast, obliterating anything within its deadly radius. Even those fortunate enough to avoid direct contact with the blast were often thrown asunder by its potent shockwave.
The power was undeniably formidable, but it had left Ben on the verge of exhaustion, a consequence of his sleep-deprived state and his relentless use of the Force. Nevertheless, he wouldn't let some dark-side warrior cut him down here.
"Katara, get Sokka and Aang together so we can bust through. I'll meet you at the forest edge!" Ben's order rang out, and Katara nodded in resolute agreement before darting through the chaotic marketplace, aiming to reach her brother and friend.
Ben lunged forward, his lightsaber descending with precision. The battle was unleashed in a flurry of strikes, blocks, and parries. The clashing lightsabers created a spectacle of swirling plasma, with sparks igniting like miniature stars in the chaos.
The Sith warrior taunted him, his voice laden with provocation. "Come on... Jedi!"
Ben inhaled deeply, striving to reconnect with the Force. Shien was a combat form reliant on the duelist's critical strikes and physical prowess. The warrior attacked again, his lightsaber slashing to the side, forcing Ben to bring his own blade into a swift defense. The two beams of light collided, emitting a screeching hum as they met.
With agility and grace, Ben somersaulted away, gracefully clearing over the warrior's slashing arc. However, his opponent's overhand strike came swiftly, pushing Ben to roll aside to avoid being cleaved in two. As he landed, he prepared to channel yet another destructive blast, determination etched upon his weary face.
A blazing orb of fiery crimson suddenly birthed into existence, its brilliance almost sizzling out as Ben thrust his left hand forward. The searing beam surged forth, but the warrior was no novice. In a fluid motion, he flicked his wrist, and the very ground beneath him surrendered, caving in and forming a crude shield of rubble and splintered wood that absorbed the lethal energy.
Amid the chaos, Ben exhaled, a tremor coursing through his hollow breath. Yet, his violet blade held steadfast, though it quivered under the weight of his indomitable will. He taunted the armored antagonist with a voice laced with a kind of wild defiance. "Come on, Jedi fool. Is this all you've got?"
Ben's eyes began to transform, shedding their initial hue for the true colors of the Sith — a vile, reddish-orange. His fear, his remorse, his anger — they stoked the inferno within him, breathing life into his might. He gazed unflinchingly at his opponent. Why should I deny such strength? he pondered, his resolve bolstered.
His newfound vigor coursed through him as purple tendrils of raw energy emanated from his hands, coiling around his lightsaber and his very being. "...do you believe that you can win? Do you honestly believe that this resistance will do anything? Can your armor truly repel the might of a true warrior of the dark side?"
Ben realigned himself, their eyes locked in a contest of sheer determination. "...for a Jedi, I can feel your rage. Much hate... much anger. Yet," he mused with a subtle click of his lips, observing Ben intently, "it's your fear and regret... that create such powerful echoes within the Force."
In a feral cry, the battle resumed. Ben surged forth, his right hand releasing bolts of violet lightning that clashed with the Sith warrior's blade, a dazzling display of clashing forces. He managed to breach the warrior's defenses, evading the emerald blade's wrath as he delivered a vicious slash that singed the opponent's right shoulder guard. With a swift parry, Ben extricated himself from the reach of the Sith, who winced in pain. "Lord Ketatu!"
Three fire nation soldiers suddenly cried out, weapons poised against Ben. Panic seeped into his thoughts. Shit, there are more of them...
A spear-wielder thrust his weapon toward Ben's face, but the young Jedi executed a well-timed kick to the man's chest, sending him sprawling. Simultaneously, he deflected another assault with his violet lightsaber, the plasma grinding against the metal.
Meanwhile, Ben used the Force to crush the life from the throat of another soldier, sending him to the ground, gasping his last. The Sith warrior made a desperate cleave, but Ben skillfully blocked his attack.
With a deft motion of his left hand, Ben unleashed the Force, propelling the bulky, armored antagonist into a nearby stall with a resounding crash. The man's body groaned as he collided with the splintered wood once more.
The remaining spearman, undeterred, thrust his blade toward Ben with deadly intent, a lethal dance of lights and shadows in the throes of battle.
Pain, searing and fiery, like a molten brand across his left cheek, forced Benjamin's eyes to bulge wide. The excruciating sensation sliced through his flesh, ripping a sliver of skin away, and though it danced dangerously close to bloodshed, it did not scar. But it left a void, an absence where a piece of his ear once lay, now mangled by the malevolence of the spear that had grazed him.
Rage, an emotion shunned by the Jedi, swelled within him, turbulent and unrestrained. Yet, Benjamin, ever the reluctant disciple of the dark side, did not shy away from it. Instead, he pivoted, his body coiled like a spring, preparing for another brutal confrontation. The wound, fresh and red-hot, served as a grim reminder of what he had lost.
As Benjamin squared off with the assailant, his eyes, once shimmering with a hopeful Jedi blue, had morphed into an incendiary orange. It was a hue that echoed the nefarious Sith, and it sent a shiver through the fire nation guard's spine. Fear gripped him, and he could barely form a thought as Benjamin, the embodiment of wrath, spoke but one word: "Enough."
A cascade of purple lightning erupted from Benjamin's fingertips, a furious tempest of Force energy. It surged toward the hapless fire nation guard, who could do nothing but gasp as the violent current engulfed him. The onslaught was merciless, cooking him from the inside as he writhed in agony, elevated off the ground by the sheer force of Benjamin's malevolence.
Finally, with a bone-rattling crash, the guard was hurled into a wall, his body smashed and broken. His lifeless form lay there, a testament to the brutality of the Jedi who had forsaken the code.
Benjamin, his lightsaber extinguished, gazed upon the scene before him. His instincts screamed at him to flee. More squads of fire nation soldiers would undoubtedly arrive soon. The forest beckoned, and he sprinted toward its cover, his heart pounding with urgency.
Yet, beneath the adrenaline-fueled rush, a darker current churned within him. A nagging sense of remorse tugged at his thoughts. I took it too far... He couldn't ignore the truth, even if he wanted to.
Benjamin's mind grappled with the deeds he had committed. He had slain Kiara and the dark Jedi who had aided her, a necessary act to protect his friends and himself. The fire nation soldiers, too, had met their end by his hand. They served a dark Jedi, a threat that could not be tolerated. The last soldier, he could still smell the acrid odor of the charred air as it crackled under his control of the Force.
The ease with which he called upon the dark side gnawed at him. So, who cares? he thought, a twisted sense of validation coursing through him. They were fire nation scum who nearly cleaved my head off. Anyone who comes against me gets what's coming to them. Enemies included.
Yet, an unsettling truth lingered in the shadows of his mind. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, that the Jedi path did not condone surrendering to one's emotions. Yet, when I gave in to my emotions, I was rewarded with strength, he reflected. When I was a Jedi, the rest of the council would dream about wielding such power. The deluded fools of the council, weakened by the Jedi code.
