A new scene formed around them. A small spaceport on a frontier planet. The past Kreia stood at the docking bay, her stolen ship smoking—the engines needed repairs after weeks of continuous jumps.
"I was in hiding for two months," Kreia recounted. "Jumping from system to system, changing routes, using old hyperspace lanes I learned from the archives. But I knew it was temporary. The Council wouldn't leave me alone."
In the vision, an elegant ship approached the docking bay. Four Jedi in robes emerged from it.
The two in front were her former apprentices. The first was a young man, about twenty-five. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features.
The second was a man slightly older, lean, with an ascetic face and a piercing gaze. He moved cautiously, as if listening to something inaudible. A Seer—it was evident in the way he looked not at the present, but through it. He was the one who found her.
Behind them walked two Masters of the Order.
The first was a stocky Twi'lek with a scarred face. Master Kav'aаr, known for his ferocity in combat. His hand rested on the hilt of his lightsaber, ready to draw it at any moment.
The second was a tall Mirialan woman, her face hidden by a traditional blindfold, but she "saw" with the Force better than any with eyes. Master Shaar'la, a specialist in duels and a hunter of apostates.
The past Kreia tensed, her hand going to her lightsaber hilt.
The young man raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture: "Master Kreia, please! Let's avoid a fight! I don't want to fight you."
"Then why are you here?" the past Kreia asked coldly, her gaze flicking to the Masters behind them. "And why did the Council send hunters with you?"
"I saw it in visions, Master. I saw that only we could find you. I saw a fork in the road..." He fell silent, his eyes unfocused, as if looking into another time. "The Council wants you to return. They want to use you against Revan."
Master Kav'aаr stepped forward, his voice gruff: "Enough talk. Kreia, one last chance. Surrender voluntarily, and the Council will be merciful."
The past Kreia laughed—short, bitter: "Merciful? How were they merciful when they were preparing to sever me from the Force?"
Shaar'la spoke, her "blind" gaze fixed precisely on Kreia: "One way or another, we will complete the Council's mission. We were ordered to bring you back alive, but personally, I would execute you on the spot for the murder of three Masters."
"I had no such intention, but if it happened, then it is the will of the Force!"
The young man stepped between them: "Master, please. The war is getting worse every day. Millions are dying. The Council is prepared to pardon you if you go to Revan and convince him to stop."
"I will not return. And I no longer trust the Council," Kreia cut him off.
"Master... I see... I see blood. I see death. I see..." His voice became desperate. "Don't. There is another way. I see it. I see where we are going with you. Where we..."
"Silence," Kav'aаr interrupted him. The Twi'lek drew his lightsaber, a blue blade flaring with a characteristic hiss. "Kreia. Last chance. Surrender."
Shaar'la activated her saber—also blue.
In the vision, the past Kreia slowly drew her lightsaber. The blue blade flared, reflecting off the metal of the docking bay.
"You didn't play diplomacy for long," she said quietly. "Quickly moved to threats. Let's see what you can do."
Her gaze shifted to her two former apprentices: "And you? Will you also kill your teacher?"
The young men exchanged glances.
"Enough!" Kav'aаr roared and lunged.
The Twi'lek moved in Form V—Shii-Cho. Powerful, pressing strikes, each carrying an unyielding intent. He attacked from above, a vertical strike that should have shattered Kreia's defense with brute force.
Kreia didn't even try to block.
She shifted—a minimal movement, fluid, almost lazy. Kav'aаr's blade passed by, slicing empty air. Soresu—Form III. She existed in all possible positions simultaneously, making a decision only at the last moment.
Kav'aаr spun, delivering a horizontal strike. Again, a powerful blow, again pressing reality, imposing his probability of events. His intent was like a scream—impossible not to hear. But Kreia was more skilled in the Force than they expected. They simply lacked the power to force reality in their favor.
Kreia shifted again, her blade tracing a smooth arc, deflecting the attack with minimal effort. She didn't resist the force of the blow—simply guided it past herself.
Shaar'la attacked from behind—a swift lunge in Makashi style, precise, aimed at the kidney. She didn't see with her eyes, but her Force perception was absolute. She knew where Kreia would be in a moment.
