Aaron stood on the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, watching as his newly commissioned elite operatives officially entered his service. This moment marked more than just a graduation—it was the culmination of a strategy designed to directly counter the growing threat of Rebel commando units.
These soldiers were the answer to a problem he had long struggled to address.
The only Commando group Aaron genuinely feared was Luke Skywalker's Rogue Squadron. Not even his own elite Shadow Squadron could confidently guarantee victory against them. The rebel alliance's elite had a reputation not just for skill, but for performing the impossible—and that made them dangerous in ways standard tactics couldn't predict.
The Battle of the Crimson Nebulon had been a turning point. That engagement had forced Aaron to reconsider his assumptions about the Rebel Alliance. He had once believed their strength lay solely in starfighter superiority—an overwhelming advantage in space dogfights and surgical strikes. But that was a miscalculation.
A grave one.
It wasn't just their starfighters that made them dangerous. It was their unpredictability. Their use of unconventional tactics. Their resilience. And perhaps most troubling of all—their luck.
In that battle, Aaron had simultaneously overestimated Rebel starfighter groups and underestimated his own TIE Interceptor squadrons. The end result had been a decisive Imperial victory and the total annihilation of the enemy fleet. On paper, it was a triumph.
But Aaron knew better. Victory sometimes concealed its own flaws.
He had gone too far. His anti-fighter capabilities had been strengthened to the point of absurdity. His fleet had fielded fifteen Lancer-class frigates—ships designed exclusively to target starfighters. In a battle where his Interceptors had already overwhelmed the enemy, the Lancers had proven redundant. Worse than that, they had proven useless.
That misallocation of resources had forced a fundamental reevaluation of doctrine.
"Rather than having warships counter starfighters, warships now counter warships," Aaron had written in his operational report.
He had acted quickly.
The Nebulon-B frigates, once staples in his fleet, were completely removed and replaced with four Striker-class medium cruisers—vessels designed for more independent operations but requiring no additional crew. Their flexibility made them invaluable.
He then expanded his Carrack-class complement to twelve and made a significant weapons overhaul. Ten of the heavy ion cannons were swapped out for missile launchers, allowing for more versatile engagement profiles against a range of targets.
His thoughts, however, were interrupted by the conclusion of the ceremony. The newly inducted operatives began to filter out of the hall in organized columns, heading for the transports that would ferry them to their new assignment aboard his flagship.
Aaron turned from the balcony and strode purposefully out of the hall. Colonel Catcher, ever silent and precise, fell in behind him as they made their way toward the hangar.
The Broadside-class cruisers should've arrived by now, Aaron thought as his boots clicked against the polished floor. I wonder how they'll perform in live combat.
The Broadside-class was a bold addition. Small, missile-focused cruisers equipped with forty heavy missile launchers and stocked with over 1,600 diamond-boron missiles—lethal against both starfighters and smaller warships. On paper, they were ideal for the fast-reaction engagements Aaron increasingly faced.
Yet as promising as they were, they paled in comparison to the centerpiece of his newly restructured fleet.
As Aaron stepped into the open-roof hangar, his gaze immediately found the colossal silhouette that dominated the clearing.
Lowered from orbit specifically for the ceremony, the Imperial II-class Star Destroyer, designated Leviathan, loomed like a deity of war on Felucia's vibrant surface. Its hull shimmered with fresh coatings of armor, its turbolaser batteries dormant but menacing. It was the new flagship of the 32nd Squadron.
And if one looked closely at the sky, they might spot her companions in high orbit—two Victory II-class Star Destroyers, the Relentless and the Griffon. Together, these three ships formed the new core of Aaron's restructured naval might.
Aaron's responsibilities had expanded drastically. Increasingly, he was hired or assigned to carry out rapid extermination missions against minor rebel cells. These were not traditional campaigns—they were short, brutal, and often conducted simultaneously across different systems.
His previous fleet had been highly effective as a unified force, but when divided, its strength diminished considerably.
So he adapted again.
