The Alaris system was a jewel of the Kashyyyk sub-sector, dominated by the verdant, forest-choked moon of Alaris Prime. It was a world of gargantuan wroshyr trees and misty valleys, historically a site of Wookiee colonization efforts. But as the Black Pearl exited hyperspace with a violent, instantaneous "snap," the sensors didn't just pick up the rhythmic pulse of a healthy ecosystem. They picked up the jagged, discordant hum of industrial-grade interference.
"The Vek Syndicate has been busy," Cortana observed, her holographic form flickering into existence above the dashboard. "They've established a localized jamming net over the northern equatorial ridge. It's a sophisticated array for mere pirates—likely a blend of modern Republic tech and something much older. My logic-cores are having difficulty identifying the underlying encryption."
Revan Shan lounged in the pilot's seat, a half-eaten packet of dehydrated Coruscant noodles in one hand and his boots resting on the primary nav-computer. "Older is the keyword today, Cortana. The Vek aren't known for their love of ancient history or complex mathematics. They're known for spice-running and having the collective IQ of a damp thermal detonator. If they're guarding a jamming net, someone paid them in more than just credits."
R2-D6 let out a series of sharp, rhythmic whistles, his dome spinning as he processed the local magnetic field. He was already working on a counter-frequency to bypass the Syndicate's sensors.
"I agree, D6. It's tacky," Revan said, tossing the noodle packet into the recycler. "Establishing a base on a moon colonized by Wookiees is a bold move. It's like setting up a shop in a library and then shouting through a megaphone. Very poor manners. Right then, Cortana, engage the optical shroud. We're going down the 'ghost' route."
The Black Pearl descended. The Automatic Stealth Generator worked its magic, warping the background radiation of the Alaris system around the hull until the ship was nothing more than a distortion in the mist. Revan guided the freighter through the canopy of the wroshyr trees, the Beskar-alloy chassis brushing against leaves the size of starfighters.
The Syndicate's End
The Syndicate camp was a jagged scar on the landscape—a collection of prefabricated durasteel huts and heavy weapon emplacements surrounding a massive, geometric entrance carved into the side of a mountain. The architecture was unmistakably Rakatan: brutalist, obsidian-dark, and radiating a sense of cold, hungry permanence.
Revan didn't land in the camp. He brought the Pearl to a hover fifty meters above the trees, then dropped through the floor-hatch using Force Jump, his black cloak unfurling like the wings of a predatory bird. He landed silently on a guard tower, his boots making no sound on the metal plating.
"Right," he whispered into his gauntlet. "D6, disable their communications. Cortana, if any of them try to start an engine, give them a localized ion-headache."
The two Syndicate guards on the tower didn't even have time to shout. Revan didn't draw a blade. He utilized Force Stasis, freezing the air in their lungs and the movement of their limbs in a single, surgical thought. He gently pushed them into the shadows of the tower's railing.
"Try to be nice," he muttered, "but never fail to be kind. Sleeping is kind. Sleeping is very quiet."
He moved through the camp like a shadow. Whenever a guard crossed his path, Revan utilized Form VI Niman—the diplomat's form—blending Force techniques with microscopic physical movements. A flick of the wrist sent a guard into a nearby crate; a subtle Force Pull disconnected a power pack from a repeating blaster. He was a ghost in their peripheral vision, a glitch in their reality.
He reached the primary command tent. Inside, a group of Vek mercenaries were arguing over a holographic map of the Rakatan site.
"I'm telling you, the client said don't touch the door!" a Quarren barked. "He said the door eats people!"
"The client is a kook in a hood," a human mercenary countered, slamming a crate of credits onto the table. "Look at this. We've made more in three days guarding this rock than we did in a year running spice for the Hutts. I don't care if the door recites poetry, we stay put."
"Actually," Revan said, stepping into the light of the tent's entrance, "the door is quite silent. It's the guests you should worry about."
The mercenaries scrambled for their blasters. Revan didn't give them the chance. He drew his Westar-35s, the Beskar-alloy barrels glowing with a faint blue light. He didn't fire lethal bolts. He utilized the stun setting, the Kyber-upgraded power cells delivering a pulse that bypassed their armor and shorted out their nervous systems instantly.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Six mercenaries lay unconscious. Revan walked to the table and looked at the crate of credits. He did a quick mental calculation.
"Five thousand Republic credits," he sighed, scooping the chips into a pouch on his belt. "Hardly a fortune, but it'll pay for the next batch of lemon candies and maybe some high-grade lubricant for D6. Being a Maverick is expensive. I'm perpetually broke, Cortana. It's a systemic tragedy."
He also found a strange, triangular device in the human's pocket—a Rakatan power cell, still humming with a faint, violet light.
"Loot," he grinned, tucking the cell away. "I'll call that an adventure tax."
The Smiling Stranger
Revan exited the tent and walked toward the Rakatan temple entrance. The air here was different—colder, sharper. The Force felt like a stagnant pool, thick with the residue of the Dark Side.
