Author's note: this chapter has been edited to erase grammar and spelling mistakes

Answering reviews:

Thank you again, Guest, for your comments. I do appreciate and enjoy them. Hopefully, the following chapter can answer some of your questions. Some others will have to wait only a little longer. In terms of timeline, maybe it didn't come across clearly in the previous chapter. Ch. 21 begins one and a half years after the initial battle on Geonosis, which means about half a year has passed since Kenshin got taken out of the picture. It's roughly another half a year later when Nute Gunray meets his end. That means, we're about two and a half years into the clone wars at that point, and Kenshin has spent about a year away from the Jedi Order. I can promise that much: once Kenshin is involved, things will not follow protocol.

~ 22 ~

Hunter and prey

- Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light

What once was good and true was betrayed

And the hunter has become the prey -

"Let me get this straight," Tersen said, her voice tinged with disbelief. "The guy's a Jedi and doesn't remember he's a Jedi? He's literally lost his mind? What do we do with him?"

"If he's really a Jedi… the CIS has put a good bounty on those. A million credits a head," Sumi replied, her tone measured but with an undercurrent of something darker.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of Sumi's words hung heavy in the air.

"Sumi's right," Marath, the Zabrak, finally broke the silence. "Two hundred and fifty thousand credits for each of us. That could maintain the Vulture and help me feed my brothers for years to come!"

"Are you crazy?" Tersen shot back, her amber eyes flashing with anger. "The Seps would just kill this man. That would make us no better than the ones who murdered your family, Sumi, or drowned my planet in war!" Her voice trembled with emotion, but she stood firm. "We all know what happens to him if we hand him over. It's a gigantic amount of money. But do we want that blood on our hands? We're smugglers, yes. Pirates, yes. We steal from the rich and give it to the poor. We're the good guys! We aren't killers."

Silence settled over the bridge, the weight of their decision pressing down on each of them.

"You're right," Sumi said at last, her voice softer, as if conceding to an internal battle. "We can't do that. I'm better than that. We're better than that."

"What about keeping him?" Marath suggested. "Since we lost Aslik, we could use some muscle. That guy has loads of it."

"A blasted Jedi, and you want me to keep him on my ship?" Sumi snapped, her eyes narrowing.

"Our ship, Sumi," Tersen corrected gently. "You may be the captain, but we all have a say in it, and I say we need another pair of hands on board."

"What if he remembers who he is?" Sumi asked, her skepticism clear.

"Then we don't need to tell him we knew. Hide that lightsaber somewhere he won't find it, and nobody needs to be the wiser."

With that, their decision was made. They returned to the man, who now found himself surrounded by four curious faces and one equally inquisitive droid.

"You've taken a pretty big hit in that escape pod," Sumi began, her tone still sharp, though with less of the hostility it had carried earlier. "I would ask if you're feeling okay, but we don't have the means to give you a medical check-up. We can't afford a med droid."

The man blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. Sumi's words hit him like fragments of a shattered mirror, pieces of information that made no sense when put together.

"Escape pod?" he echoed, his voice rough and uncertain.

"Yeah," Sumi confirmed, her eyes watching him closely. "We flew by an old, retired space station that had obviously exploded. Don't ask me why because we don't know. We were searching the debris for scrap parts and whatnot, and found you, floating around. Here's the thing: we could use another pair of hands on our crew. You'd get a place to sleep and your food out of the deal. None of us gets any pay—everything we make supports the crew and maintenance of our ship. Take it or leave it. We can also drop you off wherever our next stop is. You've got a couple more days to decide. Find yourself a free bunk and rest. In your current state, you're no good to us anyway."

The man's mind was a foggy mess. "I don't know who I am. And I don't know who or what you are."

"We're scavengers. We make do to survive. There's not much more to say," Sumi replied bluntly, her eyes locked onto his.

The man stared back at her, his piercing eyes unsettling in their intensity. Finally, he nodded, a resigned expression settling on his features. "It's not like I have anywhere to go."

"Welcome to the crew, then," Sumi said, though the words carried a mix of caution and reluctance. "I'm Sumi, the captain of this proud vessel. I call the shots, as you've probably noticed. The Nikto here is Ronnor, then we have Tersen, Marath, and the droid's Buster."

"Fine," the man responded, though his voice was distant, as if the words were spoken by someone else. "Well, I have no name."

Sumi pondered for a moment, studying him. "Black," she finally said. "We'll call you Black. Suits you, I guess. See, we even give you a name, and that's free of charge too."

Life aboard the Vulture quickly settled into a routine, but it was a routine unlike anything Black could remember—or perhaps, unlike anything he had ever known. The days blurred together in a cycle of dealing with scrap parts, helping to maintain the ship, and taking part in the less-than-legal activities that defined the crew's true purpose. Smuggling runs became a regular occurrence, and when the stakes weren't too high, they'd engage in raids. They targeted industrial sites, private mansions, or any place that seemed ripe for plunder. The crew had a strict code: they never hurt anyone, only taking what they needed or what could be sold. Black's role was clear—he was the muscle, the one who ensured that no one got in their way during these operations. When they weren't on a mission, he spent his time tinkering with the ship, repairing anything that needed fixing since he had manifested an innate, undeniable talent for the mechanic stuff within the first weeks on board.