The teachings of his master, Exar Kun, resonated within Benjamin's mind. The dark side of the Force was a seductive, omnipresent presence, and he had tasted its power. It was a potent temptation, always lurking in the shadows, promising strength beyond measure. But he was resolute, determined not to succumb. "Light side… dark side… merely tools," he muttered, his mantra, a lifeline to sanity, a reminder to remain tethered to the flickering light within.
As he trod deeper into the realm of Sith lore, Benjamin knew that self-control was his most vital ally. With every step into darkness, he'd need it more than ever, no matter how small that beacon of light remained.
Emerging from the thick underbrush onto the main path, Benjamin's gaze locked onto an unexpected sight. Team Avatar, he recognized, but who were the others?
"Yo!" he hollered, snapping their heads around like a sudden gust of wind. Something, a gut feeling, a tingle of precognition, warned him. He had to move!
Sokka, closest to him, felt the lurch of a rope around his ankle, propelling him into the treeline. "Sokka!" Aang and Katara cried out as he disappeared from view.
Ben ignited his lightsaber once more, its purple blade ready for action. He hacked through the remaining foliage, instincts on high alert. A presence, an impending danger, danced on the edge of his senses.
He pivoted just in time. A metallic clang reverberated through the forest as his lightsaber met another's blade in a shower of sparks. The assailant, a wiry figure with tribal markings, donned iron armor and distinctive blue overalls. With industrial gloves reminiscent of welders, they were an odd sight indeed.
"Firebender!" a voice called, and an arrow whizzed perilously close to Benjamin's head. He reacted with lightning reflexes, cleaving the arrow in twain with a swift stroke of his saber, then summoned the Force to push the assailant back.
The foe tumbled into the dirt, yet another arrow flying dangerously close. "Katara!" Benjamin shouted.
"I know!" she screamed in reply. The waterbender and the Avatar collaborated, their elemental powers converging to form a protective barrier against the enigmatic adversaries.
Another clang, another challenger. Benjamin locked swords with this new adversary, their eyes locked in an unspoken challenge. A mishmash of mismatched armor plates and a rugged leather chestpiece concealed the warrior. But it was the dual swords that stole Benjamin's attention.
Blades descended in a rapid flurry, both swords aiming for his sides. Benjamin blocked and parried, a whirling storm of clashing metal. "Fire nation scum!" the warrior spat, but his efforts proved futile.
Benjamin lashed out with the Force, sending his opponent sprawling, blades clattering to the earth. "That's enough!" he roared, his voice resonating with authority. It was a declaration, a plea for reason amid the chaos.
The fighting halted, the combatants turned their attention to the arrow-headed boy who had called for peace. Benjamin deactivated his lightsaber, the hum of its blade fading into the forest's murmurs. Things were changing, shifting. The first order of business: freeing Sokka from the tangled treeline.
With a grudging resignation, Benjamin detached himself from the treeline's clutches. The abrupt, unceremonious yank left him feeling perturbed, to say the least. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, a muted exhale of annoyance. He shifted his focus toward the group's leader, a strange boy who'd orchestrated this peculiar encounter.
"My name is Benjamin," he introduced himself, his voice firm and measured, "a guardian of the Jedi Order." His outstretched hand found its way toward the enigmatic figure, extending an olive branch in this curious forest of mysteries.
"Jet," the boy replied with a nod, his name a solitary syllable that hung in the air like an unsolved riddle.
"Those were some nice moves you got there," Benjamin remarked, his tone devoid of flattery or insincerity. He wasn't one to coddle or manipulate with words. "I have to admit, any duelist would have their hands full dealing with you." It was a genuine acknowledgment of the boy's prowess in the art of dual-wielding.
Benjamin had crossed blades with many practitioners of Jar Kai, and he was no stranger to the martial form. Yet, as his eyes lingered on Jet, a nagging suspicion gnawed at his thoughts. There was something lurking within this young warrior, something concealed beneath the surface. A whisper of darkness that danced on the edges of perception.
He shook his head, dismissing the notion. After all, darkness dwelled in the hearts of all beings, an immutable truth whether they cared to acknowledge it or not. Benjamin released his grip on Jet's hand as they, along with the rest of the party, were led back to their base, a shroud of questions hanging in the air, unanswered.
Ben sat at the wooden table, his eyes fixed on the steaming meal that lay before him, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The warmth of the food mirrored the camaraderie he felt with the ragtag group seated around him – the Freedom Fighters, they called themselves.
In the midst of a sprawling forest, they'd forged a haven for themselves, a sanctuary from the ravages of the ceaseless conflict that had raged between the Fire Nation and the dispossessed. These were the resilient souls who'd chosen defiance over submission, standing tall against the tide of oppression, and vowing to one day reclaim their valley.
Jet, the young and charismatic leader, held court. A natural tactician with a quick wit and an unmatched skill with the blade, he bore the weight of their aspirations on his shoulders. Ben's mind, however, wandered down a different path, a trail of thought that led to names like Revan and Malak – legends of a bygone era, warriors whose shadows still whispered through the pages of history.
"...now the fight has begun to turn," Jet declared, raising his drink in a toast that heralded change, as eyes of all shapes and colors turned toward the false Jedi. "Now with the arrival of a Jedi. It looks like things really are going to begin to change."
The crowd erupted with fervor, their adulation washing over Ben like a welcome tide. He blushed at the praise, a gentle touch from Katara's elbow offering reassurance in the midst of the swell of attention.
Jet took a seat across from Ben, a semblance of familiarity in his gaze. "Benjamin, I've heard good things about you," he began, engaging the newcomer in conversation. "A Jedi who's faced those fire-wielding warriors, who's dared to challenge the oppressors in their own den. Katara mentioned the takedown of a labor camp."
Ben nodded with pride, his drink momentarily forgotten. "Damn right."
"Good, because we need a favor," Jet continued, drawing the hushed attention of those around them. "From what we understand, you and your crew had a run-in with the armored Sith warrior."
"Yeah, I could've handled him one-on-one," Ben replied, recalling the near-victory. "But the Fire Nation soldiers swarmed in, overwhelming us. I can take him down, but dealing with all those bastards at once? That's another story."
Ben pondered the predicament anew, the bandages wrapped around the remnant of his ear a reminder of the close call. Jet shared his sentiment. "Listen, that bastard killed some of our fighters. We want him dead, but we ain't got the strength for it."
The air was thick with curiosity as the Freedom Fighters marveled at Ben's exploits, their questions hung in the air like a mist, as if they were trying to decipher the magic behind his swordplay.
"Jet came close, you know," one of them chimed in, awe in their eyes. "That armor of his almost crumbled like sand."
