The sunlight of Naboo was different from the sun of Earth. It was richer, somehow—a liquid gold that spilled over the limestone balconies of Theed and turned the Solleu River into a shimmering ribbon of mercury.
Revan Shan leaned against the balustrade of a private hangar, the warm breeze tugging at the hem of his Jedi robes. He wasn't wearing the traditional white and gold of the High Republic era; instead, he wore a custom-fitted set of dark tunics, reinforced with a subtle weave of Phrik filament. It was a choice that had earned him more than a few raised eyebrows back at the Temple on Coruscant, but as a newly minted Jedi Knight, he had earned a modicum of personal expression.
In his right hand, he held a small, polished stone—a focusing lens for a long-range transmitter. In his mind, however, he held the weight of two lifetimes.
One hundred years until Naboo falls to a blockade, he thought, his gaze drifting toward the distant peaks of the Lake Country. One hundred and thirty-three years until the Rise of the Empire. And here I am, standing in the middle of a prequel that hasn't even found its lead actor yet.
He remembered the movies. He remembered the Wookieepedia articles he'd spent late nights reading in a small apartment in a world that no longer existed. He remembered the name "Revan Shan" being a legendary amalgamation of two of the most influential figures in the Old Republic. And then, he'd woken up in the creche of the Jedi Temple, a toddler with the soul of a grown man and a map of the future etched into his brain.
"Beep-oop, whistle-whirr?"
Revan looked down. Rolling up to his side was R2-D6. The droid was a custom project he'd been tinkering with since his days as a youngling. While the rest of the Temple's mechanical pool consisted of standard, personality-wiped astromechs, D6 was different. He was smarter, faster, and—thanks to the Kyber-Quantum Slicing core Revan had secretly installed—far more dangerous. His chassis was reinforced with a thin Beskar-alloy weave, a souvenir from a "diplomatic mission" to the Mandalore sector that had been anything but diplomatic.
"I'm fine, D6," Revan said, his voice carrying a hint of the dry, weary wit of the 12th Doctor—a man he'd admired in his previous life. "Just contemplating the fundamental absurdity of linear time. You wouldn't understand. You live in a world of binary; I live in a world of 'What Ifs' and 'Oh Noes'."
R2-D6 spun his dome, a skeptical trill echoing in the quiet hangar.
"Yes, I know. I'm being 'unnecessarily cryptic' again," Revan sighed, patting the droid's dome. "But when you know that the chancellor of the galaxy is eventually going to be a prune-faced warlock with a penchant for lightning and dramatic monologues, you tend to get a bit philosophical."
Revan straightened his back, feeling the two lightsabers hanging at his belt. They were unique pieces, forged not in the Temple's workshops, but in the "Heart of the Force"—a localized nexus he'd discovered during his Knight Trials. One blade held a natural red crystal, forged from the core and magma of a volcanic moon; the other was a powerful, balanced purple. Together, they represented his philosophy: the Force wasn't a choice between Light and Dark. It was a spectrum, and he was the needle moving through the thread.
He wasn't here to be the "Chosen One." He wasn't here to "balance the Force" by murdering half the galaxy. He was here for the adventure. He was here to see the stars before they started to go out.
"Always try to be nice, but never fail to be kind," he whispered to himself, the mantra of a time-traveling doctor serving as his moral compass.
His comm-link chirped. It was a priority signal from the Jedi Council. Specifically, from Master Vernestra Rwoh.
"Knight Shan," the holographic image of the Mirialan Master flickered into existence. She looked weary, the burden of the High Republic's "golden age" starting to show in the lines around her eyes. "Your presence is requested at the Governor's palace. There have been reports of... an anomaly in the plasma mines. Something the local security forces can't explain."
Revan suppressed a grin. The anomaly. This was it. The start of the shadows creeping in. This was the era of The Acolyte, the period where the Sith started to move from the shadows of history back into the reality of the present.
"I'm on my way, Master," Revan replied, his tone perfectly professional. "I'll bring D6. He's been complaining about the lack of high-quality data-ports in the lower levels anyway."
Vernestra frowned slightly at the mention of the droid's personality, but she nodded. "Be careful, Revan. The Force feels... restless on Naboo."
"The Force is always restless, Master. It's just that most people have the volume turned down," Revan said, deactivating the comm.
He turned to the hangar's shadows, where a partially constructed ship sat under a heavy tarp. It was an XS Stock Light Freighter—an Old Republic design he'd spent the last three years rebuilding from scrap. He'd named it the Black Pearl, a nod to a fictional pirate from his past life. It wasn't ready yet; the Beskar-Cortosis hull plates were only half-installed, and the AI he'd been coding—Cortana—was still in her infancy. But it was his.
"Stay here and keep an eye on the Pearl, D6," Revan said, reaching for the cloak draped over a nearby crate.
The cloak was a masterpiece of tactical engineering: black, with a larger hood designed to mask his features, and woven with a Phrik-Cortosis filament that could short out a lightsaber blade if caught in the folds. He pulled it over his shoulders, the weight of the armor beneath it—a refitted Old Republic set in black and red—giving him a sense of groundedness.
He didn't wear the mask yet. That was for the war. That was for the time when Revan Shan would become the name that both the Jedi and the Sith feared. For now, he was just a Maverick Knight with a strange name and a stranger sense of humor.
Walking out of the hangar, Revan adjusted the twin Westar-35 pistols at his hips. They were beautiful weapons, remade with a Beskar-Phrik alloy and upgraded with Kyber-resonant power cells. They could stop a lightsaber in its tracks and deliver a stun bolt that could knock out a Krayt dragon. He preferred the elegance of a lightsaber, but he wasn't a fool. In a galaxy this large, you needed a backup plan.
Theed was beautiful at midday. The architecture was a blend of classic Naboo curves and High Republic elegance. But as Revan walked toward the palace, he used his Force Precognition to look past the beauty.
He felt it. A cold, sharp needle of intent buried deep beneath the planet's crust. It wasn't a Sith Lord—not yet. It was a ripple. An acolyte.
Adventure, Revan thought, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his purple lightsaber. It's finally starting.
He thought about the 12th Doctor again. The man who traveled through time, seeing the beginning and the end of everything, and yet always found the beauty in the small things.
"Right then," Revan muttered, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Let's see who's trying to ruin this lovely afternoon. I hope they're ready for an audit. Or, you know, a very polite lecture."
He knew the path ahead. He knew he would face Qimir, the Stranger in the shadows. He knew he would navigate the treacherous waters of the Hutt Cartels and the rise of the Trade Federation. He knew he would eventually find the holocron of his ancestor—the original Revan—and learn the secrets of the Star Forge.
But for today, he was just a man with a droid, a half-finished ship, and a world of Star Wars movies in his head.
As he approached the Governor's palace, a young page boy ran up to him, looking panicked. "Jedi! Thank the stars! The mines... something is killing the droids! It's moving like a shadow!"
Revan stopped, looking down at the boy. He reached into a hidden pocket of his robes and pulled out a small, lemon-flavored candy he'd managed to synthesize from Earth memories. He handed it to the boy.
"Rule number one," Revan said, winking. "Don't panic. Panic is just a lack of data. Go find your mother. I'll handle the shadows."
The boy stared at the candy, then at the Jedi Knight who looked more like a bounty hunter from a storybook.
Revan didn't wait for a thank you. He stepped into the palace, the Force humming a familiar, dangerous tune. He was 23 years old, he was a Jedi Maverick, and he had three million words of destiny to write.
The High Republic was about to meet its first truly Modern Man.