"Hold the line! Hold the line!"
"We need reinforcements—now!"
"Comms are down! I can't raise anyone!"
"Contact left! They're flanking—"
The jungle night of Devaron erupted with blaster fire and screams. Clone troopers fought with desperate fury, their white armor streaked with mud and scoring from near-misses, but the Separatist forces came from everywhere at once—battle droids advancing in mechanical lockstep, Umbaran militia moving through the shadows like ghosts. What should have been a quiet garrison posting had transformed into a slaughter.
At the center of the chaos, Jedi Master Halsey stood like a pillar of calm amidst the storm. Her green lightsaber wove intricate patterns through the air, deflecting blaster bolts with practiced precision. Beside her, Padawan Knox fought with the fervor of youth, his own blade flashing blue as he covered his master's flank.
"Where did they come from?" Knox's voice carried frustration as he deflected another salvo. His head-tails—the distinctive mark of his Nautolan heritage—whipped back and forth as he spun to engage new targets.
"This is not the time for questions, Padawan." Halsey's tone remained measured despite the carnage surrounding them. "Focus. We must hold this position until help arrives."
If help arrived.
High above the battlefield, a single transport descended through Devaron's night sky. No fanfare. No warning. It glided past the aerial combat like a shadow, landing quietly behind the Separatist battle lines.
The boarding ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss.
Savage Opress emerged.
He stood at the ramp's edge for a long moment, yellow eyes scanning the battlefield spread before him. The sounds of war—blaster fire, screams, explosions—washed over him like a symphony. His nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of ozone and fear.
Then his gaze locked onto two points of colored light cutting through the darkness. Lightsabers.
There.
A feral grin split his face. Savage Opress threw back his head and roared—a sound that carried over the din of battle, primal and terrible.
He charged.
Battle droids scattered from his path like leaves before a storm. He didn't slow, didn't acknowledge them. His metal spear gleamed in his massive fist as he barreled toward the Republic lines with single-minded purpose.
An ARF trooper materialized in his path, heavy blaster rifle raised. "Contact! Big hostile, twelve o'clock—"
The trooper fired point-blank. The shot caught Savage square in the chest.
He didn't even flinch.
Savage's spear punched through the clone's armor like paper, the blade erupting from his back in a spray of crimson. The Zabrak warrior lifted the dying man off the ground, shook him once like a child's toy, then hurled the body aside.
"All units, focus fire! Bring that thing down!"
The ARF commander's voice cracked across the comm channel. A dozen troopers pivoted, training their weapons on the charging behemoth. The night lit up with concentrated blaster fire—a storm of superheated plasma converging on a single target.
Savage Opress ran straight through it.
Bolts that should have killed him outright splashed against an invisible barrier—the Force, raw and untrained but powerful enough to deflect the lethal barrage. Those that penetrated his crude defense seared his flesh, leaving black scorch marks across his tattooed skin.
He didn't slow down.
The first trooper to fall within reach of his spear died before he could scream. The second managed half a cry before Savage's backswing took his head off. The third, fourth, fifth—they fell like wheat before a scythe, the Zabrak's weapon a blur of lethal motion.
The ARF commander backed away, still firing, but his shots went wide. Fear had finally broken through military discipline.
Then a small figure blurred through the carnage, impossibly fast.
Savage Opress suddenly found his legs swept out from under him. He hit the ground hard, rolled—and a boot slammed into his chest with Force-enhanced strength, driving the air from his lungs. His spear shattered in two, the weapon's head spinning away into darkness.
Savage looked up into the determined face of Padawan Knox.
The young Nautolan stood in a fighting stance, his blue lightsaber humming, those distinctive head-tails streaming behind him. "You want the temple? You go through me."
For answer, Savage Opress lunged.
What followed was brutal and efficient. Knox was skilled—his master had trained him well—but he was still a Padawan, still learning. Savage Opress was raw violence given form, every movement driven by dark instinct and overwhelming strength.
