The General strode methodically, as inexorable as death itself. His eyes — one of the few organic parts that remained after the catastrophe — laughed as he watched the pathetic remnants of the clone squad firing back at the advancing wave of droids.
Pressing into the wall's contours, they barely peeked out, hosing down his unit with their carbines. Dozens of blue blaster bolts whizzed past his head, but Grievous seemed not to notice them.
"Keep firing!" he roared. "No mercy!"
Worthless B1s, like a flock of bats, moved through the corridor, hosing the still-living enemies with their E-5s. The clones, despite being outnumbered, did not flee — they retreated in an organized fashion, covering each other from the pressing enemy. As much as the General despised 'meat droids,' as soldiers they were vastly preferable to what he had under his command. But leading an army of merchants, the General was perfectly aware — building a droid was much faster and cheaper than growing, training, and equipping a clone. An incomparable difference. And so, the CIS would win — simply crush the Republic armies with numbers. Statistics were as merciless as the Kaleesh himself.
Having once headed the Security Department of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, Grievous had seen firsthand that merchants and bankers were ruthless when their own capital was at stake. Not to mention when their very business could be destroyed if they lost this war. Not a single Separatist leader harbored any illusions — no mercy from the Republic was to be expected. The massacre the Jedi had carried out on Muunilinst proved that. The homeland of the Muuns lay in ruins after the Temple Guards had paid it a visit.
Grievous hated the Jedi. So much that if he could, he would tear each of them apart with his own hands, turning them inside out.
That was why he had volunteered to personally lead the attack on Kamino. The clones' homeworld — a place that must be burned to the ground. Count Dooku had only asked him to secure a clone DNA sample. He would do it — not for nothing did he have such aid. A pity that idiot Durge had let himself get killed — the two of them could have razed this place to the ocean floor.
"Knock knock, open up." His auditory sensors caught a metallic sound from somewhere to the right. Turning his furious glare toward the source of the noise, the General bellowed in rage — a B1, like a secretary droid, was knocking on a locked barracks door.
"Blow the damn doors!" The General clenched his metal fingers so hard in a fit of fury that the durasteel groaned.
But before the droids could use the explosives, new targets appeared in the General's field of vision.
Choice targets.
Long-awaited ones.
"Jedi!" Anticipating a bloody feast, the General straightened his razor-sharp fingers.
There were only two of them — a Mirialan and a Twi'lek. With green and blue lightsabers — just like the ones the General himself had as trophies. Time to expand the collection.
Both female Jedi, wielding their weapons with virtuosity, cut down the droids that had surged ahead, weakening the pressure on the clones, whose squad remnants were pinned at the far end of the corridor.
"General Grievous!" After the last droid of the advance squad fell, struck down by a blue blade, the Twi'lek Jedi pointed her weapon toward the cyborg. "You can't hide from us!"
"I'm not trying to!" The corridor filled with the general's sinister laughter. "Continue the purge!"
The order worked on the droids — though they couldn't feel fear, something unknown to cybernetics made them carry out his commands faster the moment he barked. Stupid, brainless fools. But right now, they needed to inflict maximum damage on Kamino. Until the DNA was obtained — and then the consequences of this attack would become catastrophic for the Republic.
The general heard his underlings burning through the locks. The Jedi were approaching — deliberately slowly, to have time to react if he suddenly started the fight first. Oh, the son of Kaleesh would certainly start it. But not before he deemed it necessary.
He caught the sound of an exchange of fire beginning — the droids had found the cadets barricaded in the barracks. Excellent. The sounds of their agony, the death cries of these artificial children, would become the music under which he would kill another couple of Jedi.
Grievous stepped back, spreading his metal arms. In each hand, he gripped a lightsaber.
"You won't be the first Jedi I've gutted with my own hands," he admitted. "And believe me," the general's eyes narrowed, "certainly not the last."
The Jedi women exchanged glances. Grievous hoped they would amuse him with their boring chatter, but no. Both, with idiotic determination on their faces, simply raised their blades. Excellent.
Now it was time to kill.
The general's hands responded to his brain impulses. The blades clutched in durasteel fingers came alive, and Grievous spun them before him so fast that it seemed he stood inside a pulsating sphere of green-blue energy. The very sphere that would now cut the Jedi into pieces so small they could fit through the air vents.
With a roar, Grievous lunged forward. The sphere of deadly energy around him surged toward the Jedi like a hungry maw, ready to bite its prey in half. The Jedi didn't flinch. Blue and green blades met.
* * *
The general's mechanical arms moved like lightning. Driven by combat algorithms in his electronic network, each strike came from a different angle, with different speed and intensity. The force behind each blow was such that the Mirialan, who tried to block a thrust, winced. Kinetic energy slammed into her muscles and bones with a resonance that brought incredible pain. Oh, Grievous knew about pain. With blows like these, he cracked the durasteel armor plates of Vulture droids. And more than once, Jedi arrogance played a nasty trick on them — a couple of such strikes, and the bones of their skeletons that didn't break in battle, the general would then personally break afterward. Taking pleasure in every crack in the body of a still-living Jedi.
And meanwhile, his unpredictable, ragged rhythm of slashing, thrusting, chopping strikes — each of which could take the life of either Jedi woman attacking him in turn — merely prolonged the coming agony.
Perhaps individually, they were worthy fighters. But, as always happens in such cases, they were completely unable to work as a team. All their efforts in a vain attempt to defeat the general amounted to a wasteful expenditure of energy, the reserve of which in organic bodies was already quite low.
Grievous easily parried each of their thrusts, answering every strike with three of his own. Yes, they realized fairly quickly that their previous combat experience was nothing compared to the threat of the cyborg. And this was only the beginning.
He advanced like a dreadnought machine, overwhelming them with his power, forcing them to retreat back the way they came. All their fervor vanished the moment the general gave free rein to his fury. Now, after a couple of minutes of fighting, they had finally realized that before them stood their death.
The Kaleesh saw that the enemy was still holding on — the vaunted Jedi resilience. But at this pace — deflecting four strikes per minute — they wouldn't last long. Nothing would save them. Even the clones they had come to rescue understood this — the general laughed out loud when he saw the backs of the fleeing soldiers of the "Grand Army of the Republic." Ah, so it was a change of position. Splendid. Now they were all in one place — meaning he could kill all five clones at once. He just needed to finish with the Jedi.
The Twi'lek tried to strike at his legs — the general lifted his leg with imperceptible speed, avoiding the fate of becoming a cripple. And simultaneously, he kicked the girl in the chest with all his might. Like a doll, she flew into the air, slamming into the ceiling panel. The Mirialan was distracted for only a moment — but that was enough for the general to deliver a strike at the speed of light.
Only the vaunted Force saved her from falling with her head severed — instead, the general's green blade sliced off the top of her headdress.
"Nyx, help General Secura!" The Mirialan hissed in pain as she stopped two similar energy weapons of the general with her own blade. A double strike, like a hammer, crashed down on her, nearly knocking the hilt from her weakening hands.