But Kreia was no longer there.
She spun, her blade meeting Shaar'la's lunge, deflecting it upwards, and in the same motion, her free hand shot forward. A Force push—not strong, but precise. Shaar'la flew backward, her balance broken.
"You see the future," Kreia formed the intent, continuing to move smoothly between the two Masters. "But you see only one line. Only the one you want to see. Incompetents."
Kav'aаr and Shaar'la attacked simultaneously—coordinated, from two sides. A classic maneuver for a two-on-one fight. They narrowed the space of probabilities, cornering Kreia where any move would lead to blocking at least one strike.
Kreia jumped.
Not high—she didn't use Ataru. Just enough for both strikes to pass beneath her. She landed between the Masters, spun, and attacked Kav'aаr—a rapid series of strikes, each flowing into the next.
The Twi'lek blocked, his powerful form holding the defense, but Kreia didn't try to break through. She simply moved, forcing him to react, forcing him to focus on her.
Shaar'la attacked from behind again.
And again, Kreia was no longer there. She shifted left, and Shaar'la's strike passed dangerously close to Kav'aаr's back. The Twi'lek had to retreat to avoid being hit by his ally.
"You fight like two separate combatants," Kreia imposed the development of events with her will. "You don't see each other in the flow of probabilities. You don't feel." She formed reality.
She attacked Shaar'la—a series of quick, fluid strikes. The Mirialan blocked, her Makashi flawless, each block economical and precise.
But Kreia didn't try to break through the defense directly.
Each of her strikes created a fork in probabilities. Shaar'la saw three possible continuations, chose the optimal block. But Kreia saw what she saw, and created a fourth path—one that opened only after Shaar'la had made her choice.
It was a dance on the level of intent. Kreia didn't deceive the opponent's body—she deceived their foresight.
A strike from above, which could become a strike from the left, which could become a lunge forward. Shaar'la saw all three options, calculated, chose a block that covered the maximum probabilities.
And Kreia created a fourth option with her intent—one that existed only in the space between the first three.
Her blade passed through Shaar'la's defense and touched the Mirialan's shoulder. Not deep—a burn, not a severing. Shaar'la recoiled with a cry of pain.
Kav'aаr roared in fury and lunged, his strikes becoming faster, angrier. His movements lost structure, becoming chaotic, born of emotion, not calculation.
Kreia retreated, blocked, dodged.
"You let anger control you," she amplified this probability of events with her intent. "A mistake. Anger is the most predictable emotion."
She counterattacked—a single precise lunge, straight to the center of the chest. Kav'aаr tried to block, but his blade was in the wrong position after the last strike. Kreia's blue blade passed through his defense and pierced his heart.
The Twi'lek froze, his eyes wide with shock. He fell to his knees, the blade falling from his lifeless fingers.
Kreia drew her blade and spun towards Shaar'la in a single motion.
The Mirialan attacked, despite her wounded shoulder. Her Makashi was flawless—precise, controlled, deadly. Each strike aimed at a vital point, each movement economical.
But Makashi required absolute certainty in calculations. It required a cold mind.
And Shaar'la had just seen her partner die.
Kreia saw the hesitation in her movements. Saw how emotion seeped through discipline. Saw the moment when precision faltered.
She attacked at that moment—a series of quick strikes, each exploiting a gap in the defense that opened for a fraction of a second. Shaar'la blocked, retreated, tried to regain her form.
Kreia gave her no time.
The final strike was lightning-fast and precise. The blue blade passed through Shaar'la's throat. The Mirialan fell, her saber extinguishing.
"What incompetent fools did the Council send after me?"
Kreia stood between the two bodies, her breathing even, her saber steady.
Only a few moments had passed since the fight began.
She turned to her former apprentices, who were only now contemplating what to do.
Both young Jedi stood frozen, their hands on their saber hilts, but they didn't draw their weapons. They had just witnessed their teacher kill two Masters of the Order with almost insulting ease.
"Your turn," Kreia said quietly. "The Council sent you to bring me back. Will you follow orders?"
The young man—the future Darth Sion—clenched his saber hilt. His face was contorted with inner struggle.
"Master... you killed them."
