Darian's interactions with the people of the undercity were always warm and approachable. He treated everyone with respect, regardless of their social standing or species. He often shared stories and jokes with Anya and M-4G, his laughter echoing through the corridors of the medical facility. M-4G, in its quirky way, enjoyed addressing Darian with exaggerated titles, often referring to him as "Your Excellency."
Occasionally, representatives from wealthy merchant families in the mid-levels would visit Darian, seeking his advice or offering donations. One such visitor, Lady Ursa, often spoke of her children's prospects, boasting of their potential wealth and influence. She would detail their anticipated inheritances, describing vast estates and lucrative trade deals. Darian usually listened patiently to these displays of pride, offering a gentle smile and words of encouragement. However, on one occasion, he seemed particularly preoccupied while Lady Ursa recounted her children's fortunate circumstances. Noticing his distraction, she inquired, "Master Darian, what are you thinking?"
"I am reminded," Darian replied thoughtfully, "of an old Jedi proverb: 'True wealth lies not in what you inherit, but in what you give back to the galaxy.'"
At another time, news arrived of a prominent politician's demise, accompanied by an extensive holofeed eulogizing his titles and accolades. Darian sighed, then smiled wryly. "What a burden Death must carry," he mused. "To bear not only the soul but also the weight of vanity. But Death cares little for titles or accolades. It is a humbling reminder that all beings, regardless of their status, are ultimately equal in the Force."
Darian also possessed a subtle wit, often using humor to convey a deeper message. Once, a wealthy merchant from the mid-levels visited the medical facility. The merchant, Braienn Thomsyn, was known for his immense fortune, acquired through cutthroat dealings in medicinal contracts to the Undercity. Darian advised him of the rewards of selfless service and the consequences of greed and indifference. later, Braienn was seen donating a single credit to a group of refugees. Darian, observing this gesture, remarked to Anya with a wry smile, "Braienn Thomsyn has found the price of his compassion. It seems he is attempting to buy a clear conscience with a single credit. Redemption appears to be surprisingly affordable."
The comment lingered in the air, drawing a ripple of quiet laughter from the nearby workers. Darian's tone was light, but his words resonated deeply, sparking reflection even in the heart of the indifferent merchant.
When it came to helping others, Darian was persistent, even in the face of resistance. Once, while gathering resources for a community in the levels under the floor of Factory District, he approached a former Imperial officer, Baron Vonreg, who had amassed a fortune through questionable means. When Darian approached him, Vonreg scoffed, "I have my own causes to support, Underdweller."
"Then support them through me," Darian countered, "and let us work together to help those in need."
During one gathering at the sanctuary, Master Darian stood before a gathering of weary laborers, scavengers, and displaced families. The air was thick with the scent of burning coolant, and flickering power conduits barely lit the space. As he looked upon the gathered crowd—beings of many species, all bound by the struggle to survive—he spoke, his voice carrying both warmth and resolve:
"My friends, across the undercity, countless beings live in cramped and dilapidated shelters, remnants of a bygone era. Many thousands reside in forgotten maintenance tunnels, lacking proper ventilation and sanitation. Many more huddle in abandoned storage units, exposed to the elements and vulnerable to disease. Even more yet live in the "Grave," a collapsed basin where the air itself seemed to die. Those who dwelling within this suffocating bowl live in a perpetual state of oxygen deprivation, their lungs burning with each shallow breath. Twice a day, they are forced to claw their way out of the pit, their bodies heavy, their vision blurred, to reach the rim and refill the tanks that give them life. This comes from the laws called The Tax on Air and Circulation. The air the galaxy gives to the city-crust; the city-crust sells to the lower levels. In the department near the frozen pipes beneath the foundry and in two sectors of failing infrastructure that developed ice fissures, they make a journey to he warmth to cook their food for the following months. Returning home, they crush their food with the movement from the upper-cities supports, and they soak it for twenty-four hours, in order to render it eatable. We must help each other and share what little we have. Remember the words of the old Jedi Code: 'Compassion and service to others are the greatest of virtues.'"
Darian, having spent time in various sectors of the undercity, had learned to communicate with the diverse inhabitants in their own dialects. He effortlessly switched between the guttural language of the Trandoshans, the melodic speech of the Twi'leks, and the emotional growls of the Wookies. This ability to connect with people on their own terms earned him respect and trust throughout the undercity. He knew how to express profound truths in the simplest of terms, making the wisdom of the Force accessible to all. His ability to speak the language of every being allowed him to connect with their hearts and minds, fostering a sense of unity and hope in the face of adversity.