The general noticed that one of the clones had nimbly run up to the unconscious Twi'lek, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her toward where the surviving clones had taken cover — the entrance to the last barracks on the right side. No matter — let them reload their weapons; fighting the Mirialan and parrying their volleys would be much more fun.
Meanwhile, the Mirialan, ducking under the general's sweeping thrust, extended an open palm toward him. The cyborg felt something like the impact of a huge battering ram throw him back to the very beginning of the corridor.
The durasteel body crashed onto the lifeless bodies of the droids destroyed at the start of the battle.
"Not bad at all, Jedi," if he had a mouth full of lips, the general would certainly have smiled. But all he could allow himself in this body was to lower his intonation.
"I'm just warming up," the Mirialan now held the sword of her wounded friend in her hands. Igniting the blue blade, she took a waiting stance, as if inviting the general to continue the duel.
Excellent, he was always happy to oblige.
Grievous rushed into the attack with a furious roar. The spinning blades left scorched grooves on the walls and ceiling of the corridor — traces that here, he, General Grievous, was advancing.
This time, he delivered one strike from above, another — a slashing blow from the side.
The Mirialan, not without difficulty, parried both thrusts with her blades. The general saw her face twisted in a grimace of pain, and so he increased the pressure of his mechanical arms, as if trying to crush his opponent.
He heard the grinding of the Jedi's teeth. A true song for his auditory receptors. The general pressed harder, intensifying his onslaught to the limit. The Jedi looked at him with a slight hint of panic.
Perfect. He would drive her to despair, and then kill her. This would bring him more pleasure.
And at that moment, he felt a powerful kick from the Jedi's boot into the lower part of his faceplate. The cybernetics howled, reporting malfunctions — the calibration of several systems had been knocked out.
The general staggered back, but managed to notice that his opponent had done a backflip and landed on her feet, holding the green blade before her and the blue one pulled back.
She was ready to fight again.
Excellent. The games were over.
The general narrowed his eyes, in no hurry to go on the offensive — the cybernetic part of his body needed time to restore its previous operational status.
The Mirialan took advantage of this.
To an ordinary being, or even a droid, her movements would have seemed incredibly fast. But not to the general, whose reaction speed allowed him to respond to what was happening no worse than most of the Jedi he had killed.
The Mirialan charged at him like a cannonball. But a couple of meters from the general, she unexpectedly jumped, pushed off the wall with her foot, and came crashing down on the cyborg from above, intending to split him into three parts with a double diagonal strike of her blades, which she raised above her head.
Foolish.
The general easily moved to the side just enough to evade the line of attack, struck the Jedi in the solar plexus with his metal knee, and, spinning around his axis, counterattacked.
One blade, like a razor, sliced off the upper part of the lightsaber with the blue blade, leaving a deep burn on the Mirialan's shoulder. The second strike, the general aimed at her back, preparing to pin the Jedi, who had fallen to the floor, with a vertical blow.
Grievous roared triumphantly, anticipating another trophy. Yes, the blade with the blue edge was damaged and unfit for further use. But the green one, which belonged to the Mirialan, he would gladly add to his collection.
The sound of a blaster shot and the sensation that he was running out of air happened in an instant.
The cybernetics registered damage to the neck — a blaster bolt had pierced his throat, making a hole in it. The general lost concentration for a moment — and that was enough to make him miss, driving his blade into the wall instead of the enemy's right kidney.
The latter, without delay, rose like a tornado, getting to her feet, and delivered a deep gash across the general's chest plates. The attack landed at the trailing edge — otherwise, he would not have avoided damage to the organic parts enclosed in the armored frame.
Grievous, acting with lightning speed, slammed a durasteel fist into the woman's head, sending her flying to the side, where she fell unconscious to the floor. His hypersensitive receptors heard a slight crunch. The general, with grim anticipation, hoped he had heard the sound of a breaking skull.
Now, parrying the volleys of the clones who had rushed to the aid of their Jedi general, Grievous finally managed to see the source of his breathing problem.
"Cadet!" He roared, breaking into a hollow cough.
Before him, standing in the doorway of the barracks where battle droids had recently broken in, stood a human teenager in the red-and-blue uniform of a clone cadet, holding an E-5. The little brat hadn't been able to capitalize on his success and was now frantically smacking his tiny palm against a jammed carbine.
Brat. The general took a step forward, grabbing the pup by the scruff of the neck.
"Put the kid down!" A shout reached him from the clone who had been dragging the Twi'lek away. Apparently a clone officer, the general decided, watching the enemy aim at him with a pair of blaster pistols.
"Gladly," Grievous wheezed.
With a lightning-fast motion, his arms split, turning into four manipulators. With one, he continued wielding his lightsaber, deflecting the blue blaster shots.
With the second, he shifted his grip on the struggling clone, grabbing him by the collarbone, which he broke in the same second like a glass rod. A child's piercing shriek rang through the air.
"Why, you—!" He registered the stomping of approaching clones from the direction where he had thrown the Jedi. Let them come — they wouldn't make it in time anyway.
Grievous paid no attention to the threats, continuing his revenge.
Like a turbolaser shot — imperceptible to the eye and deadly — the third manipulator grabbed the child by the neck. The boy, his eyes wide with terror, began to struggle convulsively, trying with all his human strength to damage him with his legs or his remaining arm. Continuing to squeeze his fingers around the neck, Grievous savored how the cybernetic equipment of his body registered the child's difficulty breathing, the pressure on his larynx and trachea.
He listened to the child's hysterical screams, but didn't even think of backing down.
The general could not leave the battlefield without a triumph. And the horror the clones were witnessing was exactly what was needed to complete this raid.
Grievous turned to the enemy, holding the child before him like a shield. The shooting stopped instantly. Splendid.
The cyborg returned his lightsaber to his belt and restored his arms to their original position. Now he held the child by the throat with one hand, turning his face toward the clones. And he began to slowly retreat toward the free exit from the barracks.
"Hey, put the boy down," a clone commander approached him, raising the barrels of his blasters toward the ceiling in a conciliatory gesture. Nyx, it seemed. Though that was useless information. "And you can go. We won't touch you."
Grievous savored the sight. New clones began to appear in the corridor — now there were already fifty of them. Fewer than he would have liked, but still. The general made sure he had reached the turn into a corridor that had no obstacles to retreat.
"The same fate awaits you all," he wheezed, letting the clones realize the irreversibility of what was to come.
"Nooooo!" The cry from dozens of throats could not drown out Grievous's gurgling, evil laughter as he, grinding the child's cervical vertebrae, larynx, trachea, muscles, tendons, and spinal cord into dust with one mechanical hand, delivered a precise, crushing blow with his free manipulator, punching through the boy's back, shattering his fragile spine and internal organs. The durasteel fingers, emerging from the torn, bloody sternum, opened. With a disgusting, squelching sound, the still-warm little heart fell onto the shiny floor.
Tearing the child's body in two, the cyborg threw the bloody pieces of the cadet at the frozen clones and fled.