"I killed those who came to kill me," Kreia replied. "It's called self-defense."
The Seer—the future Darth Nihilus—suddenly spoke, his voice strangely detached: "I see... I see a fork in the road. Here. Now." His eyes were wide open, but looked through reality. "I see a path where we attack you. I see you disarming us. I see..." He fell silent, then continued more quietly: "I see a path where we go with you. I see darkness on that path. I see pain. I see emptiness. But I also see... truth."
She took a step forward, her saber still active but lowered.
"I am not asking you to go with me. I am not asking you to betray the Order," Her voice softened. "But I am asking you to think. The Council wanted to sever me from the Force for mistakes Revan made. For my failure to predict that he would choose war. They wanted to sever me from the Force for a crime I did not commit."
She looked at both of them: "Is this justice? Is this wisdom?"
The young man hesitated. His hand trembled on his saber hilt.
She deactivated her lightsaber.
"If you attack me, I will defend myself."
Kreia closed her eyes for a moment.
Throughout the conversation, she had directed all her will, all her Force, towards a single goal—to make them choose what she needed. She distorted reality with her intent.
Not crude mental influence. Not direct suggestion. That would be too obvious, too easy to detect. No—she worked more subtly.
She accelerated her perception. The world around her slowed to a crawl. The young man reached for his saber hilt at the speed of a glacier. The Seer blinked, his eyelids moving as if in slow motion.
Forty times. She accelerated her thinking fortyfold.
And began to sift through probabilities.
She felt the Force flowing through her. Felt how it had strengthened after the death of two Masters. It was dangerous knowledge. Knowledge bordering on darkness.
But now she needed every drop of strength.
She continued to sift. Hundreds of variations. Thousands of combinations of words, gestures, tones. Her mind worked at its limit, processing incredible amounts of information. She began to work not only with words, but with the Force itself. Subtle touches to their emotions, barely perceptible nudges in the right direction.
Not control. Not manipulation in a crude sense. Just... emphasis. Amplification of what was already there.
She felt their doubts—they were already there, deep down. Doubts about the Council's justice. Doubts about the righteousness of hunting her. She simply made those doubts louder, brighter, impossible to ignore.
She looked directly into the young man's eyes. Not a challenge. A connection. She allowed him to see sincerity, to see that beneath all her power, all her mastery, she truly did not want to fight them.
Simultaneously, she touched their minds through the Force—the lightest touch, barely perceptible. She found his doubts about the Council's justice and illuminated them. Not created them—they were already there. Simply made them impossible to ignore.
For the Seer, she did something different. She opened her intention fully, allowed him to see that yes, she wanted them to go with her. But she also allowed him to see the multiplicity of paths—both the darkness and the truth that awaited in the future.
She did not lie. She did not hide. She simply showed—and allowed him to choose, knowing that the choice had already been made the moment she sifted through all probabilities and found the correct line.
The young man looked at her for a long moment. Then his hand slowly moved away from his saber hilt.
"I... I can't. I can't fight against you, Master." His voice trembled. "The Council is wrong. They are unjust to you. I see it."
The Seer opened his eyes: "I see the path, Master. I see where it leads. I see the darkness." He paused. "But I also see that it is the only path where I will learn the truth. Where I will understand what lies behind the veil."
He also moved away from his saber hilt.
"I will go with you."
Kreia looked at both of them. Something stirred in her face—relief? Sadness for what she had done? It was hard to say.
"Do you understand what this means?" she asked quietly. "The Council will declare you traitors. You will become outcasts, like me."
"I understand," said the young man.
"I see," added the Seer.
Kreia nodded slowly: "Then let's go. We need to leave this system before the Council sends more hunters."
She turned to her smoking ship: "And we need a new ship. This one won't last long."
"And them?.."
"Leave them," Kreia said coldly. "Let the Council find them. We have no time for them."
The three former Jedi headed towards the ship.
The vision began to dissolve. The spaceport vanished, giving way to the white expanse of the Holocron.
Kreia stood motionless, her face unreadable.
"This was the moment when everything changed," she said quietly. "The moment I crossed the line."