He did not wield his influence like a senator demanding loyalty. He spoke as one who listened, as one who understood. The people of the Undercity did not need promises; they had been given empty words before. What they needed was action.
Darian treated everyone with the same kindness and understanding, whether they were powerful merchants, humble laborers, or downtrodden refugees. He avoided hasty judgments, always seeking to understand the circumstances that led individuals to make mistakes. He would often say, "do not look only at where one has fallen—examine the path that led them there."
He often spoke with a knowing smile, calling himself an "ex-wanderer," a Jedi who had once been lost but found his way. He did not carry the rigid severity of some Jedi Masters, nor did he expect beings to be flawless. Instead, he held to a simple truth:
"All beings carry their burdens—some heavier than others. They struggle, they fall, they are tempted. The strong resist, the weak succumb. The challenge is not to be without flaw, but to rise after every failure. Even the best of us falter, but a misstep is not the same as being lost. A true victor is not one who has never stumbled, but one who stands back up and continues forward."
A Trandoshan refugee, his scales scarred and his eyes burning with resentment, snarled at a passerby. Nose flared with disgust, he spat, "life is waisted on the bureaucrats" he hissed, "flaunting their wealth while we rot down here. They should be punished for thinking we have no worth, stripped of their comforts, made to feel the misery they've inflicted on us. There's no excuse for their ignorance, their indifference!"
When he heard the Trandoshan speak up, eager to cast judgment, he would say with a quiet chuckle, "Ah, this ... this is the crime that many have committed. Funny how quickly some rush to condemn, as if by pointing at others, they might shield themselves."
He was particularly compassionate toward those society had cast aside—the refugees, the orphans, the struggling families scraping by in the undercity. He knew the weight they carried, the choices they were forced to make. "The failings of the weak, the desperate, the young—these are not theirs alone. The burden also belongs to those who should have guided them. The corrupt senators, the crime lords, the powerful who profit from their suffering."
Above all, Master Darian believed that ignorance was the greatest enemy of all. "Ignorance breeds darkness. But darkness does not corrupt—it simply thrives where no light is cast. Knowledge is the light that keeps the shadows at bay. If a child grows up beneath Coruscant's surface, never once seeing the sky, can we blame them for believing the stars are a lie? Do not curse those lost in the abyss—curse those who refuse to light the way."
It was often said that Master Darian had an unusual way of seeing the galaxy, a manner of judgment that did not align with the rigid laws of the Senate or the cold pragmatism of the Jedi Council. Perhaps it was something he had learned not from the archives, but from experience among the forgotten.
One evening, he overheard a conversation in a mid-level cantina about a tragic incident. A desperate droid mechanic, out of credits and options, had forged Imperial credits—not for greed, but for a woman and the child he had with her. Counterfeiting was a grave offense in the Core Worlds, punishable by imprisonment in the spice mines of Kessel, or worse. The woman had been caught attempting to use the first of his forgeries. The authorities had no solid evidence against the man, save for one thing—her word.
She denied everything. They pressed her. She remained silent. But the prosecutor was a clever man. He fabricated a betrayal, forging messages that suggested the man had taken another lover, that she had been cast aside. Consumed by jealousy, she broke—confessing everything, dooming the father of her child.
The officials laughed, admiring the prosecutor's cunning. "Brilliant, wasn't it?" one said. "Turned her love into a weapon. The truth spilled out in rage. Justice, at last."
Master Darian, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke.
"And where will they try this man and woman?"
"In the Imperial Court"
Darian nodded slowly, then added, "And where will the Imperial officer be judged?"
The room fell silent.
Another tragic incident unfolded in Sector 7. A young Rodian, convicted of a crime, was sentenced to exile into the uninhabitable lowest levels. He was a petty criminal, neither entirely ignorant nor truly learned, once an entertainer in the back alleys, a slicer-for-hire who worked the underworld's holoterminals. Though he had lived by deception, slicing through security grids and fooling his marks, there was no trick to escape this. The sector was abuzz with news of his exile.