General Grievous knew perfectly well when to retreat.
* * *
Yes, Savage was strong.
No, not even that — he was devilishly strong. And as crazy as a Nexu.
He crashed down on me like an avalanche, swinging his lightsaber pike like a club. A pathetic sight.
No, I understand that Dooku didn't have the opportunity to properly train him. But, honestly — he'd have been better off leaving him that huge axe — it would have caused less laughter.
And yet, even without special training, Opress spun his weapon with such swift speed as I had never seen before. Like a giant swinging a swing — until the latter starts spinning around its mounts like a pair of socks thrown into a washing machine drum.
Despite the lack of technique, his method of killing... was impressive.
I dodged his strikes, parried them, making his crude but powerful blows slide along my blade, losing their initial kinetic energy. Ideally, this should have worn him out, while I conserved my own strength.
But that was just theory.
It took me only five minutes to understand why this bastard had managed to chop up so many Jedi. The Force was truly a miracle. Especially when the growing power within you helps refresh even the most distant memories.
In the Jedi Order, for all its flaws, there were also advantages — they didn't allow Force adepts to develop spontaneously. They taught children how to handle their gift.
But for fuck's sake! A Jedi space academy had crashed on Dathomir, and representatives of the Order had met with the locals. Could it be that Yoda, who was present there, never realized what a treasure trove of recruits for the Order the planet Dathomir was?
Or rather — a potential threat to everything.
The magic of the Night Sisters now flowed through Savage's body, enhancing his natural fury, making the Zabrak stronger with each blow. Like any wild beast, he was not bound by any rules of combat. Having no idea even about the forms of lightsaber combat, he nevertheless swung an axe before and a lightsaber pike now with equal effectiveness.
A Jedi's fight with Savage was akin to a duel between a homegrown karateka and a street fighter. The first "works" strictly by the book — the second relies on his own experience and intuition. The Jedi, bound by rules, could not harm him — not a single one.
But he had a great time, unleashing his uncontrollable fury on his opponent. This pressure, the Dark Side swirling around him — all of this disoriented the Jedi, who clung to their inner zen, that is, calmness. And as a result — they died.
Fortunately, I have no problem with emotions.
And Juyo was the best answer to the chaos that the Zabrak was passing off as swordsmanship.
Chaos and brute force met unpredictability and fine calculation.
The opponent snorted in surprise when I deflected his attack and stepped back to regroup. He had started the fight furiously, expecting to finish our skirmish quickly. Now he had to reconsider his strategy. And thinking for beings on Mother Talzin's steroids was not the best course of action.
"You're not an ordinary Jedi," he said.
"And it took you ten minutes of fighting to realize that?" I asked in surprise. Damn, dude, do you really see Jedi in armor every day?
"Yes," Savage nodded, spinning the hilt of his lightsaber pike in his hand.
"What can I say," I shrugged. "Slow motion is still motion."
"Huh?" The Zabrak's eyebrows rose.
"Lightsaber to the face, take that," a lame pun, sure. But the experience was invaluable. With his gift of the Dark Side, Savage was completely unprepared to counter Dun Moch. What the hell was Dooku even doing? An apprentice isn't grass — it won't grow on its own. Though, who said he even needed an apprentice?
Darth Maul was an animal to Palpatine — a blind executor of his will. The Baneite Sith were famous for controlling their emotions, being calculating and cunning maniacs. Which of these could the Zabrak boast? Only the ability to swing a lightsaber and track prey.
So was Savage — just a pawn, whose value was less than the dirt under his fingernails.
Opress lunged forward again, and the corridor filled with the hissing and crackling of lightsabers that had clashed several times in the span of two heartbeats.
The Zabrak threw himself at me, trying to overpower me with brute force. And, like water at low tide, he retreated, running into an impenetrable defense. And each time, a more threatening expression appeared on his face. He was clearly not used to prolonged sparring, and it was starting to irritate him.
The battle still raged behind me — through the Force, I could feel that Oli and the clones had very little left to crush the reinforcement squad. Literally — three enemy vehicles. Wonderful, the girl was clearly exceeding my expectations. Or maybe I was underestimating her.
But something else bothered me. I couldn't spot any hint of a DNA container among his clothing. In the cartoon series, it was a huge white canister that barely fit in a hand. But the Zabrak had nothing!
"Savage," throwing the beast back several meters, I noticed with undisguised surprise that at the entrance to the genetic repository stood a tall, no, even HUGE, powerfully built man with short black hair, an arrogant expression on his face, and a lightsaber hilt on his belt. Next to which was secured a DNA container! "Why are you still messing around with this runt of a Jedi?"
Well, yes, compared to these two fans of using "growth formula" as an external application, I was just a dwarf, inferior to them both in build and height — by two heads each. Now that was certain.
"He's strong," the Zabrak growled. "I can't break through his defense, Baron! Help!"
"Stupid animal," the giant threw contemptuously, releasing a crimson blade from its hilt. "Watch and learn!"
"Teacher?" Oli appeared beside me, her face clearly showing bewilderment. Clutching a lightsaber in her hand, the girl pointed her blade at the man. "What the hell is this swamp Hutt?"
"Baron Nax Kirvan," the servant saluted us with a typical Makashi gesture. "At your service, Jedi. You will be the ninth."
"What are you talking about?" I could feel the adrenaline boiling in the girl after the battle, sweeping away all barriers before her mind like a tsunami.
"I've killed eight Jedi and their Padawans on the plains of Rullag," he boasted. "And you will be my next victims."
With these words, he unclipped the DNA container from his belt and tossed it into the hands of the stunned Opress.
"Deliver this to General Grievous," he ordered.
"But I must fight the Jedi," the giant objected sullenly.
"You will follow my orders!" Nax gnashed his teeth. Obviously, there was no agreement between the two servants. And if left alone, they might even start fighting each other. And we could just stand and watch.
"Sir," Balda appeared on my left. "They have the DNA container."
"I see," without taking their eyes off us, the servants continued arguing about who was carrying out priority orders. Come on, just a little more, I just needed you to let your guard down for a moment.
"We need to take it," the commando continued his thought.
"I know."
"Then why aren't you doing anything?" Gregor chimed in.
"I'm waiting," the baron turned his head irritably toward his ally. Bingo.
"For what?" Oli asked in surprise.
"For this," the Force accumulated under my masking was released in a monstrous Wave that caught both servants like a hurricane wind catches light debris. Tumbling through the air, both fools crashed to the floor several dozen meters from where they had been standing.
"Idiot!" The baron dusted off his knees. "Is the container intact?"
"I thought you had it," Savage snapped back.
"Fools," Oli called out to them, showing the Kaminoan property in her hands, which she had torn from the servants' grasp with the Force when I sent them flying. Good girl. I had the same thought and was about to voice it when she did it herself. It's nice when teacher and student think alike. "Is this what you're looking for?"
Despite the distance between us, the beastly roar of Savage, who charged into the attack, reached my ears. The man, meanwhile, hung his blade on his belt and hurried to disappear into a side corridor.