As routine as his days became, an unsettling restlessness gnawed at him. He found himself increasingly indifferent to the idea of "abiding the law." In fact, the more he learned about the galaxy, the more he realized that the laws were often bent to serve those with power. Large corporations, driven by greed, profited from the ongoing war—the Clone Wars, as they were called. The larger the corporation, the more ruthless their practices, exploiting the poorest and weakest on devastated worlds. The Confederacy of Independent Systems, or Separatists, were led by a former Jedi named Count Dooku, who presented himself as a political idealist. But Black saw through the façade. Even with his fragmented memory, he could recognize a tyrant when he saw one. The Separatists claimed to offer a "better" way, but in truth, they sought only to impose their own brand of order through force and oppression. The Galactic Republic, on the other hand, was the established power in the galaxy, fighting to maintain its grip on thousands of systems. Yet, both sides seemed tainted by the same corruption, each using the war to further their own interests at the expense of the common people.

Tersen had provided him with a rough explanation of the war, while Sumi had shared her disdain for the Jedi—those "crazy space wizards" who wielded the Force like magic, serving the Republic's agenda.

The question of his own identity remained a mystery. At the end of one lay-over day, after cleaning himself in the ship's fresher, having messed about with oily hydraulics all day, he studied his naked reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of what he saw.

The face that stared back at him was both familiar and foreign—a paradox that only deepened his confusion. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, though the exact age was hard to determine. His face was a strange mixture of youth and weariness, the features of someone who had lived a life far more grueling than his years should suggest. His body was heavily muscled and well-fed, like someone who had been subject to hard physical labour, or years of intense, frequent training, and had never lacked the food to support these efforts. He ran his calloused hands over his skin, feeling the ridges of his muscles, trying to recall what had shaped them. Was he a dock worker? A laborer? Or had he been a warrior, trained to fight in battles he could no longer remember? The scars on his body offered no clues—only more questions. There was the double cut down the entire left side of his face, a mark that might have been the result of a vicious fight. His torso was a canvas of smaller scars, scattered across his flesh like a grim constellation. A strange, dark web covered his left shoulder and back, its origin a mystery.

And then there were the larger scars—two long ones tracing over his abdomen, and two circular ones that matched the marks on his back. What could have caused such injuries? Had he been caught in an accident? A starship crash? A speeder wreck? Or had he been in the line of fire, these strange patterns the result of blaster shots? But the scars didn't look like typical blaster wounds—the edges were too clean, too precisely cauterized. Had he been a soldier, a bounty hunter who had found himself in over his head? Or worse, had he been tortured, each scar a testament to the pain he could no longer recall?

The riddles his reflection posed were endless, each scar a chapter in a story he couldn't read. He looked healthy enough—at least on the surface. But there were the constant aches in his joints, and the persistent headaches that never quite left him. His hair, pitch black and falling in messy strands to his shoulders, suggested a man who had once taken care in his appearance, but who had since long let that care fall by the wayside.

His clothes, crumpled in a pile at his feet, were no help in unraveling the mystery of his past. Black cargo pants, dark brown boots, a black shirt—it was the kind of garb anyone in the galaxy might wear, from dockhands to smugglers to mercenaries. There were no distinguishing marks, no clues to his identity. Each night, he stared into the mirror, hoping for a spark of recognition, a flash of memory that would give him a name, a purpose. But the longer he stared, the more the answers eluded him.

Who was he? What had led him to drift unconscious in an escape pod, lost in a forsaken part of the galaxy? The questions circled in his mind, growing more urgent with each passing day. And yet, the answers remained just out of reach, hidden behind a veil of darkness that refused to lift. As the days aboard the Vulture turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Black couldn't shake the feeling that his past was out there somewhere, waiting for him. But for now, all he could do was keep moving forward, even if each step took him further from the truth.

Black had overheard plenty of talk about the Trade Federation, but it wasn't until they planned their relief mission to Tersen's homeworld that he truly grasped the weight of the corporation's tyranny. Mapuzo, once a minor mining world, was now suffocating under a Trade Federation blockade. The Separatists, allied with the Federation, wanted to force the planet into their fold, turning it into a strategic supply hub. To coerce Mapuzo into submission, the Trade Federation had cut off all essential goods—food, medicine, even clean water.

Tersen spoke of the suffering her people had endured long before the blockade began. The CIS had demanded more and more ore, forcing mining operations that poisoned the land and killed countless workers. The soil had become so toxic that growing crops was nearly impossible. It was a story Black had heard too often: a planet bled dry by corporate greed, its people abandoned to die in silence.

The Republic had tried to break the blockade, but their efforts had failed. Tersen's family, like so many others, was trapped, slowly starving. The Vulture's mission was to smuggle in food and supplies to Tersen's village, but the odds were stacked against them.

"And how exactly do you imagine making it through a planetary blockade?" Ronnor's skepticism was sharp, but Tersen's resolve was unwavering. "All I know is that we can't just let them die," she said. "They were already out of rations last time I got a transmission through."

Black listened, his mind heavy with thought. Another headache began to pulse at his temples, but this time, something strange happened. The pain shifted into something else—something familiar, yet ungraspable. His tangled thoughts straightened into a clear idea, as if an unseen hand guided them.