She looked at Alex and Verena: "I will not name the true names of my former apprentices. They deserve a better memory than what they became later. I will only say that one of them would become known as Darth Sion, the Lord of Pain. And the other—as Darth Nihilus, the Lord of Hunger."
She fell silent.
"At that time, they were just my former apprentices. Good people whom I forced to follow me."
Her voice turned bitter: "And I led them into hell."
The vision shifted. A series of images, one after another, like frames from an old holorecording.
Three figures in a battered ship, flying through hyperspace. Kreia at the helm, her apprentices beside her—one studying star charts, the other checking weapons.
"We traveled," Kreia recounted. "Jumped from system to system, following rumors of Revan. I decided to try and correct my mistake, as the Council wanted. He was elusive—his army moved quickly, unpredictably. But I could feel him in the Force."
A spaceport on a border station. Refugees crowded the docking bays, trying to buy tickets for ships fleeing the front lines. Children cried. Adults stared into the void with glazed eyes.
The past Kreia walked among them, her hood concealing her face. She stopped at a group of wounded lying on stretchers. The young man—her apprentice—was already there, his hands glowing with a soft green light of the Force as he healed burns on a child's body.
"The war was unfolding around us," Kreia continued. "It reached scales the galaxy hadn't seen in millennia. The Mandalorians, feeling betrayed, fought with the desperation of the doomed. They knew there was no turning back—either victory or the complete annihilation of their culture."
The next scene. A ruined city on an unnamed planet. Buildings reduced to rubble. Streets littered with bodies—both in Mandalorian armor and Republic uniforms. Smoke rose to the sky, obscuring the sun.
The past Kreia stood amidst this nightmare, her face impassive. But her hands trembled.
"Every world we visited told the same story," Kreia's voice grew deeper. "Cruelty begot cruelty. The Mandalorians now attacked colonies, making no distinction between military and civilian. Revan responded with bombardments of their worlds, wiping entire cities from the face of the planets."
The apprentice-Seer appeared beside Kreia, his face contorted with anger: "How can he? How can he sanction this?"
The previous Kreia did not answer. She simply looked at the ruins.
New scene. A Republican military camp. Soldiers sit by campfires, their faces gaunt, their eyes vacant. These are no longer the idealistic volunteers who went to war three years ago.
Three travelers passed through the camp unnoticed—Kreia used the Force to divert gazes. They headed towards the command tent, where voices could be heard.
"...full evacuation is impossible. We don't have enough ships."
"Then evacuate those you can. The rest... the rest will distract the enemy."
"General, this is a death sentence for millions!"
"We have no choice! The Mandalorian fleet will be here in twelve hours. If we don't retreat now, we'll perish ourselves. Revan ordered us to retreat!"
The previous Kreia stopped at the entrance to the tent. Her face turned to stone.
She turned away from the tent.
"Let's go. We can't help anything here."
Scenes continued to change. Months turned into years.
A space battle, observed from the surface of a planet. The sky is colored with flashes of explosions. Burning ship debris fell down, leaving fiery trails.
A hospital, overcrowded with the wounded. Kreia's young apprentice works tirelessly, moving from bed to bed, healing those who can still be saved. His face is gaunt, his eyes red from fatigue. But he continues. Again and again.
The second is on a training ground, his lightsaber slicing the air with furious precision. He trains for hours, pushing his body to its limit. Kreia watches him from the shadows.
"You put too much anger into your strikes," Kreia says. "It hinders you in combat."
He stops, breathing heavily: "Really? How can I not be angry, Master, when I see all this?"
"Anger is fire," Kreia replies. "It can warm you. It can give you strength. But if you don't control it, it will burn you from within."
The apprentice looks at his lightsaber: "I've seen a lot, Master. Many deaths. Much suffering. And all of it because of a war that shouldn't have happened. How can I not be angry?"
Kreia approaches him, placing a hand on his shoulder: "Be angry. But don't let anger control you. Remember why we are here. Not for revenge. Not for punishment. But to find Revan's trail and stop this madness."
New scene. Kreia sits at the helm, gazing into the swirling hyperspace. Her face looks older than three years ago. The wrinkles have deepened. Her eyes hold a weariness that no rest can heal.
"Master," the seer calls softly. "Are you alright?"