"Oli, Balda," I ordered. "Take care of the baron. Gregor," with a light motion of my hand, I tossed the DNA container into the clone's hands. "Preserve it at all costs and deliver it to headquarters. Now go, run!"
Taking my now-familiar Juyo stance, I thought with relief that I had finally gotten rid of witnesses. That meant I wouldn't have to hold back. I had already figured out his tactics. But he hadn't figured out mine.
Time to kill.
* * *
Tasi Gree looked his interlocutor over from head to toe with distrust.
Not that he had expected anything contrary to his plans, but now, in simple clothes, without a sword, he felt practically defenseless. Especially since the meeting's organizer was armed from head to toe.
"So I take it you called me?" He sat down at the agreed-upon table in a dive bar on the lower levels of Coruscant. A shady place for fortune hunters, criminals of all stripes, and just various scum. The perfect place to get lost.
"Tasi Gree," the mechanical voice, though distorted by the helmet's vocabulator, could still only belong to a woman.
"That's right," the Nautolan shook his head-tendrils. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"My... employer would like to offer you a job."
"What kind?" The former Jedi perked up.
"All within the scope of your previous place of work," his interlocutor in blue-gray Mandalorian armor hinted vaguely.
"I don't understand what you're getting at," Tasi interrupted her. The suspicion that this whole meeting was not what he thought only grew stronger.
His connection to the Force was not the strongest in the Temple. Quite the opposite, actually. And to survive among peers where every other person had at least half again as many midi-chlorians as you, you had to develop other talents. So Yoda had gone to meet the overage youngling, assigning him to the Service Corps. Well, and there they liked hard workers. In ten years, he had managed to achieve the rank of Jedi Knight, which was essentially a nonsense for the Corps. The old warehouse manager had left this mortal world — he was an already elderly Zabrak. Tasi readily took on what even in the Service Corps they shirked from — working in the Warehouses. Life in the Warehouses was excellent — both filling and warm. There was no one willing to clear out the debris left over from almost the Hundred-Year Darkness. So he was appointed the new manager, literally a week later. Clearing out old junk and trash, he sent a lot to the recycler — some things were several thousand years old. At first, the Corps controlled every container sent to the dump, then every fifth, then every hundredth, until they stopped doing it altogether. A few years later, practically the entire quartermaster service of the Order fell on his shoulders.
Having earned the trust of the senior Jedi, he could practically openly sell various small items on the black market that had long been unwanted in the Temple. Given the Order's budget, it was an utterly insignificant speck.
And then, the thunder struck — his little side earnings were discovered. The Council didn't bother searching for concrete evidence — it was enough that his name appeared as a seller on one of the "Thranta" ships.
Exile from the Order was not a pleasant procedure. After the Council's fateful decision, you had to walk, as if spat upon, through the entire Vestibule, while thousands of beings watched you, some of whom you had called your friends.
The Council took absolutely everything from him — his lightsaber, his clothes, the money saved in dummy accounts... If he hadn't secured himself in advance by renting a small apartment paid in advance, and a small stash of cash — who knows how he would have survived these four months.
"My employer is well aware that you used to handle the Order's quartermaster service excellently. Speaking of which, how much time passed from the sale of the equipment from the Hangars before the Council caught on and sniffed everything out?"
"Eight months," Gree replied coldly. He had completely stopped liking this conversation.
"A man of such talents cannot languish on the lower levels, don't you think?"
"It's unlikely anyone is interested in a Nautolan without a specialized education, who spent his entire conscious life digging through the old junk of the Order that kicked him out," the former Jedi tried to gather all the Force available to him to assess the situation.
"My employer has significant interests in the Unknown Regions and Wild Space. We could use someone capable of clearing out the Temple Warehouse debris. Consider that your resume."
"Well, a being with the gift of sensing the Force never hurts, right?" Tasi smiled. He had been worrying for nothing. Just ordinary "gray" traders. "How much?"
"On this chip — your advance," she handed over a tiny piece of plastic. "And a series of assignments from your new superiors. Preferably — start immediately."
The woman rose from the table, tossing a few small credit chips at him.
Drawing level with the Nautolan, she leaned close to his ear and spoke quietly.
"My employer is not the kind of person who forgives failure. But honest work is always rewarded. Remember that, if you ever get the idea to stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
Tasi felt a chill run down his spine. It seemed he had agreed to this meeting in vain after all.
* * *
Savage could have lost his life long ago if he had tried to react to each of his opponent's movements individually. Instead, he called upon the Force with all his might, letting it flow through him and guide his hand. Just as Count Dooku had taught him. He surrendered himself to the dark side completely, unconditionally. His weapon became an extension of the Force, and he met the Jedi's relentless attack with an impenetrable defense.
Or rather, he tried to.
The man moved with truly incredible speed. The cascade of strikes he unleashed upon the Zabrak awakened a dormant sense of fear within him. Several times the Jedi managed to reach him — long scorch marks remained on his armor. Savage silently thanked Mother Talzin for this generous gift — the armor steeped in the sorcery of the Night Sisters. Without it, his body would already be sporting a good dozen fresh scars.
Meanwhile, the Jedi's attacks grew stronger with each passing moment, as if he were a spring that had suddenly uncoiled. The Zabrak couldn't understand how such an adept could have emerged from the Order. Dooku had said they were all weaklings. And Savage had been proven right every time he bathed his weapon in Jedi blood.
But now, his opponent seemed to have gone completely off the rails.
A searing pain in his leg snapped Opress back to reality. The enemy's blade had left a deep gash on his thigh, making it impossible for the Zabrak to properly support himself on it.
The Jedi easily parried his desperate lunge, suddenly breaking the distance between them.
"You are weak," he remarked. "Your rage is impressive. But you don't control it. It overcomes you and turns you into a blind animal."
"What do you know about rage, Jedi?" Savage snorted. He was channeling the Force into his wounded leg, hoping it would ease the pain. Unfortunately, the Dark Side cannot heal — Count Dooku had told him that.
"More than you, that's for sure," a mocking tone came from beneath the Jedi's mask. "And I could teach you..."
"I already have a teacher!" the Zabrak snapped back, shaking his horned head threateningly.
"An old man who doesn't understand much about the Dark Side himself?" The Jedi laughed. "A pathetic sight. You have a gift for the Dark Side, Savage. I don't think you were born that way, of course — Mother Talzin strengthened your connection to the Force."
At the mention of the only living being he respected, the Zabrak felt molten gold surging through his veins. Pure rage, the limits of which he could only reach during the merciless tortures inflicted by the Count. But now, the Zabrak had reached it on his own. And the Darkness would help him crush the Jedi.
With a furious roar, Dooku's apprentice launched his attack; for the first time, he tapped into his full potential.
He drove the Jedi back with fierce, sharp strikes, forcing the armored man to retreat. For a moment, though, it seemed to Savage that the man had made his move an instant before the attack itself happened. Performing a backflip, the Jedi landed a good ten meters away from his opponent, but Opress was relentless in his advance, lunging forward sharply and nearly landing a slashing blow to the Jedi's leg.