"What if we sneak past the blockade before they spot us?" Black's suggestion was met with a chorus of disbelief.

"WHAT?!" The crew echoed in unison.

Black explained his plan. The skepticism on their faces was palpable.

"So, you basically suggest we jump and exit hyperspace OUTSIDE the known lanes, flying blind and hoping we don't crash into debris? You're insane!" Tersen shot back.

"Maybe I am. But while you were making your plans, I studied the space maps around Mapuzo. It feels like an unregistered jump is possible without too much risk."

"You want us to risk our lives based on a feeling?" Sumi's eyes narrowed, her tone icy.

"A strong feeling. I can't explain it, but I know it will work. Do you have a better idea?"

"Even if we survive that jump and end up in an exit spot that isn't monitored or blocked by debris, we'd have to make it planet side insanely fast to not get spotted. The Vulture is a freighter, not a starfighter."

"I think I can tune our sub-light engines a little."

"Again: you're crazy!"

"Give me a chance. I will work on those engines until we set off to gather the supplies, and we can test them. If I manage to boost them enough, we could try my idea."

Silence fell over the group. The danger was undeniable, but so was the need. With no better plan in sight, they reluctantly agreed to let Black attempt his modifications.

For the next week, Black buried himself in the sublight engine compartments, tuning and tweaking until he was satisfied. When the ship was ready for a test, the results were convincing—those not strapped in were violently thrown back by the sudden surge of acceleration.

The thought of navigating uncharted hyperspace lanes still filled the crew with dread, but Black's modifications were undeniably working. As if by some miracle, they made it to Mapuzo's surface undetected, landing near Tersen's village. Ronnor, Marath, and Tersen praised Black's work, though Sumi's lingering distrust was evident in the cold stares she cast his way.

Mazupo's landscape looked and felt like something sprung from a nightmare. Everything was dusty and scorched, it was ice cold and where houses and huts couldn't be repaired anymore, the villagers vegetated in makeshift tents. The supplies the Vulture had brought were so insignificant set against what these people needed. They could help so, so little.

Following his body's natural urge to move, Black had always spent a good junk of his free time exercising and lifting crates in the cargo hold. Now he was glad about this instinctive habit and the strength that came with it. They didn't have a repulsorlift available, so it was left to his and Ronnor's unassisted physical strength to unload the goods and foodstuffs from the Vulture and distribute it over the village, or what was left of it.

As Black hauled another load, his eyes roamed the devastated landscape. Debris from past battles littered the ground, alongside the lifeless bodies of clone troopers. But what broke him were the faces of the civilians—etched with bewilderment and despair. Why us? Why had war come to their doorstep? A woman with a small child clinging to her legs walked up and held out a cup to him, steam curling from its rim, and he realized she wasn't asking for it to be filled but offering him a hot drink. She probably saw a tired man, his face pinched by the cold, in need of something warming. She was, frankly, thin, and ugly, worn out by poverty; she had nothing. And still she tried to help him despite struggling to survive herself.

Suddenly, everything in Black's mind spun. There was this perplexing, mystifying sensation again, bizarre and oddly familiar at the same time. He felt the collective pain of the villagers as if it were his own. It was overwhelming, and he nearly collapsed under the weight of it all, clasping his head as a silent cry escaped his lips.

Why

Why do these people have to suffer and to die? What have they done to deserve this?

Why did nobody help them? Why did the people and institutions in power allow this? Why did the leaders on either Republic or Separatist side prioritize their greed, their quest for power over the basic needs and survival of their people?

Black felt still numb as the Vulture lifted off, making its way into orbit. He didn't notice the ten blips appearing on the radar until Buster's frantic beeping tore him from his thoughts.

The Vulture was a freight ship. Despite her now being a smuggler's vessel, Sumi nor Tersen had ever thought of equipping it with any kind of weaponry. The thought would have been futile anyway, such modifications were expensive, and credits were always sparse.

"So much for a stealth operation," Marath muttered. "That's ten Trade Federation starfighters. Hyena class."

"And what's that?" Black asked, the term unfamiliar.

"We're about to be dead, Black!" Marath snapped. "Droid starfighters with laser cannons and all kinds of nastiness. They can choose exactly how they want to blow us out of the sky!"

At first, shock threatened to paralyze him, but then that strange sensation returned. Time seemed to slow, and he could almost sense the droids' binary-coded intent—their trajectory, the moment they would fire.

"They have to hit us first," Black muttered, yanking the sublight thrusters to full reverse. The sudden deceleration caused the droid fighters to overshoot their target.

What followed was a blur of wild maneuvers. Black threw the Vulture into a chaotic dance, spiraling and twisting at a pace that pushed the ship's structure to its limits. Missiles locked onto them were thrown off course by the ship's erratic movements, crashing harmlessly into space. Droid fighters collided in the confusion, turning their own ranks into a mess of debris.

Finally, they reached a jump point—an official one this time. The calming blue streaks of hyperspace filled the viewport, and Black slumped in his seat, sweat pouring from his face. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened. He had outflown an entire squad of droid fighters. How was that possible? What was happening to him?

"We're… not… dead," Marath breathed in disbelief.