Another boy peered out from beneath the table, squinting to catch a glimpse of Ben. "It was somethin' else, how'd you know where to hit him like that?"
Ben's brow furrowed, a single quirk of his eyebrow betraying his intrigue. Jet shook his head slightly, taking a sip from his drink before explaining himself. "Easy, guys, no big deal," he dismissed the wonder with a casual shrug. "It was just a feeling, you know what I mean."
The crowd leaned in, seeking answers from the enigmatic fighter. "No, I don't..." Ben replied, his voice laced with curiosity. Jet's eyes squinted, followed by a sigh, and everyone's attention shifted to the unfolding conversation.
"Sometimes, I get this feeling," Jet continued, his voice carrying a certain weight. "During battles, I see these weird red lines, where everything kinda comes together. It's strange."
"You can actually see weaknesses in your opponents?" Ben's voice rose involuntarily, a touch louder than he'd intended. "...Can you do that in other situations too?"
"No, it ain't that simple," Jet replied, dispelling any illusions of supernatural abilities. "It's just a feeling, maybe some glare from the sun in my eyes. But it wouldn't be right to ignore it. Those lines, those moments where the unbreakable..."
"...becomes breakable," Ben finished the thought, their eyes locking in an unspoken understanding. He mumbled to himself, "Shatterpoints," a concept thought to be a relic of legend. It was far too early to conclude, a mere hint that needed further investigation. Ben observed as Jet turned his attention to Katara, his thoughts now consumed by this newfound puzzle.
"No," he shook his head to dismiss his own speculations. "I need more evidence. This could be mere instinct, not the blessings of the Force."
But the fleeting moment of contemplation was interrupted as Jet rallied them back to reality. "Still, I could use your help tomorrow," he said, his gaze fixed on Ben. "We've got a patrol, will you join us?"
Ben nodded, his smile a silent agreement to the coming adventure, while in the background, the festivities continued, oblivious to the secrets that lingered in the air, waiting to be unraveled.
The morning sun cast long shadows over the camp, painting a picture of unease. Ben and Sokka stood together, peering out at the vast expanse that surrounded them. An air of suspicion hung thick around them, like a shroud they couldn't shake.
"I really don't like this guy...he just seems off," Sokka muttered, his voice carrying a note of unease.
"What...Off?" Ben inquired, his gaze shifting from Sokka to Jet, the enigmatic leader who had drawn them into his fold.
Ben had been genuinely surprised by Jet. To find someone so young and yet so skilled was a rarity. He saw a natural leader in Jet, a person destined for greatness. "Yeah, too good to be true. He just..."
"I've crossed paths with folks like Jet before," Ben interrupted Sokka, his tone firm and resolute. He paid no heed to Sokka's accusations or the tinge of jealousy in his words. To Ben, it made no sense. It was a curious irony: the Force-sensitive Jedi, blinded by his own optimism, couldn't see the darkness lurking within Jet's heart, while Sokka's eyes saw the truth all too clearly.
Ben's head tilted slightly, his eyes straining to make out the figure in the distance. Jet playfully nudged him, causing Sokka to wince, caught red-handed in his disparaging comments. "Thanks for the compliment, but there's something coming," Jet said, pointing a finger down the winding path that led into the unknown. Ben squinted, trying to discern the distant presence. It was perplexing. How had Jet spotted it so easily?
"Jet, how did you know there was a person down there?" Ben asked, seeking an answer to this newfound mystery.
Jet shrugged nonchalantly, as if such instincts were an everyday occurrence. "I already told you, I get these feelings at times, you know, instinct."
"Yeah, instinct," Ben echoed, not entirely convinced, as they descended to the forest floor. They landed deftly, weapons at the ready, and were soon joined by Sokka and the rest of the group. As they approached, Ben's eyes widened at the sight of the stranger: an elderly man, short in stature, his balding head crowned with traces of graying hair. He sported a small beard that framed his face and wore a voluminous, ankle-length robe in the vibrant red of the Fire Nation.
"Just an old man, Jet," Sokka remarked, his skepticism palpable.
Jet's gaze hardened, and he turned to Sokka, the tension thickening between them. "Old men could be very dangerous. You never know, Sokka."
In that moment, Ben sensed it—the sudden wave of hostility emanating through the Force. Jet's words grew harsher as he turned away, and as he did, Ben's lightsaber ignited with a fierce violet blaze. He brought it down with tremendous force, propelling the old man backward. The sheer speed and strength of Ben's attack left everyone astonished.
The fiery blade crackled as Ben deactivated it, the old man retreating hastily. Yet, what confounded Ben was the fact that the old man's arm remained intact. While Fire Nation metals were known to withstand lightsaber blades to some extent, they were still inferior. A strike like Ben's should have easily severed the man's limb.
With his lightsaber safely stowed, Ben turned to Jet and the rest of the freedom fighters. "Thank you, Ben," Jet spoke, gratitude evident in his tone. "The Fire Nation most likely sent an assassin after me. I owe you my life."
Ben acknowledged the thanks with a nod, some of the other fighters cheering his name, much to Sokka's chagrin. The praise was going straight to Ben's head, but Ben's concerns lay elsewhere, gnawing at him like a rabid beast.
It was a sensation he couldn't shake, a memory from the Mandalorian wars that refused to release its grip on his mind. His body trembled, and his breath grew ragged as he stared at the ground, haunted by what lay buried within his memories.
"Impossible..." Ben muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. He pivoted on his heel, gaze fixed on the path the old man had taken. His lips curled into a snarl of disbelief. The heaviness that clung to him seemed to pull him forward, his boots crunching through fallen leaves and brittle brush.
As he moved, the memory he'd been trying to suppress resurfaced with undeniable clarity. It was the sound he'd heard countless times during the Mandalorian Wars. The unmistakable clash of lightsabers against Mandalorian iron, a rare and resilient material found only on their homeworlds or deep within the Outer Rim. Ben's blood ran cold as the realization hit him like a freight train.
That old man hadn't looked at him with fear, but with recognition. He knew, just as Ben did, the significance of that distinct sound.
Joncorn Sarhac, an old man approaching his late sixties, moved with a surprising vitality. His pale complexion, balding head, and neatly trimmed beard gave him a dignified appearance. He walked with a straight back, his warm blue eyes a testament to his age and wisdom.
His gaze settled on his house, a place he was grateful to have escaped to in one piece. "Damn freedom fighters... just an old man trying to take a shortcut home," he muttered to himself, his eyes locked on the familiar structure.
The medium-sized log cabin stood on a foundation of large logs, with windows and a fireplace nestled into its side. It was a home built from the very wood he had chopped down in the forest, a place for him and his granddaughter. With a heavy breath, he fished out his keys, unlocked the door, and entered.