His blade was deflected at the last second, but he quickly followed up with another series of powerful thrusts and stabs. The Jedi continued to retreat, steadily pushed back by the fury of Savage's frenzied assault.
The Zabrak felt he could no longer breathe. Inside, it was as if a nuclear reactor was melting down, simultaneously providing energy but inevitably leading to dire consequences.
"Ah, so it seems you've reached your peak," the armored mask burst into a sneer. A very insulting and low one. Savage intensified his pressure on the opponent, hoping, as before, to break him with brute force alone. But the Jedi inexorably avoided meeting his sword, parrying, deflecting, and even outright evading the strikes of his lightsaber pike.
Every time the Zabrak tried to change tactics or switch to the basics of any form that Count Dooku had shown him, the Jedi anticipated it, reacted, and seized the advantage. And again, he had to plunge deeper into the red-hot reactor to draw new strength.
"A pity. I thought you were stronger than what you're showing now," the man's voice dripped with disappointment. So deep and sincere that the Zabrak wondered for a moment — perhaps this strange Jedi really could teach him something. Especially since he himself fought in the ways of the Dark Side, using it so easily and effortlessly, as if he had been born a Sith.
"Teach me," when their blades locked, the Zabrak looked into the eye slits of the mask. "I want to become stronger! I will become the greatest Sith!"
"Sorry, kid, but there's no room in my team for weaklings like you." A Force Push sent the Zabrak flying another ten meters forward. Baring his teeth, Savage glared from under his brow at the approaching Jedi, whose golden-yellow blade traced intricate patterns.
Suddenly, the future opened up to him.
The resolution was inevitable. The Force within the Jedi was too great. Only some unexpected maneuver could save Savage, but he simply lacked the imagination for it. Besides, his opponent didn't give him much time to think.
The Nightbrother fell into despair. He jumped, spun, dove: he was wild and reckless in his retreat, striving only to preserve his life. A plan formed in his mind — retreat to the landing shuttles, escape. Let Count Dooku be angry with him, but it was better than being killed. And he no longer doubted the Jedi's intentions.
Savage felt terror grip him for the first time. For the first time in his life, he was facing a killer. Not a frenzied, hot-tempered one like himself. But a cold, calculating maniac who had planned from start to finish what was about to happen.
And the Zabrak ran. Flight was the only way to save his life.
Triumphant laughter rang out behind him. The Jedi gave chase.
Various corridors and passages appeared in his path, but the moment the Zabrak ducked into one, several clones burst out to meet him, opening hurricane fire. Deflecting several volleys back at the shooters, the Nightbrother hurried to retreat. He got lost in the corridors, becoming a hostage to the Kaminoans' monotonous construction and layout. And there was no time to study it. The flight had cost him too much strength, and now he was simply limping, moving awkwardly down a corridor that ended in a single turn. Beyond it, it seemed, were the hangar doors, where the fighter Kirvan had arrived on was parked. To hell with the Baron — his own life was more precious.
Meanwhile, at the edge of his perception, he registered the Jedi steadily closing in. He was advancing as inexorably as Death itself. But Savage still hoped to outplay his opponent.
Turning the corner, he was pleased to see he had been right — it was indeed the hangar doors. The chance of salvation seemed within reach.
With a touch of the Force, he forced the gates to swing open, letting him into the vast space. Yes, the hangar he so desperately needed. And he had every chance to escape — his eyes lit up the moment he spotted a group of CIS droids guarding Kirvan's ship.
"Hey, you! Help!" he roared. A dozen B-1s, like obedient puppets, scurried toward him. "Hold off the Jedi, I must escape!"
"Roger roger," the squad leader replied. Savage smirked as he glanced at the dark figure of the Jedi approaching the hangar doors. The Zabrak himself had only a few steps left. And he would be saved.
The Jedi destroyed the droids without slowing his unhurried pace for a single moment. Savage initiated pre-flight procedures, cursing the Baron with all his might for having the bright idea to power down the starship. He needed just two more seconds for the fighter, detached from the hangar, to break free from this place.
Like two golden discs, the Jedi's blades (!) sliced through the planes on either side of the cockpit, splitting the Belbullab-22 into three parts. With a crash, the fighter's pieces collapsed onto the hangar floor.
At the last moment, Savage blasted the cockpit free with the Force and shot straight up like a candle, avoiding the fate of dying in the explosion of the fighter's fuel tanks.
Landing on his feet, the Zabrak rolled forward, trying to absorb the impact energy. Rising to his feet, he stared with hatred at the approaching figure, in whose hands two golden blades blazed.
The Zabrak stood in the center of the empty hangar, breathing heavily and frequently, slightly hunched, head bowed. Behind him, the wreckage of the fighter burned. Before him — his death moved. He raised his eyes just as the Jedi stepped inside. But when he looked at his opponent, there wasn't even a hint of defeat in his gaze.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," he said.
Less than five meters separated them, but it was enough space for Savage to quickly grab his own lightsaber pike. The aura of omnipotence that had so frightened the Zabrak was no longer around the Jedi. Deciding that his opponent had lost his concentration, the Zabrak chose to take the risk. Even the strongest adepts needed rest and couldn't remain in constant contact with the Force. And Savage was created to control the Dark Side, which he now absorbed like moisture on a sunny day in the desert.
The battle resumed, but it was Opress who had to retreat. Without proper training, even a vast ability to control the Force was incapable of predicting the unknown sequences of the Jedi's fighting style. His mind was flooded with millions of possibilities of what his opponent might do, but he lacked the experience to act on any of them. Overwhelmed, he retreated with an unsteady gait, trying to survive with the desperation of a drowning man.
After the first few exchanges, Savage realized he could not win. The Jedi had been prepared his whole life for this moment. After years of training, he had mastered all forms of lightsaber combat — something the Zabrak lacked. Then he had spent decades honing his skill, perfecting every movement and sequence, until he became a perfect weapon. Perhaps that was why the Republic had sent him here — to avenge the Jedi he had torn apart across the galaxy. For all his desire, Savage was no match for him.
The Jedi was relentless in his assault. It seemed he held six swords in his hands, not two: he attacked with a particular rhythm, the purpose of which was to knock his opponent off balance, simultaneously striking with one blade from above and the other from below, from opposite sides and at different angles. Savage had no choice but to retreat... further... and further. He now fought with a single goal: to stay alive as long as possible. Only one hope gave him the strength to persevere in the face of overwhelming odds; one advantage he had kept in reserve.
He knew he was retreating toward the outer hangar door. His chance for salvation was to break outside, hide in the ocean, seize any transport, and flee.
As they fought, the combatants rounded a corner and found themselves next to the curved hangar wall — about a hundred meters wide and no less than twenty meters high. Savage switched to a purely defensive stance, reacting to each of his opponent's blows, knowing that any single thrust could be his last.
The Force told him they were very close — the door control panel was right behind him. He just needed a moment's distraction to activate the mechanism...