Sumi and Ronnor were silent, but Tersen let out a long, banshee-like scream that reverberated through the cockpit, nearly shattering the transparisteel windows.

The question of his identity gnawed at him still. Sure, he was a damn good pilot with reflexes that bordered on the supernatural—incredibly fast, almost inhumanly so. But how? How had he managed to outfly the droids above Mapuzo, droids that had far superior reaction times compared to any organic being? The more he thought about it, the more perplexed he became. What did these abilities say about who he truly was?

Nearly a year had passed since he'd joined the crew of the Vulture, and in that time, he had proven himself not only as a pilot but also as a skilled mechanic. He had a knack for fixing the neglected ship and its assortment of broken-down droids, much to the delight of Sumi, the self-proclaimed captain of their ragtag group. The mission to Mapuzo had left the ship in disrepair, and Black wasn't even close to finishing all the necessary repairs. He spent a good ten minutes staring into the void, his mind drifting through the endless questions that haunted him. With a shake of his head, he snapped back to reality. There was work to be done.

The persistent squeaking of the wrench grated on Sumi's nerves. She turned her head, ready to snap at Black, who was struggling to loosen a stubborn screw behind a control screen. But as she watched him, her anger dissolved into a cold silence. She found herself lost in thought, her eyes lingering on him as he worked. Black had become an invaluable asset to the crew. He wasn't just a good pilot—he was the reason the Vulture had survived their mission to Tersen's village. His mechanical skills had kept their ship flying, and he did everything she asked without complaint. But despite his usefulness, there was something about him that made her uneasy.

He's still a Jedi.

But not the man he is now, he isn't.

Her hands balled into fists, trembling with suppressed emotion. As if sensing her turmoil, Black suddenly turned to face her, his disconcertingly intense gaze meeting hers.

"What is wrong?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

She didn't respond, her mind racing.

"You hate me, don't you?" he pressed, his tone unwavering.

Her silence hung heavy in the air.

"What did I do?" he demanded. "Nothing. This is not about you."

"You lie."

"Go back to doing your job, Black, or I might have you thrown out of the airlock after all."

He stood there, wrench in hand, his body tense with barely restrained anger. For a moment, Sumi felt a flicker of fear. She was unarmed and not a trained fighter. By his physicality alone Black could overwhelm her, even if he remembered none of his Jedi training.

He just stared at her with a mix of frustration and resignation.

"Sumi, listen. I have no recollection of who I was before you and your crew picked me up. I don't know what I did for you to hate me, but it's obvious, palpable, that you do. You know more than you're letting on. By all means, kill me or tell me what I did wrong, but stop glaring at me and stop blaming me for something I didn't do or can't remember."

He slammed the wrench down on the floor and stormed out of the bridge, leaving Sumi to grapple with the storm of emotions he had stirred up.

I have to be more on my toes if I wanna fool a Jedi, she thought, her heart pounding.

Black retreated to the solitude of the cargo bay, burying his face in his hands. He had planned to sit and wallow in his misery, but his thoughts kept spiraling. Why couldn't he remember anything? Why did Sumi hate him so much? Nothing in his life made sense. His gaze drifted to a control panel that had come loose during their skirmish with the Trade Federation patrol. How had the crew kept this bucket of bolts together before he'd joined them? Sighing, he reached out to nudge the panel back into place, but it wouldn't budge. The whole thing would need to be removed, rewired, and reconnected. He yanked it off the wall in frustration.

A long, cylindrical object fell out of the compartment, clattering to the floor. It was made of metal, painted black, and heavily scratched. It was long enough to be gripped with both hands, but it lacked buttons or ornamentation. One end had a pike-shaped attachment and a flat ring. He picked it up, examining it closely. Was it some kind of tool? But what for?

The moment his hand closed around it, a searing pain shot up his arm and into his brain. An ear-splitting scream tore from his throat as he doubled over, the contents of his stomach rising up in a nauseating rush. He collapsed to the floor, heaving beside the puddle of vomit, as his mind exploded with memories. Images fired through his consciousness in rapid succession—an exploding space station, white and red streaks against a black sky, space battles, lightsaber blades clashing. Droids. Thousands of battle droids firing blasters. An overwhelming darkness in the Force. Then, a young, tall man screaming, crying. Anakin! The name burned in his mind, followed by another face—grey-skinned, silver-haired, an Echani child smiling up at him. The fragments of his memory violently condensed, forming a whole.

The cargo bay door slid open, and hurried footsteps approached. A large hand gently touched his shoulder.

"Hooo, what's happening? You okay, Black? That scream sounded like someone murdered you!"

Marath's voice was shaky as he tried to lighten the mood. But Black's fist shot out, stopping just short of the Zabrak's nose, a black cylinder in his hand emitting a glowing purple beam.

"Oh, kriff, no! Black, please… I can explain! Please, please, don't kill me! Please…"

"Shut up! How much longer did Sumi plan to keep this from me? And my name is not Black."

Marath trembled, backing away with his hands raised in surrender.

"Please… Don't kill me. Please! Remember what we've been through together? Haven't you become one of us? Haven't we become friends? Please!"

"Friends? That's some friends who would hide from me that I'm a Jedi." His breath came in labored gasps as he stared into Marath's eyes. The Zabrak whimpered softly. Finally, the sizzling blade was deactivated.