The interior exuded comfort. Furniture filled the space, adorned with pictures and cozy animal skin furnishings. As Jon removed his hat and dropped his keys on the table, his attention turned to a photograph.
He cradled the frame in his old, wrinkled hands, lips struggling to form a smile. The picture depicted a younger version of himself, another woman of his age, and a young boy. His eyes danced over the image, and he wiped away a stray tear before gently returning the photo to its place.
The sudden intrusion of the door being flung open tore through the house, rocking it on its foundations. Jon glanced to the side with a sigh, almost as though he had expected this level of intensity.
Cindra, his sixteen-year-old granddaughter, stood in the doorway. She wore the standard attire of the Fire Nation, but her features set her apart. Long, flowing blond hair cascaded down her back, while her green emerald eyes were adorned with freckles that graced her skin.
"Oi, Cindra... you're looking as cheery as ever!" Jon quipped with a chuckle as he made his way over to her.
Another sigh escaped him as he felt the weight of her anger. "Cindra, did something happen to you at school today?"
"What doesn't happen at school…Lin and the rest, what a bunch of bitches." She spat out the words, her anger palpable, as her grandfather released yet another weary sigh.
"Oi, come on there... Cindra." His voice carried the weight of experience, a calm within the brewing storm.
Her face contorted with frustration. "No, it's unfair. I hate this place; I hate this cabin... I hate this damn colony! I don't know why we're even here. Is it because of those Sith!"
"CINDRA!"
Her voice was silenced by the thunder in her grandfather's rebuke. For a man who usually exuded quietude and timidity, his anger was a force unto itself. She squinted at the old man, staring down at him.
Her gaze wandered to his concealed physique beneath the Fire Nation robes. Those same robes that hid the scars and peculiar burns that marked his body. Sometimes she forgot just how strong her grandfather was, how he wasn't merely a man. She had heard tales of his wars and battles, and she knew he could be a formidable force when the need arose.
He let out a deep breath, releasing the simmering anger as he massaged the wrinkles on his temples. "Cindra, I've told you before, this is a significant change, but a change I felt had to be made. War is looming. I don't want you caught up in it. You're a good kid with a good heart, and I don't want what happened to your father..."
"I know, Dad went off to war without your permission. I wouldn't do anything like that."
"My son... he was just... confused. I told him about my past, about the battles I had and the glory we held. Yet, he had too good of a heart," he mumbled, speaking more to himself than to her. He settled back into his seat, and his granddaughter regarded him with curiosity.
"Is that how my father died? I heard that he disobeyed orders. I know you don't want to talk about it, but..."
"Maybe it would do you some good. It's been years since it happened."
"Okay..." She murmured, bracing herself for the tale.
"He was a soldier in the Fire Nation, and he listened to the stories I told him. About the battles we fought, about the creed my people held. If he were born back home, he would've been a child of Mandalore," he said, noting the flicker of interest in her eyes. Those were words laden with weight, though their true significance eluded her.
"Yet, his heart remained too pure... his mother and the love she gave him made him that way. It even affected me, I suppose. So, when you were still in your mother's belly, he chose to enlist and aid the war effort."
He allowed himself a small smile, a hint of pride. Yet, the memory of what came next soured his expression. "I'm not sure what happened exactly. There was something... a masked warrior wielding a blade of fire, much like the one Lord waves around. But this one was a blade of crimson. My son, your father, confronted him. He chose to disobey orders because he believed what they were doing was wrong. Evil, even. Some within the Fire Nation shared your father's sentiments, a few dared to speak out."
"...that Sith Lord, he cut them all down. Killed them all," he snarled, the words dripping with venom as they slithered from his lips.
His granddaughter sat at the table, her eyes fixed wide upon the worn wooden surface, tracing invisible patterns amidst the grain. The only word that managed to escape her trembling lips was a breathless, "Woah..." Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill like raindrops on a stormy night.
She had never met her father, her memories of her mother were dim, hazy at best. But what they did to her family, what the Sith had wrought upon them, that was pure evil.
"I'm sorry for telling you this, Cindra. But you must understand how dangerous it is to even show that you have any knowledge of who they are." The old man massaged the wrinkles etched into his weathered face. His eyes, red and glistening, refused to release any more tears. He knew he had to be strong, a rock for his granddaughter. "Everything I know about your father's death, I learned from numerous sources and trusted contacts over the years."
Jon was afraid. He had known no fear when he and his Mandalorian brethren descended upon their basilisks, nor when they butchered and killed on the battlefield. The horrors of war may have sickened him, but fear had not clung to his heart then. No, true fear had crept in when his wife passed away in his arms, a victim of fever. It had gripped him when his son had marched off to war, and he was crushed when he learned of his son's death. His fear multiplied when the doctor warned him of the dangers of his daughter-in-law's pregnancy, and he fretted for both his unborn granddaughter and his daughter. In the end, his daughter had perished, but his granddaughter had survived.
Fear had always lurked just around the corner, a silent shadow. He believed that escaping the Fire Nation, the Sith's stronghold, was the right choice. But now, his memories circled back to the Jedi in the forest and the Sith that lurked in the town. Perhaps this move had been hasty.
"Maybe you're right. I saw another warrior with a blade of fire... a Jedi. Rumors say they're making a comeback, and the Sith will try to deal with him. Maybe it's time for us to return home," he conceded, seeing hope rekindle in his granddaughter's eyes.
"Really!" Her voice quivered with emotion as she threw herself into his embrace, her arms wrapping around him tightly.
"Well, you don't have to act so thrilled about it," he chuckled, patting her back lightly. "Still, maybe I acted too hastily. After your grandma's death, it's been tough, you know? I thought this place would be good for us... only to find more of those bastards."
His gaze wandered from her blond hair to the picture frame on the table. "My son, he was a good man... a good soldier who followed his heart and convictions. Yet, he would've made a poor Mandalorian." His words were not laced with anger or resentment, but rather with the joy of knowing his son had the freedom to choose his own path.
Suddenly, a loud bang reverberated through the door frame, a sound like the wrath of an approaching storm. Knocking followed, insistent and demanding, as Jon turned his head toward the door. He shrugged, baffled by the intrusion. Few ventured this far into the wilderness; they cherished their isolation. Mail was collected in town, and their solitude was generally respected.
Cindra rose from her seat, eager to investigate, but her grandfather clamped a firm hand around her arm, pivoting her to face him. He pressed a trembling finger to his lips, urging silence. "OPEN UP!" The voice outside carried a note of urgency, a resonance that made Cindra's heart race.
"I know who you are, I know where you came from!" The voice, thick with venom, slithered through the cabin, echoing like a malevolent serpent coiled around its walls. Jon instinctively pulled his granddaughter closer, shielding her from the onslaught. "Beskar!"