By acquiring two additional flagship-level warships and expanding his support fleet, Aaron ensured that his command could now be split into three semi-independent task forces—each capable of striking decisively without sacrificing capability. It was a logistical headache, but operational gold.
And, surprisingly, acquiring these vessels had been less difficult than forming the Onyx Corps.
His reputation had become a force unto itself.
His name now echoed through Imperial HoloNet broadcasts, was whispered in High Command chambers, and discussed among intelligence analysts and fleet officers. He was no longer just a Commodore. He was a solution. A weapon.
His unit boasted the highest confirmed number of rebel eliminations in the Empire—even surpassing the infamous Death Squadron, though few could afford or dare to employ them for minor insurgencies.
Instead, regional Moffs turned to Aaron. And he never said no.
He accepted mission after mission, hunting rebel cells across the galaxy with the cold efficiency of a predator. The month following the Crimson Nebulon engagement had been especially fruitful. He had captured a rebel command ship and key figures like Luthan Devarra and Nyxi Vos—central operatives in the rebel underground.
Nyxi had quickly made a deal, trading valuable intelligence in exchange for leniency. She'd made sure to surrender herself to Imperial Intelligence, desperate to avoid falling into ISB hands—a fate synonymous with torture and eventual execution.
Thanks to her cooperation, the Imperial Intelligence gained a strategic windfall, and perhaps more significantly, the chance to upstage the ISB in the Emperor's eyes.
That single transaction changed the landscape.
Hannah, one of Intelligence's top operatives, was promoted to Department Chief of the newly formed Counter-Insurgency Division. And Aaron had been instrumental in ensuring the division's success through direct military action.
In recognition, he was named Chief within the Imperial Intelligence, granting him clearance equivalent to that of a naval admiral. The Intelligence Division, in turn, became his strongest supporter—particularly in his campaign to establish the Onyx Corps.
And so far, Aaron had successfully avoided any entanglement with Ysanne Isard, a presence as feared as it was political. Hannah handled that game. Aaron preferred combat. Strategy. War.
He wanted no part in the upper echelons of Imperial politics—no dealings with Grand Viziers, no interest in the Emperor's inner court, and certainly no desire to play the ISB's backstabbing games. He was a soldier, not a schemer.
ABOARD THE STAR DESTROYER THRANTA
Grand Admiral Felian Antilles sat in the command office aboard his freshly renamed Imperial II-class Star Destroyer, Thranta. A nostalgic name, chosen to honor his lost homeworld of Alderaan.
Felian still struggled with the trauma. Alderaan had not just been his birthplace—it had been his identity. His family had survived only because they lived on Coruscant, serving under Bail Organa. But Bail was gone too.
In the aftermath, Felian had become a ghost in Alderaani social circles. A man without a cause. Yet he had not resigned from the Empire. Disillusioned as he was, he still had a role to play.
He was being watched. He knew it. Software updates arrived too frequently. Security protocols changed without notice. Entire stormtrooper regiments had been rotated out and replaced with unfamiliar faces.
His most loyal troops—fellow Alderaanians—were either discharged, deserted, or dead by their own hand.
Once a representative of Alderaanian nobility within the Imperial Navy, Felian now spoke for no one. The nobles were dead. Their power extinguished.
But Felian had one card left to play.
Aaron Rysell.
He had observed the young officer since the days when Vice Admiral Corr had taken an interest in him. Felian had seen the tactical brilliance firsthand—the eerie precision with which Aaron predicted enemy movements, the almost unnatural ability to anticipate outcomes.
Perhaps even more impressive than Thrawn.
And so Felian gambled.
He spoke Aaron's name in the right rooms. Shared stories. Allowed rumors to blossom. When the political elite asked for solutions, Felian offered one: Rysell.
He crafted the myth behind the man. Not lies—but the truth, sharpened and amplified.
It worked.
Aaron's reputation was growing faster than anyone anticipated. Already, whispers suggested he was Thrawn's equal. And all the while, Felian remained in the background, cultivating his chosen successor.
But why?
What did Felian hope to gain by propping up this prodigy?
Aaron knew the question was coming. Nothing in the Empire came without a price. And sooner or later, the debt would be called.
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