Only lightning-fast reflexes saved him from the Jedi's sudden, sharp lunge. The golden blade whistled over Savage's head, shearing off several horns. In the same instant, he tried to impale the Jedi with one of his own blades, but the temple guard harshly thwarted the attempt. Deflecting Savage's sword aside with his own blade, the Jedi struck the Zabrak square in the face with his armored mask with all his might.
Roaring in pain, wiping the blood streaming into his eyes, Opress performed a backflip, landing next to the panel. The Force told him where the coveted device was, and he slammed his palm against it with all his strength...
And missed.
Wiping the blood away, he was astonished to find that the panel he had been aiming for had been cleanly cut off. Moreover, judging by the melted edges — a lightsaber had done the work.
In the moment it took Savage to realize he had miscalculated, and that his opponent could still finish what he had started, the Jedi made a lunge with the Force. Knocking the Zabrak off his feet for a split second, he then slammed him back-first against the ill-fated hangar door with another Force push. This could have cost him his life if he hadn't thought to envelop himself in the Force at the last moment. Even so, he now felt beaten, battered, and half-stunned.
And opposite him, calmly examining the lightsaber hilt the Zabrak had dropped, stood the Jedi.
"Simple and tasteless," he stated. In the same second, the lightsaber pike's hilt crunched, turning into a sea of fragments that scattered across the floor. Only a pair of tiny crimson stones remained floating above the Jedi's open palm.
"Now these crystals — are interesting," he concluded. "These, I think, I'll take for myself."
With these words, he placed the stones into a container on his belt.
"Spare me," the Zabrak rasped. "I will serve you."
"I have enough servants," the Jedi shrugged. "And even if I didn't, what's the point of keeping you alive?"
"You're not a Jedi," Savage said. "I sensed the Dark Side in you. You're as much a Sith as I am. We should help each other to crush the Jedi."
"You are profoundly mistaken, Savage Opress, if you think I am a Jedi or a Sith," the man said, disappointed. Then, something in his demeanor seemed to change. As if he had urgent business. "But I'm afraid you simply won't have time to understand how wrong you were. I must go."
Savage roared as he felt the Wave of Force the man released, turning away from him.
There was nothing refined about the Jedi's attack: a massive blast wave blew out the hangar wall as if it were made of paper. The compression strike had enough power to shatter the bones in Savage's body and tear the skin from his flesh.
His last memory was unbearable pain, which slowly receded as his body reached the ocean's surface.
And then came darkness.
* * *
The Baron must have seemed like a coward fleeing the battlefield to the Padawan. That was, until she realized that following his trail had led her into a spacious repair workshop with only one entrance and one exit.
Which was sealed shut the moment Balda tried to follow her through it — a red blade pierced the control panel. The commando struck the door several times with force, but the metal held.
"Well, here we are alone, Padawan," the dark Jedi said with anticipation, taking his weapon in hand.
"I won't say I'm glad about it," Oli smirked, activating her own blade. "But only one of us is leaving here."
"And I already know who that will be," Nax Kirvan laughed, bearing down on the fragile girl from the height of his enormous stature.
He used his hatred for the Jedi to continue filling himself with the power of the dark Force.
With his cloak billowing, Kirvan opened himself to the all-consuming rage boiling within him and lunged forward, appearing before the tiny girl clad in ridiculous armor. Emotions fueled his power, and he felt the might of the dark side enveloping him and growing inside.
Nax, deeply immersed in the Force, sensed the trajectory of every thrust the Jedi student made. Without breaking his contact with the Dark Side, he directed his blade left, then right, and finally, tilting the blade at a ten-degree angle, he managed to deflect the girl's blade with a powerful strike, nearly causing her to drop the lightsaber hilt from her hands.
He had no need to try and calculate her actions — back in his days as a Jedi, he had mastered virtually all possible forms of lightsaber combat: Makashi and Djem So, remaining a devotee of the latter style, where his outstanding physical abilities shone. Shii-Cho, which he had learned as a youngling, now seemed laughable compared to the arsenal of deadly techniques he was using against the Padawan.
The ease with which she had fallen into such a simple trap — one so obvious that even a clone had avoided it — did not speak well of her intelligence. So Kirvan expected a quick victory.
The air filled with intertwining energy waves of the Force emanating from the two combatants. Everything around them merged into a chaotic, roaring tangle of bodies, lightsabers, and furious cries. The girl turned out to be not so simple, withstanding the dark Jedi's onslaught without any damage to herself. Short in stature, clearly physically developed, she managed, even in her armor, to use the acrobatics of Ataru, which sometimes left Nax dumbfounded.
The fight seemed to be taking on an even more chaotic character. The room appeared to be filled with the hissing noise of clashing blades of two colors. The telekinetic strikes they exchanged sent numerous tools and loose objects flying into the air, turning them into pieces of debris. Nax advanced, chasing the girl all over the not-at-all-small workshop, reveling in her desperate attempts to counter his pressure.
At one point, he managed to catch her off guard. The girl's blade dropped lower than it should have, indicating she was exhausted. He thrust his left hand forward, and blue lightning erupted from his fingertips. Writhing, lines of energy flew forward, intending to knock the girl off her feet and turn her body into a charred cinder inside her own armor.
She nearly managed to deflect the attack — the blade, held at the correct angle, absorbed almost all the power of the Dark Side. But their strengths were not equal — he was incomparably more powerful than her in the Dark arts.
She screamed in pain as the lightning began to tear through her body, which momentarily became semi-transparent from the dark power passing through it. Kirvan savored her pain until, with her last ounce of strength, she threw him back with a Force Push.
The Padawan stood, swaying on her feet. Steam rose from her in all directions — although the onslaught of lightning had been a short but powerful burst of Force, it obeyed physical laws. So, Nax could guess from his own experience that the Padawan now had an absolutely hellish dryness in her mouth. Not to mention an almost irresistible urge to sleep.
He doubled his physical strength with the Force, gripping his sword hilt with both hands, and swinging, delivered an overhead blow intended to cleave his opponent in two. The Jedi dodged and directed the strike of her blue-bladed sword across Kirvan's throat. He parried the threat at the last moment and immediately delivered a sharp kick to the Jedi's stomach. The blow sent the girl flying into the workshop wall; she doubled over, and, staggering, tried to get up.
Nax smiled, savoring every moment, slowly approaching the exhausted girl, pondering how to end her life. She had cost him almost two hours, during which he could have found the stolen DNA sample and flown away, leaving Grievous to amuse himself with the clones.
Before the dark Jedi could do anything, part of the wall where the workshop entrance had been literally vanished, slamming into the opposite wall. Through the dust and stone debris, another figure appeared in the workshop.
"Step away from her and you'll live," the Jedi offered. A second later, the clone who had accompanied the girl in her pursuit of the Baron appeared in the workshop behind him.
Kirvan laughed heartily, raising his blade over the fallen Padawan...