Cindra's gaze fixated on the door, the words washing over her like an incomprehensible tide. She turned her eyes up to her grandfather, a perplexed expression etched on her face. His gaze remained fixed on the door, his eyes wide, revealing the dilation of his pupils. She observed his trembling right hand, shaking like a fragile house caught in the heart of a tempest.
Throughout Jon's life, there had been moments when his blood ran cold. In the midst of war, his blood ran cold when his damaged ship inadvertently hurled into an incomplete hyperspace, hurling him into a foreign world. It ran cold when he forged a family and sought to become someone he wasn't—a father, a husband, a teacher—only to learn of his son's brutal murder. It was his wife and the last vestiges of his family that tethered him to life, compelling him to protect and endure.
His blood ran cold once more when he received the news of his son's widow's death in childbirth. It ran cold when his seven-year-old granddaughter, Cindra, became the last beacon of light in his life. His wife had passed away, her life extinguished in his arms, leaving him with one remaining loved one.
Now, he gazed into Cindra's bright green eyes and offered a faint smile, attempting to conceal the fear gnawing at his core. He ruffled her hair and tugged her hand, practically dragging her away. "Grandfather!"
"It's okay, Cindra," he reassured her with a feigned grin, leading her to the corner of the room. With a swift motion, he lifted a section of the carpet, revealing a hidden trapdoor. "Stay here, Cindra. Remember, Grandfather loves you..."
Before she could utter a word, he unceremoniously pushed her through the opening. She scrambled to her feet as the door clanged shut above her. In the fading light, she caught one last glimpse of her grandfather, his smile belying the danger. "I love you," he declared, sealing her off from whatever horror awaited.
Back in the main room, the door was blasted off its hinges, splintered wood collapsing onto the floor. The reverberations jolted through the cabin, causing the wooden logs to shudder. Jon's eyes met the figure bathed in the fiery hues of the sunset. He appeared...
"You're the same age as my granddaughter... What's a kid like yourself bearing wounds like that?"
Ben, eyes smoldering with the crimson and gold of true Sith, regarded the old man. His left hand was aimed with fingers curled into a fist, and Jon recognized the weapon—an unmistakable lightsaber. They exchanged silent stares as Ben strode to the side of the cabin. Jon chuckled softly, his wry amusement punctuated by a sigh, as he moved toward the bookshelf embedded in the wall, his lips never parting to speak a word.
"...you know something, old man," Ben finally broke the silence, his gaze never leaving Jon's as he rested his hand on the lower shelf of the bookcase. His fingers grazed the hilt of a bronze vibrosword.
"What is it, Jedi?" Jon replied, doing his best to maintain a facade of composure, all the while inching his hand closer to the blade's hilt, his heart pounding with dread.
Ben's eyes widened, his lips curling into a snarl, breaths heavy with building tension. His growing suspicions were taking root. "Jedi...not a lot of folks in these parts are familiar with that name."
Jon scrambled for words, backpedaling to buy time and perhaps escape this perilous encounter. "The Jedi have been gone for years. But with your sudden appearance, knowledge of the past has resurfaced. Must be something...to be the last of your kind."
It wasn't a fabrication. When Jon had crash-landed in this strange world years ago, he had searched diligently for others like him—people who had tumbled into the black hole and emerged in this alien galaxy. For nearly a decade, he found nothing but Sith, not the Sith of Exar Kun, but a different breed altogether. They wielded crimson lightsabers and behaved like Sith, yet Jon sensed an unsettling difference.
But following Benjamin's reveal as a Jedi and his exploits against the fire nation, the word had spread like wildfire. Historians scoured the world for any scrap of information on the Jedi's return, and more and more people had begun to learn about the Jedi and the Sith. The fire nation's once-impervious shroud of secrecy was unraveling.
"Yeah, it is..." Ben agreed with a smirk, his penetrating gaze causing Jon's anxiety to surge. "Did you know, old man, that in this world, the fire nation has weapons capable of deflecting lightsaber blades? They can block it, but it makes this ting sound that resonates in your ears." To emphasize his point, Ben lightly tapped the end of his damaged ear, prompting the old man to step back, uncertain of his next move.
"Oh, really..." Jon replied, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I've never used a lightsaber myself, though I've seen them in the fire nation. I've never had the opportunity to face a lightsaber wielder."
"...you see, old man," Ben began, his tone laced with an unsettling confidence, "the difference between fire nation metals and those from my world is that you'd have been dead. With the propulsion and the strength of the Force, fire nation metal wouldn't stand a chance against a lightsaber." Jon could sense it—Ben had found a kindred spirit, another soul not native to this world. But Jon also knew he needed to tread carefully; his life hung in the balance. "The only material capable of resisting a lightsaber's plasma is cortosis, but that doesn't exist in this world. What I've heard wasn't cortosis. I've heard something else...something I've heard many times."
Ben turned his gaze squarely onto Jon, the old man's fingers now securely wrapped around the sword's hilt. This was the moment of reckoning, do or die. Jon knew that Ben wouldn't relent, that he was well aware of Jon's true nature. The air bristled with hostility, the inevitability of conflict looming. "I've heard the finest Mandalorian weapon masters embed it into our weapons and armor when I was but a child. I've heard it when my cyan lightsaber cleaved through the ranks of soldiers and droids."
His eyes brimmed with fury, narrowing to slits. The Force pulsed around him, a taut energy that summoned his lightsaber into his waiting hand. The violet blade blazed to life. Across the room, Jon moved with a quickness that belied his age, clenching the hilt of his virboblade, his sinewy muscles taut.
They collided in a flash, blades meeting, a burst of violet light illuminating the room, revealing the Sith corruption etched upon Ben's enraged face. Sparks sizzled as the cortosis-woven blade of the vibrosword clashed with the Jedi's lightsaber. Jon's eyes traced the movements of Ben's arm, a knowing smirk curling his lips. They understood each other.
"Mandalorian Iron, or rather Beskar!" Jon's words punctuated a swift kick to Ben's abdomen, breaking their locked swords. He parried another slash from the young Jedi. Glancing briefly at the hatch where his granddaughter's eyes gleamed with fear and hope.
But he had to return his focus to the duel. "Come on, Mandalorian. Show me!" Ben's blade descended with a vicious overhead strike. Jon tried to pivot, but the sheer force of the blow forced him to his knees.
Jon, though strong for his age, felt the weight of years press upon him. He was nearing seventy, and while Mandalorian training had kept him robust, facing a sixteen-year-old boy with Jedi powers was an entirely different league.
Ben's attacks came fast and fierce, a relentless flurry that Jon struggled to parry. His old, blue eyes scanned the cabin, but Ben was unlike any opponent he had faced. The young Jedi sneered, his purple blade probing the Mandalorian's defenses, occasionally piercing his skin.
Ben was savoring the battle, and all three of them knew it. Jon swung his fist, but Ben agilely dodged, parrying Jon's vibrosword as it clanged against the wooden floor. Jon saw an opening, summoning all his strength and resolve, thinking of his granddaughter who needed him to survive.