Kreia doesn't answer immediately. When she speaks, her voice sounds detached: "I'm thinking about Revan. About who he was when I took him as my apprentice. Bright. Full of hope. Convinced he could change the galaxy for the better."
She grips the helm tighter.
"And I think about his actions, about the insane orders he gives. It's not like him."
The second apprentice wakes up, stretching: "Have we arrived already?"
"An hour more," Kreia replies. "Rest further."
"I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see them. All those I couldn't save. The wounded in the hospital. The children at the refugee station. The soldiers dying in my arms because their wounds were too severe even for the Force."
"What do you think about it?"
"I... I don't know," he admits honestly. "The Mandalorians are now fighting for the survival of their culture. The Republic—also for survival. Revan—for... what is he even fighting for?"
"Perhaps for his pride," Kreia replies quietly. "For the right to be a hero, a savior, someone who will be remembered for centuries. The war has become not a means for him, but an end. A way to prove his significance. Or perhaps he is under someone's influence."
She looks at both her apprentices: "That is precisely why we must find him. Try to reason with him before he goes any further."
They exchange glances. In their eyes—doubt, but also determination.
"We are with you, Master," one of them says. "To the end."
The real Kreia, standing next to Alex and Verena, closes her eyes: "To the end. If I had foreseen then what this end would be... perhaps I would have chosen a different path. But then I still believed. I still hoped. The probabilities were hidden from me."
She sighed: "How I wish I could turn back time!"
The vision changed for the last time. A military camp, but not Republican—Jedi who had gone to war. Dozens of ships, hundreds of tents. And everywhere—Jedi in tattered robes, their faces hard, their eyes cold.
These were not the idealistic young men and women who had left with Revan four years ago. These were sentient beings who had committed too many acts they could never forget and which went against the code.
The previous Kreia walked through the camp, her apprentices following her. The Jedi parted, recognizing her. Some turned away, their faces becoming stony.
"Master Kreia," a young knight called out to her. His armor was covered in blaster marks, scars crossed his face. "Are you here to join us?"
"I am here to see Revan," she replied.
The knight nodded, pointing to a large tent in the center of the camp: "He is there. With Malak..." he faltered, "he is waiting for you."
Kreia headed towards the tent. The closer she got, the more uneasy she felt.
She pushed aside the tent flap and entered.
It was spacious inside. A holographic table in the center showed a tactical map of the sector. Several Jedi stood around the table—commanders, judging by their postures and confidence.
And in the center—Revan.
Kreia froze. Four years. Four years since she had last seen him. And he had changed.
His face had become harder, his jawline sharper. His eyes, which once burned with idealism, were now cold and calculating.
But what struck her most was his presence in the Force. It was... different. Denser. As if a shadow had fallen upon his soul, transforming what was once a bright light.
"Master Kreia," Revan said, and his voice held neither joy nor surprise. Only a statement of fact. "How long has it been? Three years? Four?"
"Four," Kreia replied, stepping deeper into the tent. "Four years during which you have turned a conflict that should have ended in months into a slaughter that continues to this day."
Revan smirked: "You are direct, as always. It's one of the qualities I've always valued in you."
He gestured around the map: "But you are mistaken. I did not turn this into a slaughter. I simply adapted to reality. The Mandalorians proved more stubborn than anyone expected. The Republic—more corrupt. The Council—more cowardly."
"We started it ourselves," Kreia countered. "Your intervention destroyed a plan that had been prepared for centuries."
Revan turned to her, and anger flashed in his eyes: "A plan? What plan? I saw worlds wiped from the face of the galaxy. I saw billions dead."
"There was a plan. Only a very limited number of sentients had access to it. You were not among them," Kreia replied wearily. "Sometimes short-term sacrifices are necessary for long-term good. Your entire campaign is a monstrous mistake."
"Short-term sacrifices," Revan echoed. "A convenient phrase. For those who make decisions from the safety of their towers, without getting their hands dirty with blood."
He stepped towards her: "I have seen much. I hear the screams of those your 'plan' condemned to death."
Kreia looked at him with a long gaze: "You interfered in something you didn't understand. And what has changed? Children are still dying. Mothers are still losing their loved ones. Screams still echo on the battlefields. Only now there are more of them, and they last longer."