"I'm not gonna kill you, stop whining. Tell me where you've hidden the rest of my gear, and then we'll go talk to our dear Captain Sumi."

They found Sumi on the bridge. Black reignited the lightsaber in a show of intent, and for a fleeting moment, shock flickered in her eyes.

"You found it," she stated flatly.

"I did, and I remember who I am now."

"Oh, isn't that great? So happy for you!" Disdain was blazing from her eyes.

"Oh, fuck off. Did I throw you out of the airlock even though I wanted to? No. Did I sell your sordid space wizard ass to the Trade Federation and take the million credits they pay for a Jedi's head? No, because they would have tortured and killed you! And stars, we could have used the money! We all have mouths to feed, and that blasted war you Jedi scum started makes that a whole lot harder!"

"It wasn't the Jedi who started this mess. They're trying to end it, although they're admittedly doing a lousy job."

"Excuses! And even if they didn't start it, you and your holy Jedi Order are still nothing but a self-righteous, hypocritical bunch of liars and cowards."

Sumi jumped from her chair, her fury boiling over.

"What happened?" Black asked, his voice calm.

"What?"

"What happened for you to hate the Jedi with such a passion?"

"Well, scarface, they let my parents die. Too busy saving themselves when my family's house crashed down burning. The battle of Jabiim. Maybe you were even there? A quarrel between the Seppies and the sorry folk that decided to support the Republic, and my family had nothing to do with it and still got caught in the crossfire. Instead of helping us, the lightsaber-swinging maniacs who were there ran for their own safety. So you can be really glad I didn't just kill you when I had the chance! How do you think this would have gone down, us telling you that you're one of these filthy fanatics? You would have sold us off to the authorities or killed us, or I don't know what."

"Calm down. I understand."

"Ah, do you?" she spat.

"Yes. You're not the only one who lost someone to this war. And while I am a Jedi, that doesn't mean I agree with everything they do and say."

Awkward silence filled the room.

"Were you on Jabiim?" Sumi asked, her voice softer now.

"No."

The fury in Sumi's eyes cooled slightly.

"What's your real name?" she inquired.

"It's better if you don't know."

"I see. What now?"

Black let his gaze wander, pondering his next move. The hurt and overwhelm he had felt on Tersen's homeworld still echoed through him like a fresh wound. The hatred he had felt for the Trade Federation. In that destroyed village, accepting the hot water from a woman who had nothing, he had been but a powerless man. Now, things were different. Now, he had a name to the formerly faceless enemy, and he saw the center of the target very clearly. Now, he remembered who he was and what he was capable of.

"You said you forewent a million credits by not handing me over to the Separatists," Black said, his tone measured.

"Well, yes. We're doing what we can to survive, but we're not bad people. Not like…the Jedi, or either Republic or Separatist politicians," Tersen chimed in.

"You're not bad people, that's true. And you could really use the money."

"And?"

"You can still turn me in and cash in on the bounty."

"Excuse me? Have you gone mad? Do you want to die? What in the blazes are you talking about?"

A grim smile curled on Black's lips. "We all don't particularly like the Trade Federation. Especially you, Tersen. I've had a few run-ins with them myself, which is all you need to know. So how do we hurt them? I have an idea about that. In case something goes wrong, the less any of you knows, the better. Here's what we do. We fly to Cato Neimoidia. You hand me in, take the bounty. I'll take it from there."

"You, Jedi, are the next level of insane."

"I can't claim to be right in my mind, that's true."

"How in all moons and stars do you imagine pulling that off and not dying? You won't even have that laser sword of yours since we'll have to hand it in along with you to prove you're a Jedi."

"I don't need a weapon to fight. Once you're gone, I'll incapacitate my guards. Then I'll get my weapon back, finish my personal business, and steal a ship to get off the planet."

"That's impossible!"

"Not for me, it's not."

"As much as I hate you, I can't let you do that. You'll get yourself killed."

"Sumi, I have much respect for you. More than I have for most Jedi. But you still don't get to tell me what to do."

"How will we know if you've made it?"

"You'll know. Just follow the holo news in the days after the mission. If my plan works, you'll hear about it."

"Just what do you plan to do?"

"It's really better if you don't know."

They made their first stop as planned at a Trade Federation-controlled spaceport, under the pretense of re-supplying their ship. While Marath and Ronnor busied themselves with the necessary transactions, Black vanished for a while, only returning shortly before their scheduled departure.

He had spent the time gathering intel, and upon his return, he delivered his findings with a calm demeanor that belied the danger of what they were about to undertake. "A Trade Federation board meeting is scheduled on Cato Neimoidia in a week," he reported. "We'll arrive two days beforehand, under the guise of turning in a captured Jedi."

Sumi eyed him warily. "You know I'll have to rough you up a bit to sell this act. Make it believable."

He responded with a sharp grin. "An apology? From you? Come now, Sumi. You'll get to beat up a Jedi. Enjoy it while you can."

As they arrived on Cato Neimoidia, six heavily armed guards awaited the delivery of their captive. Handling a Jedi wasn't routine work, and they took no chances. The crew disembarked, and Sumi led the stumbling, visibly intoxicated man off the ship's cargo ramp, her grip firm and her voice cold as she handed over his lightsaber.