"I won't leave you alone, Cindra. I promise, Grandpa will deal with this," he vowed silently. He felt the muscles in Ben's cheek, saw the grin, and knew he had struck true. A punch like this should have incapacitated any ordinary man. But as Jon's eyes widened, he recognized the pure, unbridled fury and rage coursing through Ben.
Ben bared his teeth, his breath ragged, chest heaving with pent-up anger. He let out a primal scream and drove his own fist into Jon's weathered face. Stars danced in Jon's vision as he was sent hurtling across the room, his mouth filling with blood, two teeth ejected like tiny projectiles.
His body crashed into the table, a piece he had lovingly crafted himself, splintering it in half. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth as he quickly propped himself up on trembling hands, gazing at his vibrosword. Spitting out a wad of blood, he wiped his mouth clean and tightened his grip on his weapon.
Ben was on him in an instant, his blade a blur of deadly intent. Jon rolled with the force of the attack, launching his vibrosword upward in a desperate bid for survival. The weapon's propulsion sent him tumbling further away, the room now a battleground awash in sparks and blood.
"Come on, you filthy dog!" His voice, raw and guttural, sprayed spittle as he screamed, a symphony of hatred and rage. His breath came in ragged, heavy gasps as he swung his blade again, wild and unhinged. "You animal!"
Jon, weathered and grizzled, threw up his bracer in a desperate attempt to repel the furious lightsaber attack. The resulting sparks felt like fiery brands searing into his retinas. The boy's unbridled fury was relentless, driving Jon to the edges of the room, away from the spot where his granddaughter bore witness. Thoughts raced through his mind, a fervent plea, "I can't die here..."
She needed him, especially in these trying times. She was his only tether to this world, and he was all she had. Their fates were bound together. He grunted with effort as his vibrosword made contact with Ben's midsection, the boy swiftly pivoting away, his fiery hatred still smoldering.
"I know who you are. What you are!" The words exploded from Ben's lips, a venomous tirade. "Filthy Mandalorian! You butchers! Hiding behind those beskar masks as you destroy and plunder. Your kind allowed my father to torment my mother. YOUR KIND MURDERED MY MOTHER!" His voice was a curse, loaded with seething fury that seemed to sap the strength from Jon's old limbs. "I'M GLAD THAT YOU FOOLS STARTED A WAR. I'M GLAD I WAS GIVEN THE CHANCE TO KILL YOU FUCKERS!"
Jon was fighting for his life, too preoccupied to absorb the madness pouring from Ben's lips. "I killed the men and the women; I've killed the soldiers. I'd slaughter each and every one of you personally, except Malachor did it for me! The entire warrior caste, the entire fleet encircling Malachor V. From the lowliest soldier to Mandalore himself! They all got what they deserved, they deserved to die! Every Mandalorian deserves death!"
The wellspring of hate fueled Ben with a power that surged through him, a fiery force of strength and rage. It shattered the mental chains of the Jedi Council as he embraced the consuming darkness.
Ben's left hand snaked out, wrapping a choking grip around Jon's throat. Jon gasped for breath, his right hand desperately clutching his vibro sword. In an instant, Ben released him, and Jon was flung through the log wall. Wood splintered and planks shattered, the wall accommodating Jon's violent expulsion. His ribs on the left side crumbled to dust, throat sore from the strangulation. His leg was a twisted mass, his back slamming against the unforgiving earth repeatedly until he finally slid to a stop.
Blood oozed from his ears as he struggled to breathe, one eye swelling shut, a grotesque purple wound marring his vision. He glanced at his left arm, a bone protruding through torn flesh, rendering it useless. His right leg was a nightmare of mangled flesh and inverted foot. Trying to stand was a futile endeavor; it would only send him keeling over.
"Get up, Mandalorian!" Ben's scream pierced through Jon's agony, his bright orange eyes glaring down at the fallen warrior. "We aren't done yet!"
Summoning every ounce of his dwindling strength, Jon clung to his vibro sword, embedding it into the earth. With his one functioning eye, he locked onto Ben. The boy cracked his neck menacingly and advanced, as Jon strained to rise, to thrust his blade into the boy's chest. But Ben, ever elusive, darted out of harm's way.
His lightsaber danced through the air, a deadly waltz that Jon, weakened and battered, couldn't hope to evade or resist. His arm rose involuntarily, the Mandalorian beskar bracer following its ascent, only to slam the old man face-first into the earth. Mud and blood mingled as his nose took a punishing break.
In that moment, Jon yearned to surrender, to let the pain carry him into the depths of unconsciousness. It was becoming unbearable, and he knew, deep down, that he had already lost this brutal duel. "Damn Jedi," he muttered through gritted teeth, the agony intensifying. Losing an arm had already sent him reeling into a world of stars, but the indomitable spirit of an old warrior refused to release its grip. Not now. Not when he had sworn to protect his granddaughter. Not when he still craved just a few more years.
Ben, relentless and vengeful, flipped him over, his fingers closing around Jon's throat. The old man was too enfeebled to resist, and he was dragged back into the house, through the hole that had been torn open. Jon dangled by the neck, the violet light of electricity coiling around Ben's form. The pain that followed was beyond comprehension.
A prickling sensation needled through his entire being, every hair on his body erect as if millions of toothpicks had pierced his skin. After another torturous moment, it became excruciating. The violet lightning seared through him, and he tried to thrash and escape, but Ben's grip was unyielding. Smoke rose from Jon's tormented flesh.
After a torturous minute, Ben withdrew his lightsaber, its blade threateningly close to Jon's face. The old man, weak and trembling, still managed a heinous scream as he felt the plasma's fiery touch on his skin. "Old man, I have bested you in this duel," Ben declared. "Whether it be your Mandalorian honor or fear, answer my questions. If I detect even the smallest of lies..." He inched the blade closer to Jon's face. The old man, too spent to fight further, nodded weakly, his parched lips attempting to shape words. "I accept..."
Ben rose, almost carelessly tossing Jon into a bookshelf. Books and pictures tumbled and shattered around them as he kept his eyes trained on the fallen Jedi exile. Deactivating his lightsaber, he clipped it back onto his belt, standing in the center of the room, his gaze unwavering.
It took a full minute before the Sith with orange eyes returned to their natural, golden-brown hue. "How does it feel..." Ben began, his words laden with venom.
"What?" Jon mumbled, bewildered by the sudden change in the boy's demeanor.
"The last of the Mandalorians," Ben sneered, circling Jon like a predator. "A withered old man who couldn't even land a killing blow. To think you're the last of a once-proud warrior race, it's pathetic."
Jon listened, though the full meaning of Ben's words remained elusive. Confusion gripped him as the Sith continued his circling. "What's your point?" Jon finally croaked. "What's left for you now that you've shattered my body?"