The day before the exile, the Rodian's family requested a Darian to come and offer guidance and comfort. Without hesitation, Darian made his way to the darkened prison, descending through durasteel corridors to the man's cell. He called him by name, reached out a hand—not as a Jedi issuing judgment, but as an equal. He spent the entire night there, speaking not of laws or punishment, but of choices, of paths still open, of the Force that bound them both.
The Rodian, initially filled with fear and despair, gradually found peace in Darian's presence. He began to see his impending exile not as an end, but as a transition to a different state of being. Darian's words helped him to connect with the Force, finding solace and acceptance in its embrace.
The next day the prisoner was led through the streets, bound in stun-cuffs, Darian walked beside him, robes billowing in the artificial wind of the undercity's vents. He did not flinch from the stares of onlookers. He stepped onto the transport with him. He stood beside him as they approached the shadow of the stairwell to his exile. He walk with him down the stairs into the darkness, and when darkness consumed even the Rodian beside him, he stopped.
The Rodian who had once trembled in dispair now breathed steadily with unexpected peace. "The Force is still with you," Darian whispered to him. "The living may cast you aside, but the Force does not abandon its own. Trust. Let go. Step forward into what comes next."
As the man walked deeper into the depths, his steps fell into silence. Master Darian returned to the top of the stairwell, something in his expression caused the people to step aside. They could not decide what struck them more—his sorrow or his certainty.
For weeks to follow, this specific action was breathed throughout the streets of the upper levels of Coruscant. However, the most profound acts are often the least understood, there were those in the crust-city who whispered about Master Darian's presence at the execution saying, "A man's guidance to a criminal should not look so much like affectation," some mused over their drinks in the polished halls of the Senate District.
But in the lower levels, where survival was a daily battle and mercy was rare, the people did not question. They simply watched and understood. Master Darian had walked beside the condemned. He had not abandoned one of their own.
Yet for Darian himself, the experience had been a wound, deeper than he had expected.
To walk into the depths surrounded by the darkness of exile was not the same as hearing of it happening. When the stairs to exile is opened, all cleared away and prepared, it has something about it which produces hallucination. It was one thing, in time past, to debate the Republic's justice from the safety of the Temple, to discuss the philosophy of order and punishment in the dim glow of holocrons. But to stand before the depths itself, cold and absolute, was something else entirely. One does not go to the stairwell undecided, they are there resolute in favor of it or in protest against it. The stairs of exile have become something far more that what they were. This stairwell is not a relic of past history; this stairwell is not path of permacrete; this stairwell is not an engineered walkway to go to a lower level.
One would say that this path of permacrete saw, that this walkway heard, that this relic understood, that this darkness, this dampness, and this thickness of air were possessed of will. Standing beneath the entrance, it appeared to be disguised as something terrible, taking part in what was going on. Something that demanded judgment from those who looked upon it. Some, like the war-hardened generals of the Empire, might call it necessary. Others, like the lost senators who whispered of peace, might call it abhorrent. It was the will of the emperor given form, the verdict of magistrates made manifest. The Force swirled darkly around it. And Master Darian, who had always believed himself prepared to witness all things, found himself shaken.
For days afterward, he was silent. The weight of it pressed upon him. Where once he had returned from his deeds with quiet certainty, now he seemed unsettled, as if questioning himself in ways he never had before. His thoughts turned inward, his words fragmented. One night, in the quiet solitude of his quarters, Anya overheard him whisper:
"I did not think it would be so monstrous. A Jedi must see the Force in all things—but I could not feel it there. Have we lost something in this pursuit of order? Death is the will of the Force. By what right do we command it?"
Time dulled the sharpness of the wound, as it always did. But something had changed. Those who knew him best noticed that he never again walked the path that led to the stairs of excile.
He did not speak of it. But he never forgot.
Master Darian could be summoned at any hour to the bedside of the wounded and the dying. He never hesitated, for he understood that this was his greatest duty—not war, not politics, but the simple act of standing beside those in pain. Widowed and orphaned families did not need to call for him; he came of his own accord. He knew when to speak and when to remain silent, sitting for long hours beside a mother whose child had turned to the gangs, a refugee who had lost their home to a structural collapse, a young girl whose parents disappeared. He did not deny grief but sought to transform it, lifting a mourner's gaze from the darkness of an empty distopia to the endless stars above.
He once said, "do not dwell on what has faded, but look beyond. Fix your sight on the Force—it binds us, surrounds us, and through it, no soul is truly lost. Gaze not upon the void left behind, but upon the light that still shines."