"We drugged him," she explained, the implication clear. "He shouldn't be any trouble."

The guards accepted her words and the captive without question. A bounty of this magnitude required no further explanation. The crew and their prisoner had agreed on the timing—Black would ensure the Vulture had left the planet before he made his move.

They threw him into a cell, leaving only two guards behind to watch him. Once the agreed-upon amount of time had passed, with a subtle gesture, he used the Force to choke them into unconsciousness, then quickly freed himself. His lightsaber wasn't far; retrieving it was easy. Cloaking himself in the shadows of the night, he vanished into Cato Neimoidia's sprawling cityscape.

The next morning, an electronics parts shop discovered that a small, programmable holoprojector had been stolen. The thief had left no trace.

Disabling the security around the board chamber was laughably easy. For a place housing the Trade Federation's top brass, one would have expected tighter security. Kenshin knew that removing Gunray and his cronies wouldn't bring an end to the corruption or the war. Others would simply take their place. Still, he had his reasons.

Slowing the Trade Federation's operations, even temporarily, was one goal. The second was revenge—for Naboo, for Nanta, for Mapuzo.

Revenge is not the Jedi way.

The words of Master Yoda echoed in his mind, joined by memories of his own mentor, Master Fay. But Kenshin brushed them aside, filled with a regret that weighed heavily on his conscience.

I'm afraid we're past that point, he thought grimly. I've never been a true Jedi anyway.

This wasn't just about revenge; it was a message.

Whoever you are, Sidious, I'm coming for you. Your crimes will be answered for.

The boardroom was an obscene display of wealth, with its members draped in the finest attire the galaxy could offer—a stark contrast to the desolation of Mapuzo. The sheer excess in this room, while billions starved and suffered, filled Kenshin with a cold fury.

There is no emotion, there is peace? How in all moons and stars could the Jedi Order ever believe such bullshit.

The lights went out just as Gunray began to speak, his voice cut off by the sudden darkness. The room plunged into blackness, save for the faint glow of the city lights seeping in from below. Those dim rays revealed the silhouette of a cloaked figure, a being masked and concealed in shadows.

Gunray's terror was palpable as an invisible force gripped his throat, lifting him into the air. "Who…are…what…?" the Neimoidian croaked, his voice strained.

"This is your time to die," Kenshin replied coldly. "You know what you've done."

With a flick of his hand, Kenshin snapped Gunray's neck, letting the lifeless body drop to the floor. Panic erupted among the remaining board members, their frantic attempts to call for help met with silence. The room was sound-sealed, and all communication had been cut off. In mere moments, the entire board was dead.

Kenshin placed the stolen holoprojector on Gunray's body, activating it. The device projected a symbol—two intertwined triangles, inverted—and a brief message: "Nute Gunray was killed by the ghosts of his past and present. End the war!"

The following day, the holonet buzzed with news of the massacre. Some rejoiced at the death of the Trade Federation's leadership; others were outraged, while many remained indifferent. Investigators found no traces, no leads—nothing but the cryptic hologram.

On Serenno, Count Dooku clutched at his neck, gasping as the wrath of his master, Sidious, unleashed itself through a holo transmission. The Dark Lord's fury was matched only by his frustration. They knew nothing about this new enemy, and for the first time, Sidious felt the chilling sensation of becoming the prey.

Aboard a small freighter now far from Cato Neimoidia, Tersen stared at her datapad, disbelief and shock etched on her face. "By the Force or whatever Jedi believe in…it happened," she whispered. "Black did it."

The crew sat in stunned silence.

"I could never have imagined this is what he would do," Tersen said, her voice trembling, tears brimming in her eyes. "And we helped him."

Sumi, ever the pragmatist, remained composed. "An impressive feat, that's for sure. And brutal. But don't feel guilty, Tersen. Remember what the Trade Federation did to your home. There's nothing the Jedi could do to make up for my family's death, but Black did what he could. He's a good man, for a Jedi. I respect that."

The night was his ally. Kenshin knew it wouldn't take long for the bodies to be discovered—maybe two or three hours, depending on how long the board members were expected to meet. But by then, he planned to be far away. Enhanced by the Force, his movements were a blur of acrobatic feats as he fled through the darkness, leaping from building to building, making his way to the spaceport.

He chose the most inconspicuous ship available, a modest freighter near a repair hangar. Slicing into its systems, he launched quickly, the fuel tanks half-full—enough to get off-planet and find somewhere safer to lay low. From there, he would plot his return to Coruscant, to the Jedi Temple. He needed time to recover, to explain his absence, and to figure out how to stop the madness consuming the galaxy.

The ship's last coordinates had been set to Raydonia, a remote Outer Rim world with few settlements. It would serve as a temporary refuge, far from the prying eyes of Cato Neimoidia. As the ship jumped to hyperspace, Kenshin slumped into the pilot's seat, exhaustion weighing on him.

Physically, he felt awful—hungry, sleep-deprived, and battered. He had not eaten nor slept since the Vulture had delivered him to his staged capture. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the horror gnawing at his mind, now that the adrenaline was wearing off and he began torealize what he had done. He had killed before, but this…this was different. He felt tainted, hollow inside, as if a piece of his soul had withered away. The dark side's tendrils clung to him, tightening their grip.