The lunge was so powerful that the dark Jedi felt his breakfast rising in his throat. At the last second, he managed to deflect the Jedi's yellow blade, onto which the giant would inevitably have been impaled like a nerf on a spit.
"Take her to the medical center," the Jedi ordered the clone over his shoulder. "Her life is on your head!"
"As always, sir!" Nax watched with a smirk as the clone approached the girl, carefully hoisting her onto his shoulder. He couldn't follow her further fate — the Jedi came into his field of view.
He assumed a typical Niman stance, which sent the Baron into a fit of laughter.
"It seems we haven't been introduced," he bowed gallantly. "Nax Kirvan. Who do I have the honor of fighting?"
"I'll be sure to tell you that when I start cutting you into pieces," the Jedi promised.
Nax frowned. The Order's teachings forbade threatening beings or causing them any harm. It seemed he was facing another renegade. And likely not a minor one... Count Dooku would reward him if the Baron secured a new servant — especially one as promising as this.
"I think I have a proposition for you," the Baron broke into a smile.
"That's your problem," the Jedi launched himself forward.
* * *
Exhaustion was overwhelming him, but Nial, leaning on the terminals, did not allow himself to relax for a single second. Not now. He had to hold on, with his last ounce of strength.
The protracted five-hour battle had cost them the loss of all the Venators, two-thirds of the Acclamators, and half of the Marauders. Only the Hammerheads felt absolutely fine — not a single ship had sustained serious damage or left the battle for a minute. Hundreds of wrecks — both their own and Separatist ships — filled Kamino's orbit, creating an artificial obstacle for the enemy's fast but unwieldy assault fighters.
Nial felt dizzy. Blood was now flowing from his nose not in drops, but in actual streams. However, he did not relax his control for a single second.
The reduction in the number of matelots in the squadron, while an extremely sad fact, also meant that each lost ship allowed the commodore to strengthen his control over the remaining ones.
He felt that his uniform was soaked through, but he could do nothing about it. To get distracted meant to lose the chance to destroy the Separatist fleet once and for all. So he had to hold on.
Having lost almost half his squadron, Declann had nevertheless achieved great success. The CIS fleet effectively no longer existed. The enemy's overwhelming numerical superiority had been reduced by the commodore in the shortest possible time after taking command, by concentrating fire on designated targets. Only the light destroyers and Grievous's dreadnought remained — tough nuts to crack, the price of victory over them costing almost all the Venators. Only the Salvation had survived, having been withdrawn to reserve in time. In the heat of battle, Declann had forbidden opening the deflectors on the ships' hangars for air wing rotation — given the ubiquitous, seemingly inexhaustible Vultures, such a maneuver could have ended very badly. Therefore, the hangars of the Salvation, protected by two damaged Marauders, were used for this purpose.
The remaining ships were to decide the fate of the last vessels of Grievous's fleet. Seeing the destruction of the rest of the fleet, they were in no hurry to engage in battle at medium and close ranges, limiting themselves to long-range exchanges.
However, this didn't really matter. Now, Nial was gathering the remnants of his strength — literally and figuratively — to deliver the final, decisive blow. As strange as it might sound in the realities of his time, this required keeping the ships in a tight formation. Overlapping deflector fields achieved an improvement in collective defense. And stretching out the formations was risky — the remaining enemy starships had been avoiding line battle since the very beginning of the engagement. The damage they had sustained was not significant, as it was the result of fighter raids whose weapons couldn't penetrate the massive armor of capital ships.
It required very little effort...
"The enemy is turning," the first mate's voice sounded in his ear. "They're preparing to flee."
Nial saw and felt the same thing, but earlier than the instruments could register it. Just as he sensed that a small Kaminoan-built craft had broken through from Tipoca City to Grievous's dreadnought. And only after that did the remnants of the general's fleet attempt a retreat.
"They're going into hyperspace," the first officer reported, pointing through the transparisteel at the points of enemy ships disappearing in brief flashes of light. "We've won, sir!"
"Well, that's good," and only then did Nial allow himself to release his control over the situation.
And lose consciousness.
* * *
The Baron leaped high, dodging his opponent's cross strike, and landed behind a pile of mangled metal that had once been a B2 droid. Casting a quick glance at the Jedi, Nax unleashed the most powerful telekinetic blast he could muster upon the wreckage, trying to bring a rain of scrap metal down on his enemy.
Kirvan roared, filled with battle lust. It was so strong that he was ready to kill anyone in sight, including the droids assigned to him, if any of them got in his way. He wanted to kill, he needed to kill, to do it with his own hands. The Dark Side demanded sacrifices – and this Jedi would be the next. And most likely, the last in this battle.
The invasion had failed. The droid squads, despite their initial success, had been torn apart by ambushes set for them throughout the complex by the cunning clones. The fleet in orbit had suffered truly enormous losses – as soon as the Republic forces realized why so much debris was raining down on their heads, dozens of fighters rose from the hangars of Tipoca City to exterminate the Separatist reinforcements while they were still in the air.
He had no desire to linger here.
So he was rapidly retreating from the central structures.
Count Dooku had supplied them with a detailed plan of the entire complex. Including the location of individual Kaminoan transport vehicles. Nax's own fighter had been destroyed under unknown circumstances – his comlink had beeped with a prearranged signal about that.
There was no time to investigate the cause of the ship's explosion – he needed to find a new way to get out of here.
Fortunately, he remembered the map of the Kaminoan city perfectly. One walkway separated him from a small "saucer" where the Kaminoan leadership kept vehicles equipped with hyperdrives.
But first, he had to get rid of the Jedi pressing him.
His yellow blade flashed with furious speed, deflecting shots from a squad of droids that had somehow survived and ended up nearby. Truly – this was the support of the Dark Side, no doubt.
Nax ran toward the hangar with a smile. How simple it had turned out...
He skidded to a halt, barely realizing that right in front of him, the hangar doors had swung open, revealing two female Jedi in gray-gold armor similar to what he had seen on the Padawan.
He knew only one of them – Adi Gallia. The face of the second – blonde and pretty – was vaguely familiar. But he chose not to dwell on memories.
The Jedi had cut off his escape route.
"Surrender, Nax, and you won't be harmed," the Tholothian said loudly, activating her blade. So she remembered him too.
"I'm not interested in captivity," the dark Jedi said, assuming a combat stance, ready for battle. The Force told him that these two would be weaker than the one approaching from behind.
"He's mine!" The roar of the male Jedi moving behind him reached his ears. Nax turned, watching in astonishment as his opponent used a mighty Force Wave to collapse the section of platform where the droids blocking his advance stood. The Baron himself was no weak adept – on the contrary, the Jedi counted him among the strongest. But even he was not capable of such a feat. At least not after two hours of battle.
The Jedi charged toward him across the battlefield. Several dozen meters separated them, so Nax, seeing that both women had decided to refrain from interfering, prepared to meet his opponent.
It wasn't worth taking risks in this fight. He was too valuable to the Separatist movement.