They clashed in a flurry of strikes and counters. Knox's blade work was textbook perfect, his form impeccable. But every time he landed a blow, every time his lightsaber bit into Savage's flesh, the Zabrak barely seemed to notice. Pain only fueled his rage.
Savage's massive fist caught Knox across the jaw, spinning the Padawan's head with whiplash force. Before Knox could recover, another blow hammered into his ribs, cracking armor and bone alike.
"Knox!" Master Halsey's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with fear. "Disengage! Now!"
Knox tried. He truly tried. He triggered a Force-push, creating space, backpedaling toward his master's position—
Savage Opress was faster.
The Zabrak warrior exploded forward, closing the gap in an eyeblink. He came in low, below Knox's guard, and his shoulder drove into the Padawan's midsection like a battering ram. They went down in a tangle of limbs.
Knox hit the ground hard. Tried to rise. Savage's boot came down on his arm—and through the Force, every being on that battlefield heard the crack of breaking bone.
Knox screamed.
Savage stomped again. Another arm. Then a leg. Methodical. Brutal. The young Nautolan's cries echoed through the jungle, each one a knife in his master's heart.
"NO!"
But Savage Opress had already moved. His massive hand darted down, fingers closing around the hilt of Knox's fallen lightsaber. The weapon ignited with a snap-hiss, blue light painting the horror in stark relief.
Knox looked up, eyes wide with pain and dawning understanding.
The lightsaber descended.
One stroke. Clean. Final.
Knox's head rolled free, those distinctive head-tails going still. His body collapsed, lifeless.
"KNOX!"
Master Halsey's scream was equal parts anguish and fury. He charged across the battlefield like an avenging spirit, his green blade singing through the air. Clone troopers scrambled out of his path—they'd never seen their general like this, never seen the calm facade crack to reveal the grief-stricken man beneath.
He hit Savage Opress like a meteor.
His first strike would have decapitated a lesser opponent. Savage barely managed to raise the stolen lightsaber in time, the blades meeting in a shower of sparks. Halsey's assault was relentless—high, low, feint, thrust, slash—decades of training poured into every movement.
Savage gave ground. He had no formal training with a lightsaber, no understanding of forms or techniques. He fought on pure instinct, the weapon feeling alien and wrong in his massive hands. Halsey's blade slipped past his guard, scoring a burning line across his bicep.
He roared in pain and rage.
But even in his inexperience, Savage Opress learned. Each exchange taught him something new. The weight of the weapon. The way it moved. How to angle the blade to maximize its cutting power.
They traded blows—a dozen, two dozen. Halsey's technique was flawless, but his emotion made him reckless. Grief clouded her judgment. When Savage launched a wild overhead strike, he met it head-on rather than deflecting—
Their blades locked. Strength against strength.
For three seconds, they held there, trembling with effort. Then Savage pushed, and the raw power behind it sent Halsey's lightsaber flying from his grasp. The weapon spun end-over-end through the air before disappearing into the jungle undergrowth.
Savage's own stolen blade went with it, his overextended swing carrying it beyond his control.
Both combatants stood there for a frozen heartbeat—disarmed, breathing hard.
Halsey moved first. He was smaller, faster, and trained in unarmed combat. His boot snapped up, catching Savage in the chest once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Each blow would have staggered a normal opponent.
Savage Opress caught his ankle on the fourth kick.
Halsey's eyes widened as he felt herself lifted bodily into the air. For one impossible moment, he hung there, suspended by the Zabrak's inhuman strength.
Then he slammed him into the ground.
The impact drove the air from his lungs. Stars exploded across his vision. Before he could even process the pain, he was lifted again—and slammed down harder.
"General!" A clone trooper broke from cover, firing on full automatic as he charged to help his commander.
Savage Opress used Halsey's body as a club, swinging him in a wide arc. The Jedi Master's limp form crashed into the charging trooper with bone-breaking force, sending him sprawling.