This is Nanta all over again, he thought, but on a much larger scale.

He questioned whether he was finally succumbing to the dark side, the very darkness he had never feared. Was this the price? The slow death of his soul?

It's not like I never tried to kill myself, he mused bitterly, sinking deeper into despair.

Hours passed as he remained motionless, trapped in his thoughts. If my soul is what it takes to end all this suffering, then so be it. It's a price I'm willing to pay.

Kenshin jolted awake to the sound of frantic beeping from the ship's controls. The violent shaking of the hull and the rapidly approaching planet's surface told him all he needed to know—the ship was about to crash. Panic surged as he realized his mistake. The ship had been sitting next to a repair hangar for a reason.

He released a series of hefty curses that could have smouldered the ears of a pirate, discovering that the landing thrusters and gear were defective, and he was already caught in the planet's gravity. A crash was inevitable, but he could still soften the impact. Gripping the controls, he manually adjusted the main thrusters, fighting to keep the ship from plummeting too fast.

He would survive this. He had to.

The Council be damned, the Jedi Order as a whole, Anakin thought. I do everything you ask of me. I try so hard. When is it going to be enough? When are you going to say, 'Okay, Anakin Skywalker, you're good enough'? Only for Padmé was he ever enough. She was his wife. Wife. It was such a serious and marvelous word. It shouldn't have been a dirty secret. Anakin wondered what would happen if he went straight to Yoda and told him he had a wife, that he didn't agree with all the whimsical Jedi rules on banishing love and attachment. He could ask the old troll—respectfully—what he was going to do about it.

He imagined Yoda's face and, with a grin, Kenshin's witnessing of this conversation. Kenshin would have loved it.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the crate behind which he had hidden was pushed aside. "What's wrong, Skyguy?" Ahsoka's voice cut through his reverie. She fixed him with her best you-can't-avoid-me stare. "It took me ages to find you. We're ready to roll."

Anakin shook his head, pushing the daydreams away. There was no time for such thoughts now. They had hastily prepared for launching their ride to the rescue under a very flimsy pretense, but no one had asked questions, and so they were on their way to Raydonia, where Maul's request for Kenobi had been sent from.

As they approached the surface, hoping to locate Obi-Wan, they found only more questions.

Three ravaged settlements lay before them, the remnants of what were once thriving communities. In the distance, a crashed ship bore the markings of the Trade Federation. Near the villages, an exploded Jedi transport—Obi-Wan's ship—smoldered quietly, while a massive, cube-shaped monstrosity loomed ominously intact.

"I assume that's what Maul and his ferocious partner use for a ship," Anakin commented, his tone grim.

They landed and began to search the perimeter. Not a living soul was in sight, only the haunting silence of death. Anakin decided that Ahsoka would stay hidden and guard what was presumably Maul's ship, while he would set off on foot to search the neighboring village.

"Skyguy gets the fun part again," Ahsoka muttered, not pleased with being left behind, but Anakin was adamant. Wherever Maul and his monstrous companion had taken Obi-Wan, they might return to take off, and that was something they couldn't risk happening.

Alone and waiting, Ahsoka's montrals, which heightened her ability to sense noises or movements, picked up a faint sound. It wasn't her imagination, she was sure of it. Something, or someone, was nearby. The Force was her ally, but it didn't stop her heart from pounding faster as she strained to identify the source.

She kicked a rock, its clattering noise echoing in the oppressive silence. But then, she noticed something else—a faint creak. Her eyes darted toward the sound, and she saw it: a trap door next to a nearby house was slowly opening. She pressed herself against the wall, her breath catching in her throat.

A cloaked figure emerged from the underground.

This was her moment. She knew she was alone, only meant to scout, but the thrill of a potential encounter with an enemy swelled within her. She was a Jedi Padawan, Anakin's Padawan. She had flown starfighters into battle, faced Dooku's minions before. How bad could this be?

Her confidence faltered for a brief moment—this figure didn't match the description of the large Zabrak they were hunting. But could she afford to hesitate? What if this was a chance to stop the Sith assassin and save countless lives? She couldn't call for Anakin without alerting her target. This was her opportunity to prove herself, to make her Master proud.

She took a deep breath, then leapt.

The warning in the Force was faint but enough. The cloaked figure reacted swiftly, fending off Ahsoka's attack with almost nonchalant ease. Damn, he was fast. And strong. Her lightsabers clashed against his blade, but each strike met a solid, unyielding defense. She was everywhere at once, her agility and determination driving her forward, but her opponent remained unphased, almost amused.

She was everywhere at once, furiously trying to penetrate his defense. She was skilled, too. Skilled to a level that made him enjoy the fight, so he kept it going for a few more moments.

Terror crept into her heart as she realized she was hopelessly outmatched. She had never felt fear like this before. The certainty that she was going to die consumed her thoughts. Every blow she attempted was met with a jarring stop, her strikes blocked effortlessly. He was toying with her, she realized, playing with her as a predator plays with its prey.

Why have I been this stupid? she thought, her anger at herself rising. I should have sensed how powerful he is. Why doesn't he end it already? I'm not a mouse the snake toys with before finally devouring it.