Therefore, the dark Jedi, while waiting for his opponent, channeled streams of the Dark Side through himself. Anger filled him again, increasing his power in the Force. A cry of malice and hatred tore from his throat. The powerful energy of the dark side burst forth, destroying part of the walkway before his eyes, sending debris flying in all directions.
A gap about thirty meters wide opened between him and the Jedi – a distance that could be crossed, but not without risk to life.
Smirking at how the Jedi hesitated, stopping at the edge of the gap, the dark Jedi mockingly waved his hand, sending another Force Push into the base of the platform. The structure could not contend with the might of the Dark Side, so the remains of the platform and walkway crashed down with a roar. Too bad he couldn't see how it would end.
He turned back toward the Jedi and rushed at them. His rage and power surged before him like a tangible wave. Adi Gallia stood before him, her blue blade raised high. Kirvan barely glanced at her. He simply reached forward, bypassed the Jedi's inadequate defense, grabbed her by the throat, and used the Force to slam the Master into the solid surface of the walkway. Kicking her body aside with his heavy boot, he moved toward the white-haired female Jedi.
She, in turn, moved to meet her former brother of the Order. Nax tried to attack the female Jedi from the side, but she jumped, letting the dark servant's blade pass under her feet, and spinning in midair, drove her heavy heel into his jaw.
Nax tasted blood. Excellent. That would only spur him on.
The opponents closed in. For a moment they stood a meter apart, studying each other.
Then the duel resumed. The former Jedi dodged a violet blade and kicked the girl in the stomach. Towering over her, he brought his sword down in a killing blow.
The blonde twisted desperately, avoiding a critical wound. Executing a leg sweep, she caught Nax off guard, and the giant fell onto the permacrete with a deafening crash. The force of the fall seemed so great that the tiny Jedi actually bounced in place.
"Resourceful bitch!" Nax cursed mentally, getting back to his feet.
With a gaze full of hatred, he stared at the spot where the blonde Jedi had stood moments ago. Now, having fallen from some huge local creature, the earlier Jedi stood next to the girl. And judging by the water streaming off him, he had gotten soaked after all. That was pleasing – at least some solace for his strained eyes.
"Siri, I'll take it from here," the masked Jedi said. "Take care of Adi. It won't take me long to get rid of him."
"That's a new one," Nax smirked, thrusting his crimson blade toward him. He was ready to continue the fight. And he craved it like no other.
The Jedi with the yellow blade lunged forward and intercepted the strike. Both former Temple students looked into each other's faces again, and the battle raging around them ceased to exist.
For them, there was no one around – only the two of them. Nax himself with his malice and rage, and Rick Dougan with his calm and composure. It wasn't too difficult to finally identify who he was dealing with. Not many Jedi wore closed armor and face masks. Well, it was flattering that he would be the one to break this suspicious winning streak of a particular Jedi.
Their blades met with a hiss. Each added the Force to their muscular tension, but neither had an obvious advantage. Nax snarled furiously in Dougan's face. Only a furrowed brow and a tightly compressed line of lips betrayed the tension felt by the outwardly calm dark Jedi. His opponent, however, expressed absolutely nothing.
Like a void in the Force, he was not felt in it, which could not help but infuriate the Baron. Once, he himself had tried to master such a Force technique, but had failed. And now, some Jedi...
Irritation fueled his anger. Dougan forced the Baron to retreat, delivering several powerful sword strikes from different angles. Kirvan backed away, parrying, unable to counter with his own blows. The Jedi tried to cut off the servant's head, but he desperately managed to block his strikes again and again.
With a spin, Dougan kicked his opponent in the chest, augmenting the blow with the Force. Nax was thrown back ten meters. He somersaulted in midair and landed on his feet, crouching at the edge of the destroyed walkway.
The Baron, burning with hatred, threw his sword at the Jedi. He guided its flight with the Force. The trajectory was meant to close around the opponent's neck. But as soon as his feet touched the floor, he jumped again, spreading horizontally in the air, and the sword flew past without touching him.
While Dougan was still in the air, Kirvan sent a powerful stream of destructive energy at him, which struck the Jedi, catching him off guard. He was thrown toward the female Jedi, who had rushed to help him. Knocking over the blonde, the Jedi fell flat on his face. The girl, as if weightless, rolled a few meters further like a limp doll and lay still, without the slightest movement.
Nax did not hesitate. At the peak of his rage, screaming with hatred, he leaped twenty meters upward – toward both Jedi. At the apex of his jump, he used the Force to retrieve his lightsaber, gripping the hilt with both hands, pointing the blade downward, intending to pin the prone Jedi to the floor of the Kaminoan structure.
But Dougan managed to react at the last moment. Catching the Baron with the Force in midair, he hurled him deep into the hangar with a sharp Pull.
The fallen Jedi slammed back-first into one of the parked ships, feeling several ribs crack. But the Dark Side reacted instantly, forcing him to spring to his feet, ready to counterattack. Rage, fueled by pain, nourished him like a supernova.
However, a glance at the battlefield brought him inner triumph. Dougan, instead of launching an attack, was near the female Jedi and now crouched beside her. Obviously trying to check if she was alive.
Perfect chance.
Kirvan unleashed all his rage. Forked blue lightning streamed from the fingertips of both hands, ready to burn everything before him. A technique he had practiced for years. Requiring great exertion of his own strength and deep unity with the Dark Side.
But now, he seemed to himself a deity capable of anything. So, deciding that the probability of hitting both Jedi was much higher than one, he fed his rage until both Jedi were hidden from him by an impenetrable stream of lightning. No one could survive such an inferno.
So Nax, pleased with himself, jumped down with a wave of the Force and ran aboard a Republic assault shuttle of the Nu type, flopping into the pilot's seat, leaning back as the seat rose along rail guides. Excellent, the controls were standard, and the machine itself was ready for takeoff – he just needed to grab the control levers.
The ship rose above the hangar floor, obedient to his will. The Baron cast a smug, sliding glance toward the Jedi corpses, intending to derive satisfaction from his own labors.
The muscles of his right eye twitched involuntarily.
Both Jedi were alive. The vast area of the hangar around them had been scorched by the Dark Side, turned into a charred wasteland. But the pair of Jedi were in the center of a completely undamaged section of the hangar. A perfectly circular section...
It seemed as if an impenetrable dome had protected them both. Sufficient to withstand the Dark Side of the Force, which in itself was an unprecedented fact.
Nax adjusted the nose of the assault ship, opening fire with laser cannons. However, the Jedi lightning-fast drew his own weapon, deflecting the energy bolts back at the shooter. The onboard computer reported damage to the hull near the forward sensors. Not critical, but the prospects of such a fight were uncertain.
The Baron, banking sharply while simultaneously pushing the engine to its design limits, left Tipoca City. Taking advantage of the fact that no one had yet reported the shuttle's capture, he safely cleared the atmosphere, entering the coordinates of Serenno into the navigation computer.
And only after he twice failed to respond to a call sign request from a Bounty Hunter patrol did the Meat Droids think to give chase.
But too late. The lights of hyperspace unfolded before the Baron.