Slam. Lift. Slam.
Halsey felt ribs crack, felt consciousness trying to slip away. He reached for the Force, tried to push, tried to anything—
The back of his head struck a rock.
The world went white. Then dark. Then nothing at all.
Savage Opress continued for several more impacts, operating on pure battle-frenzy. It wasn't until he held him aloft for what would have been the sixth slam that he realized the resistance was gone. The Jedi Master hung limp in his grasp, neck bent at an unnatural angle, eyes staring at nothing.
Dead.
Savage dropped his body carelessly. It hit the ground with a wet thud.
The ARF commander charged from the flank, his rifle on continuous fire, shouting wordless defiance. If he was going to die, he'd die like a soldier—taking this monster with him.
Savage Opress turned. Raised one hand almost lazily.
The commander's charge halted mid-step. His hands flew to his throat, fingers scrabbling uselessly as an invisible pressure closed around his windpipe. His rifle clattered to the ground. His boots kicked frantically, searching for purchase six inches above the dirt.
Savage clenched his fist.
The crack of vertebrae snapping echoed through the sudden silence. The commander's body went limp. Savage released his Force grip, letting the corpse fall.
The remaining clone troopers broke and ran.
Savage Opress stood alone in the center of the carnage, breathing hard, yellow eyes surveying his work. Bodies littered the ground—droids, clones, Jedi. The temple loomed behind him, dark and silent, his to claim.
He walked to where Master Halsey lay and knelt beside her body. With surprising gentleness, he unclipped her lightsaber from her belt. Then he retrieved Knox's weapon from where it had fallen earlier. The two hilts gleamed in his bloodstained hands—trophies. Proof of his kills.
Count Dooku would be pleased.
From his concealed position in the jungle canopy, Sora Bulq lowered his macrobinoculars. He'd watched the entire battle unfold with clinical detachment, cataloging every detail. Now he activated his comm unit.
"Master Bulq." Count Dooku's cultured voice crackled through the encrypted channel. "Report."
"The temple is ours, Count." Bulq's tone remained neutral, professional. "The barbarian performed as expected. Total elimination of Republic forces—approximately forty clone troopers, plus the Jedi contingent."
"And the Jedi themselves?"
"Dead. Both of them." Bulq paused. "The engagement was... instructive. Savage initially fought without a lightsaber, relying purely on physical prowess and crude Force application. He seized the Padawan's weapon mid-combat and employed it against the Master, though with no discernible technique."
"Yet he prevailed."
"Raw strength and durability compensated for his lack of skill. When he lost the lightsaber, he resorted to using the Jedi Master herself as an improvised weapon. Brutally effective."
Dooku's dark chuckle filtered through the comm. "Excellent. The barbarian's potential is evident. Send me your full tactical analysis, then proceed to the coordinates I'm transmitting now. We have another test prepared."
"Of course, Count Dooku."
The transmission ended. Bulq remained in position for several more minutes, watching as Savage Opress entered the temple with his stolen lightsabers. The Zabrak moved with the confidence of a predator claiming new territory.
Bulq allowed himself a thin smile. Raw power was easy to find. Raw power that could be controlled, directed, weaponized—that was considerably rarer.
The barbarian was proving useful.
But usefulness had limits. And when those limits were reached, when Savage Opress had served his purpose...
Well. That was a conversation for another day.
For now, they had a war to win. Multiple wars, in fact—against the Republic, against Ultron's mechanical abominations, and eventually, inevitably, against Sidious himself.
The pieces were moving into position. The game was accelerating.
And somewhere in the darkness of the Devaron temple, Savage Opress roared his triumph to the uncaring stars, bathed in the blood of Jedi and believing himself invincible.
Bulq knew better.
Everyone was a piece on the board. Everyone had their role to play.
The only question was who would still be standing when the final move was made.