With a final, desperate effort, she lunged again, but her lightsabers were suddenly extinguished, and her weapons were pulled from her grip by an unseen force. She was thrust backward, pinned against the wall, the breath knocked out of her.

"A youngling?" he asked incredulously, staring at the young, female Togruta whose eyes had turned from wide-eyed and scared to narrow, angry slits.

"I'm not a youngling! I'm a Jedi Padawan!" she protested.

"A stupid, reckless Padawan. What in the blazes did you think, wildly attacking an unknown opponent? I could have killed you!" he admonished.

The man spoke galactic Basic with a strange accent…she couldn't make out what it was. Was he a Jedi? Doubts began to creep into her mind. A Sith assassin would have killed her on the spot given the chance. He was no Zabrak. It was instead a human who appeared as the man lifted his hood and pulled the cloth mask from his face. A very prominent double scar adorned the left side of his face.

She glared at her captor as best she could, trying to mask the fear bubbling within her. "If you kill me, my Master will turn you into bantha fodder. I've fought other Sith assassins before. I'm not afraid of you!"

The man, now clearly visible, chuckled, a mix of amusement and frustration in his expression. "A Sith assassin? You thought I was a Sith assassin and still attacked me? That's brave... and stupid. What do you know about that assassin?"

"I'm not gonna tell you anything, scarface! Let me go!"

He stared at her, then, to her surprise, handed back her lightsabers. She hesitated, sensing no malice from him. The fear in her subsided, replaced by confusion.

"I'm not trying to kill you, young one. I'd rather hand you back to your Master so they can teach you some caution. Until then, it seems we're after the same thing. I found this ravaged village, all the people dead, lightsaber marks on most of the corpses. I'm searching for whoever did this. There's nobody around, so I've been checking cellars for survivors or clues. But I have no idea what I'm dealing with. If you have any information, I'd appreciate it."

"Who says I can or will trust you?" she shot back, her voice laced with suspicion.

"That's a fair question," he conceded, his tone calm. "I can't prove I'm the good guy. All you have is my word. And the fact that I didn't kill you when I had the chance. If I were a Sith assassin, would I be asking you to help me stop more people from getting killed?"

Ahsoka scrutinized him, her mind racing. He didn't act like a Sith, but something about him was... off. She couldn't sense anything from him in the Force, as if he were a ghost.

"Are you a Jedi?" she asked, still wary.

"I guess. At least, I was one before I ended up on this blasted rock."

"Why don't you enlighten me, shorty? Who are you, and how did you get here?"

The man chuckled again. "You're calling ME short? You're the size of a Kowakian Monkey Lizard and you fight like one too. Anyway... there was a high-ranking senator, who was a good friend of my apprentice. The senator got kidnapped, and my Padawan and I rode to the rescue. We found her, but the space station she was held on exploded. My Padawan and the senator escaped, but I wasn't so lucky. I ended up in an escape pod and eventually woke up on a scavenger's ship with no memory of who I was. My memory came back only a few days ago."

Ahsoka frowned, trying to process his story. "Your Padawan didn't come looking for you?"

"He probably thought I died in the explosion."

"What happened then? Why didn't you go straight back to Coruscant?"

"That was my plan, but I didn't have a ship. I acquired one—"

"You stole one," Ahsoka interjected. "Jedi don't steal! You could have sent a distress signal to the Temple."

He smirked at her interruption. "How perceptive. Yes, I stole it. And no, I couldn't send a signal—my comm gear was destroyed. I had no way to contact the Temple, so I took a ship from the Trade Federation. They deserved it anyway. I was on my way back to Coruscant, but the ship malfunctioned and crashed on this planet. So, here we are."

Ahsoka tilted her head, still skeptical. "If you're a Jedi, why can't I sense you in the Force? You're like a ghost."

"Force stealth. You're not too bad at it yourself—I almost didn't sense you coming."

"If you're a Jedi, why hide?" she pressed.

"Whoever we're hunting here is likely Force-sensitive. I'd rather not be spotted. I chose to assess before I strike, you sassy lizard rat."

She wrinkled her nose at the nickname, but the man's story was starting to make sense. It was an adventurous story, but she had seen stranger things happen.

"You have a point, grumpy dumpy," she finally said, nodding. "You probably heard of a Sith assassin named Darth Maul, killed by Obi-Wan Kenobi years ago. Nobody knows how, but he's back, causing chaos to draw out Obi-Wan. He found another Zabrak warrior, and together they killed a Jedi Master and his Padawan on Devaron. The Council decided Maul wasn't a threat to the Republic and sent Obi-Wan alone to deal with him. That's why my Master and I came to help, before anything happens to Obi-Wan."

"Why don't you contact your Master, and we can finish this together?" Kenshin suggested. "If we're dealing with two Zabrak Sith warriors, we might need backup."

Ahsoka bit her lip. "Uh... my commlink, it got crushed during the fight."

"Of course," he sighed. "Would have been too easy. You remind me of someone. What's your name, 'lizard rat'?"

"Ahsoka Tano," she replied with a smirk. "And don't call me a rodent. What's your name?"

"I'm Kenshin Kano. Who is your Master?"

Ahsoka's eyes widened in shock, and Kenshin didn't need her to say it—the name echoed in the Force between them, loud and clear.

"Anakin," he whispered.