Ben's voice was laced with contempt as he responded, "What's the point of a Mandalorian who can't kill? What's your purpose now? I've broken you."
Jon's gaze shifted toward the bookshelf and the picture of his family. He understood what he was, what he had become, while this Jedi remained deluded by the Force. An old Mandalorian had long since defined his place in the galaxy. Whether Ben knew it or not, the Force had already chosen its stance.
"You're nothing," Ben jeered once more, his heavy boots crunching along the fragments of shattered wood and glass, his eyes narrowing as they bored into the broken old man. "What the hell are you here for?"
Jon heard those words, and though he wouldn't divulge anything about his granddaughter or family, he could answer this question. "I've been waiting here for over two decades," he confessed. "I've been waiting for orders. Exar Kun and his Sith apprentice Ulic Qel Droma, and Mandalore the Indomitable. I have crashed on this world, and I have been waiting for my brothers and sisters to come for me."
It was partly true; Jon had longed to be brought back to his home world, to Mandalore. Yet, another part of him had grown content with living and dying in this forsaken place.
"What?" Ben spat out, his eyes narrowing as he halted his restless pacing.
"I am still a child of Mandalore," Jon explained. "I am still a soldier; I was bred to receive orders and to wage battle."
Ben drew near, taking a knee as he faced Jon, almost unable to believe what the old man was saying. "What…you're never going to get any, are you insane?" He mocked, his anger blinding him to Jon's intent.
Ben was too furious to understand that Jon hailed from the time of Exar Kun, that he was ignorant of the galaxy's events since he'd crashed on this alien world. "Quiet," Jon urged, "the Mandalorians are still strong. Yes, my clan had issues with aligning with the Sith, and yes, we lost battles. But we are still strong. The Mandalorians may have been weakened, but we persist."
"They're never going to come, there will never be another Mandalorian crusade!" Ben snapped, stepping right up to Jon's face. The old man could see the scars and the feral intensity in the boy's golden eyes. "Your race is dead. All burnt, all of you. The men, the women, even the children, all burned. Millions of ships on fire as they crashed into a dying planet! The entire Mandalorian race, wiped out at the press of a button!" Sinister and disgusting pride oozed from Ben's words.
Jon's face contorted, straining as he shook his head. "IMPOSSIBLE!" he screamed with such ferocity that it shook the cabin. The force of it even caused Ben to stagger back. "I am not the last of the Mandalorians, I am not!"
But Ben remained unmoved, a sneer contorting his face. In his eyes, Jon was just another filthy Mandalorian, a killer of people. A dirty, diseased mutt that needed to be put down. They had slaughtered his brethren during the wars, and they had reaped what they had sown.
"I watched it happen, I MADE IT HAPPEN!" Ben bellowed, Jon's eyes snapping open as he strained to look at him. Yet, in Ben's voice, there was no feral rage; instead, there was a resonance in the Force. Jon saw tears trickle from the boy's eyes as he cried, realizing that this was the truth.
"What, tell me," Jon commanded, his gaze fixed on his legs, his heart crumbling into a thousand shards, the weight of being the last of his kind heavy upon him. "Why... why should I, Mandalorian."
Jon shifted his eyes back to the exile's face, his words fractured as disbelief still gripped him. "Please, I beg you..."
Ben, in that moment, saw the shattered old man before him. For a brief time, he forgot that Jon was a Mandalorian. The anger that had clouded his thoughts didn't...
Shaking his head, he turned away from Jon, rising to his feet as he stared at the opposite wall surrounding them. "Exar Kun fell on Yavin 4," he began to recount. "His apprentice, Ulic, was cut off from the Force by Nomi Sunrider after murdering his brother. Mandalore the Indomitable... something happened on Yavin 4, a great fire consumed the planet, and he perished. His helmet was taken by another Mandalorian."
Jon absorbed this information. The Sith didn't concern him. While he belonged to the clan that had fought alongside them, he was one of the Mandalorians who believed in not meddling in the conflicts between Jedi and Sith. They had their own wars to fight, and he was but a soldier. Mandalore's words always rang true.
"When I was a child, growing up, my father spoke of something... something insane that was going to happen in a few years. I thought it was just the ramblings of a drunk. After he died and I was trained into the Jedi Order, I began to understand what he meant."
"Mandalorian, you have Mandalore's blood?" Jon perked up. "That explains a lot... Why did the Jedi train you, especially at such an advanced age?"
"I don't know... It doesn't matter, not anymore." Just as swiftly as the topic had come up, Ben shut it down. "The Mandalorian Wars, they started small. The Mandalorians expanded, conquering a few planets, until they began to claim entire systems. The Republic asked the Jedi for help. They didn't intervene..."
Jon remained silent. It did seem peculiar that the Jedi chose not to interfere. However, he understood it. The Jedi only became involved during the war because of Exar Kun, a dark Jedi. They acted when the Force was at stake.
"As time passed, the Mandalorians grew aware of this. They began provoking the Jedi and the Republic. Bombing cities, killing civilians... They set fires to Eres III, fires that still burn to this day."
"Revan, a Jedi Knight like myself, couldn't abide the Cathar genocide. He decided to fight back against the Mandalorians, defying the Council's orders. He took on the mask of a fallen Mandalorian and called upon my generation of Jedi Knights for help." For the first time, Jon saw a smirk on Ben's face. Not a happy smile, but the grin of someone reminiscing about better times. "My master, myself, and many other Jedi followed Revan into war against the Mandalorians. It felt good. I despised the Mandalorians and reveled in every kill. They got what they deserved, those damn beasts."
Jon couldn't comprehend it. For a Jedi, this boy harbored so much hate. Weren't they supposed to be advocates of peace? Yet, he had to remind himself that this very same boy, the age of his granddaughter, had lived through the horrors of war and abuse. Even Jedi training couldn't heal such deep wounds.
"Still, something wasn't right. Things started to change, and it all just stopped making sense," Ben muttered, his hands raking through his hair. In Jon's eyes, Ben wasn't just a broken warrior anymore; he was a child who had been wounded one too many times, a child forced to fight when the adults around him had chosen not to. "I've revisited those days, tried to pinpoint when it all began to go awry. There had to be a starting point, a moment when I could trace where my life started to unravel. Something must have shifted within him... within Revan. I just can't remember when. We needed to fight. Fighting led to leading troops into battle, leading troops led to massacres, and massacres... they led to me becoming a butcher, a murderer, a terrorizer. A chain of mistakes that plunged me into an even darker abyss."
A heavy silence followed, punctuating Ben's parting words. Jon felt a swell of anger within him at the thought of the Jedi pushing their pacifism to such an extreme that they'd force children onto battlefields. But he couldn't deny that placing children in the crucible of war was a part of Mandalorian culture, too.