Revan turned away. A long pause.
"I know," he finally said quietly. "I know the war has gotten out of control. That there are more casualties than there should have been. But it's too late to stop now. Too much has been done. Too much blood has been spilled."
He turned back, and his eyes held a weariness that no anger could hide: "The only way forward is to see it through to the end. To defeat the Mandalorians. To create a world where such a war will never happen again."
"By defeating them how?" Kreia asked. "By wiping out their worlds? By turning the survivors into slaves?"
"If necessary," Revan replied coldly. "I will do whatever it takes to protect the galaxy."
Kreia shook her head.
He stepped closer: "You taught me to see beyond dogma, Master. You taught me to think for myself. You taught me that sometimes the right path is not the one indicated by authority. I am simply following your lessons."
Kreia looked at him, and a realization grew in her heart that it was her lessons that had led him to this.
But she had to try. One last time.
"Revan," she said, and her voice held a plea. "Listen to me. I have come to tell you the truth. The truth about the war, about the Council's plan, about why they didn't want to intervene."
"The war was sanctioned by the Council. The Mandalorians were supposed to win. We had agreements with them. It was part of a plan developed over millennia. They were supposed to update the galaxy's technological base, replace the dying Rakatan legacy with their own developments. This was supposed to save civilization from impending collapse."
Revan listened, his face impassive.
"But your intervention changed everything," Kreia continued. "The Republic is bleeding. Our irreplaceable components are being consumed by the war, you destroyed the Mandalorian industrial worlds. What future now awaits the galaxy?"
She reached out to him: "It's not too late. We can stop this. We can find a way to end the war. We can try to save what can still be saved."
A long, heavy silence.
Then he shook his head.
"No," he said simply. "It's too late, Master. Too much has been done in these four years. Too many Jedi have followed me. Too many soldiers have died believing in the righteousness of our cause. I can't just tell them that all this was a mistake. And the Mandalorians... Do you want them to march through the Republic worlds in revenge?"
He turned away: "There is only one thing left now—to see it through to the end. To defeat the Mandalorians. And then... then rebuild the galaxy correctly. Not as the Council planned, but as it should be."
Kreia felt something inside her break: "Do you hear yourself? You say you made a mistake, but you intend to continue on this path!"
"Perhaps," Revan agreed. "But the Council's plan would have failed anyway, if a mere knight like me could destroy it."
He turned to her, and there was no warmth in his smile: "I have a way to end this war. With one strike. Without further bloodshed."
Kreia tensed: "What do you mean?"
Revan walked to the holographic table and activated the projection. An image of a strange device appeared in the air—a sphere covered in intricate patterns, pulsing with an unnatural light.
"Mass Shadow Generator," he explained. "A device capable of creating artificial gravitational anomalies. We will lure the entire Mandalorian fleet to one planet, activate the generator, and they will not be able to escape. They will be forced to surrender. You will witness this with me. I cannot let you go now."
Kreia studied the projection, and her anxiety grew. Something about this device was wrong.
"Where did you get this device?" she asked.
"A gift from an ally," Revan replied evasively. "Someone who shares my vision for the galaxy's future."
"What ally?" Kreia pressed. "Revan, who gave you this device?"
There was no answer.
Kreia looked at Revan, at her apprentice whom she loved, whom she tried to save. She already suspected who his ally was. A parasite.
"Revan," she tried one last time. "Please. Even if you win, the whole galaxy will lose. I can go to the Mandalorians, I can try to negotiate."
"No. It's too late to negotiate."
She turned and left the tent, her apprentices following her.
"Don't try to leave, Master Kreia," they heard him say after them.
And when they had walked far enough, the young man asked: "Master, what will we do?"
Kreia stopped, looking at the night sky above the camp. The stars twinkled with a cold light, indifferent to the dramas unfolding below.
"I don't know," she whispered. "The future is hidden from me here."
The real Kreia, standing next to Alex and Verena, closed her eyes: "This was the beginning of the end. My mistake led to a catastrophe I couldn't stop."
"But I still tried. I still believed I could change something. And that belief... that belief led us to Malachor a few days later. And after that, to an encounter with what forever changed me."