Standing by the obsidian door was a figure. He wasn't armored like the mercenaries. He was dressed in simple, homespun robes, looking more like a common apothecary or a drifter than a threat. He was lean, with an easy, almost bumbling posture, and he was currently leaning against the Rakatan stone, whittling a piece of wood with a small knife.
This was Qimir. Or, as the galaxy would later know him, The Stranger.
"You know," Qimir said, not looking up from his woodcarving, "the Vek are very sensitive about their credits. They're going to be quite cross when they wake up."
Revan stopped ten paces away, his hands resting casually on his belt, near his lightsabers. He didn't assume a combat stance, but his Force Precognition was screaming. The man in front of him wasn't an apothecary. He was a vacuum. A hole in the Force that drew everything toward it.
"I'll leave them a note," Revan said, his tone sassy and light. "'Dear Vek, thanks for the snacks, sorry about the localized brain-reset. Love, the Jedi who's currently ruining your afternoon.'"
Qimir finally looked up. He had a smile on his face—a wide, pleasant, almost innocent smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You're a strange one, Jedi. You don't smell like the others. You don't smell like incense and self-righteousness. You smell like... grease? And citrus?"
"Lemon candies," Revan corrected. "And the grease is from a Class 0.5 hyperdrive. It's a very specific scent. Very avant-garde."
Qimir stood up, the knife disappearing into the folds of his robes. "I've been watching you move. You're efficient. You don't waste energy. The Order usually teaches its Knights to be grand, to be symbols. You move like someone who's trying to stay out of the frame."
"I'm not the protagonist, Qimir," Revan said, his voice dropping into a more serious tone. "I'm just the guy who's here to make sure the story doesn't get too messy. And right now, you're looking like a very large ink-blot on a very nice page."
"Qimir?" the stranger chuckled. "Is that what they're calling me these days? I like it. It sounds... harmless."
He took a step forward, and the air around the temple seemed to darken. The "Smiling Stranger" persona flickered for a second, revealing the predator beneath.
"The Temple belongs to the shadows, Maverick," Qimir whispered. "The High Republic thinks it has mapped the galaxy, but they've only looked at the stars. They've forgotten the space between them."
"I like the space between them," Revan countered, his hand hovering over his Balanced Purple lightsaber. "It's where all the best adventures happen. Now, are we going to have a civilized discussion about your trespassing, or am I going to have to audit your health insurance?"
Qimir laughed—a genuine, dark sound. "I'm not here to fight you, Revan Shan. Not yet. You're too interesting to kill so soon. You're a variable. And I want to see what a variable does when it encounters a fixed point."
With a sudden, blur-like motion of Force Enhance, Qimir vanished into the dense mist of the forest. Revan didn't pursue. He knew better than to chase a Sith-trained acolyte into their own backyard without proper reconnaissance.
"Variable, he calls me," Revan muttered, wiping his brow. "I prefer 'Delightful Anomaly'."
The Heart of the Temple
R2-D6 rolled up to the Rakatan door, his dome spinning frantically. He issued a series of whistles that indicated he had successfully bypassed the outer locking mechanism.
"Good work, D6. Let's see what's inside."
The obsidian doors slid open with a sound like grinding teeth. Inside, the temple was vast—a cathedral of dark stone and glowing violet conduits. In the center of the hall stood a massive Rakatan Star Map, flickering with the locations of ancient automated foundries and hidden energy wells.
"Revan," Cortana's voice crackled through the comms. "I'm detecting a massive data-cache. It's not just a map. It's a repository of Force techniques. I see references to Force Storm, Force Meld, and something called... Force Immortality."
Revan walked toward the central pedestal. Resting there was another fragment of a holocron—this one larger, pulsing with a deep, bronze light.
"The Second Shard," Revan whispered.
He reached out and touched it. The holographic image of the original Revan appeared again, his T-shaped mask looking directly at his descendant.
"The shadow grows," the ancient Jedi-Sith whispered. "The Stranger you met is but a breath of the coming storm. To stop the night, you must understand the dark, but you must never let it become your home. The next fragment is on a world of ice and silence. Find it, Revan Shan. The adventure is no longer a choice."
Revan picked up the shard. He felt a surge of energy—a combination of the Heart of the Force and the Rakatan technology—flowing through his hands.
"Ice and silence," Revan sighed. "Probably Hoth. It's always Hoth. Or Ilum. Why can't the ancient Sith hide their secrets on a tropical beach planet? Just once?"
He looked at R2-D6. "Come on, buddy. We've got our loot, we've got our credits, and we've met a very creepy smiling man. I'd call that a productive Tuesday."
As they headed back to the Black Pearl, the forest of Alaris Prime seemed to watch them, the mist swirling in the wake of the Maverick Knight. The timeline was holding, but the shadows were getting longer.
"Cortana," Revan said as he climbed back into the pilot's seat. "Set a course for the Outer Rim. And remind me to buy more lemon candies. We're going to need them."