Perhaps it was his newfound perspective, the weight of losses and the experience of grief, that made him view it differently. "And what of the Mandalorians..."
"Revan dueled and killed Mandalore in combat. Yet the Mandalorians refused to surrender. Revan knew what had to be done, so he devised a weapon capable of wiping them out: the Mass Shadow Generator, a device that could obliterate an entire planet." Ben recounted this with a detached tone, devoid of anger or bitterness, merely as if he were reciting information. "My master, Meetra Surik, was ordered to activate it. It wouldn't just draw in Mandalorian ships but Republic ships as well. She... couldn't bring herself to do it. If we failed, we would've lost the war. So, I did what my master couldn't. There were no other options, no other choices. But to discover that one still stands in the galaxy, even after sacrificing my friends and comrades to wipe you out, well... it's the ultimate slap in the face." He spoke quickly, the words pouring out like they were too painful to linger on.
Jon understood now. Benjamin, this young boy, had been broken by Mandalorian training. His mother had suffered abuse at the hands of his Mandalorian father, and the other warriors hadn't intervened, deepening the boy's resentment toward them. When his mother had given him over to the Jedi, she'd ultimately been killed by them, further fueling his thirst for revenge.
Jon would bet that Ben didn't have many friends, considering he'd been taken into the Jedi Order at an older age. He'd also wager that this was where the dark side had begun to corrupt him. The war had come, and Benjamin now had a justification to slaughter as many Mandalorians as he could. But guilt had shadowed him. Had he massacred all those Mandalorians on Malachor V because it was the only way to save the galaxy? Or had he sacrificed the Jedi to obliterate the Mandalorian race?
One choice was rooted in the greater good, the acceptance of the pain of regret—the way of the Jedi. The other was born of hate and greed, acknowledging that he took pleasure in killing and was essentially a monster in human form—the path of the Sith. But it was something even more insidious than the lowest Sith.
"What of the Jedi?" Jon inquired.
"After the war... after Malachor, that's when the teachings of the Sith started to infiltrate our ranks. We were all young and scarred, driven more by our emotions than our senses."
"You followed the Sith... just like me," Jon muttered, and Ben nodded in acknowledgment. There was no trace of hostility in the boy's gestures.
"I did. We were loyal to Revan... that was enough. He saved us," Ben explained, his voice tinged with sorrow. "So I followed him and the rest of the Sith Empire, hunting down Jedi. Before I crashed on this planet, the Republic was nearly obliterated, and the Sith reigned supreme. True Jedi perished with you, they went up in flames alongside you... on the spheres of that forbidden and lifeless world." He spoke solemnly, as if trying to shake off painful memories he'd rather forget. "The last remnants of the great Mandalorian Crusade, everyone lost. The Jedi who joined the war fell, and the Mandalorian race was eradicated... Mandalore's helmet was lost, presumed to be destroyed by Revan himself."
Jon's breath caught in his throat, and he cast his eyes downward, briefly glancing at the floor. So this is truly the end, he thought, his eyes reddened but focused as he looked back up at the young man. "You're waiting for a rescue that will never come. We entered a hyperspace black hole. No one from our world is alive here, no one who can help us. The Jedi are gone, or they've fallen, and the Mandalorians are no more," Jon acknowledged, accepting the harsh truth. He didn't shy away from it; instead, he allowed it to wash over him, adding to his well of guilt and anger, the emotions that had been his constant companions.
"I am alone... in the universe. I am the last Mandalorian," he declared, the words heavy with the weight of realization.
"Yep," Ben replied, indifferent, still not turning to face the elder man.
"The last Jedi, the last Mandalorian," Jon continued, his voice strained as he gazed at the younger man. "You and I... we're not so different."
Ben's eyes flashed with fury as he stomped closer to Jon, jabbing his finger at the older man's chest. "We are not the same. I am not a kil—"
But before he could finish the sentence, he abruptly stopped. A sly smirk spread across his face, a rare moment of contemplation in his otherwise impulsive actions. Even a broken Mandalorian, it seemed, could still elicit a reaction from Ben, a reminder of how insignificant Jon was in the grand scheme of the Force. "Maybe we are. Yeah, maybe you've got a point there," he conceded, taking a step back, finger still pointed at Jon. "Because you're right. I carry the blood of Mandalorians in my veins, and I know what must happen. I know what I must do, what you deserve..."
With a swift and practiced movement, Ben summoned his lightsaber, igniting the violet blade.
Jon's eyes locked onto the shimmering weapon. "Please, have pity..." he pleaded, an uncharacteristic act of desperation. He would never beg, but this was a unique circumstance. His gaze darted to his side, where he saw his granddaughter peering up at him through the floorboards. He didn't want her to witness this, to remember her grandfather's death in such a manner. "Why should I... you never did," Ben spat in reply.
Jon huffed, recognizing that this pretender Jedi had already sealed his grim fate. Perhaps all that restless pacing was his futile attempt at self-reflection, a Jedi should never crave vengeance. But Ben was shattering one of the core tenets of the Jedi code, an act that would inevitably lead to his banishment.
Jon understood that his time was near, so he spat out another clot of blood, his remaining eye blazing with an intense blue light. Ben clutched his weapon tighter, a yearning to inflict pain evident in his eyes. He wanted to hurt Jon, to etch a wound into his soul that he'd never forget.
"You would've made a good Mandalorian," Jon taunted, the words a calculated barb.
Ben saw crimson, his fingers growing numb as he succumbed to an impulse he couldn't control. His body convulsed like a sudden rush of arctic air sweeping through the room, heart pounding so hard against his chest he feared it might rupture. His lips went dry, parting with a vicious growl that resembled a rabid beast. With his right hand, he raised his weapon high overhead, eyes dilated with pure fury, the embodiment of unbridled anger and hate.
Yet, just before Ben struck that devastating blow, before the plasma seared through the old man's frail frame, their eyes locked. In that fleeting moment, Ben's eyes remained uncorrupted, not the eyes of the dark Jedi Jon had faced before. The boy was still himself, losing control to raw anger and hatred rather than surrendering to the dark side.
Jon closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable, letting the world fade into warmth, then nothingness.
In the ruined cabin, the only sound was Ben's heavy breathing. His golden eyes traced the lifeless body before him, the anger slowly receding. It took a full minute for him to comprehend the gravity of what he had done. The next moment, remorse and realization crashed upon him.
"Oh god..." He clutched his head with his left hand, the hum of the violet blade still resonating in the eerie silence. "The anger... it consumed me!"
Ben understood that this wasn't the dark side or the Force. It was him, surrendering to rage and spiraling into uncontrollable hatred. What was he even doing here? He was an old man, living in solitude deep in the woods; he could've simply left him alone. But now, he had committed murder.
"Master Surik... what have I done!"