Darth Alim Nox did not project the crude menace of lesser Sith. His posture was composed, almost scholarly — armor layered but elegant, eyes sharp with calculation rather than frenzy.
"You return," Nox said evenly. "Few approach Malachor without trembling."
"I've seen worse places," I replied. "At least your statues don't shoot back."
A faint pause.
"…Humor," Nox observed. "Unexpected."
"It keeps the mind flexible."
His projection shifted slightly, as though studying me more closely.
"You are not ignorant of who I am."
"No," I said. "Formerly Kallig. Slave turned acolyte. Survivor of Korriban's trials. Rival to Darth Thanaton. Ultimately victorious."
A slight narrowing of his eyes.
"Careful," he said. "Flattery is a currency that rarely holds value among Sith."
"It isn't flattery. It's research."
The hologram's expression changed — curiosity replacing suspicion.
"You know of my lineage?"
"You are the heir of Aloysius Kallig," I said. "You rebuilt your bloodline's reputation from nothing. You were worshiped as the Great Dragon by the Cult of the Screaming Blade. You took Thanaton's seat on the Dark Council by defeating him publicly."
A faint smirk appeared.
"Yes," Nox said softly. "I did."
The chamber darkened slightly as his tone shifted.
"I was not born into privilege. I was discovered as a slave. My mother died in chains. My wife… taken during my ascent. I buried both beneath ambition."
His projection flickered — not unstable, but layered with memory.
"After a battle in the Unknown Regions," he continued, "I was lost among the stars. Whether dead or alive became irrelevant. The Empire moved on. As it always does."
"And yet," I said, "you left this."
Nox inclined his head slightly.
"I left knowledge. That endures longer than flesh."
Silence lingered for a moment.
"You seek the Gauntlet," he said. "And the Mind Prison."
"Yes."
"You understand the cost?"
"I understand the alternative," I replied.
He studied me carefully.
"You walk a dangerous line," Nox said. "You speak of purpose instead of domination. You wield anger, yet do not drown in it."
"I've drowned before," I said calmly. "It's overrated."
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, Nox laughed — low and brief.
"Good," he said. "A Sith without perspective becomes predictable."
The hologram shifted, and new projections appeared around us — schematics unfolding in crimson light.
Starfighter designs.
Angular, predatory shapes — sleeker than standard Imperial craft. Twin-ion vectoring engines. Reinforced deflector arrays. Modular hardpoints.
"My legion required autonomy," Nox said. "The Empire's standard designs were inefficient. I commissioned prototypes. Faster strike response. Greater maneuverability. Self-contained life support for extended deep-space patrol."
I studied the schematics.
"These would outperform Vulture droids and ARC-170s in atmospheric combat," I said.
"They would," Nox agreed. "With refinement."
The projections shifted again — revealing armor designs.
Trooper plating, darker than standard Sith regalia. Reinforced chest matrix. Integrated neural link relays. Enhanced environmental seals.
"Prototype legion armor," Nox explained. "Durable enough for prolonged engagement, flexible enough for elite units. Soldiers should not merely be expendable. They should be assets."
"Practical," I observed.
Nox gave me a sharp look.
"You are surprised?"
"Most Sith see soldiers as disposable."
"Most Sith lose wars," he replied dryly.
That earned a faint smile from me.
"You intended to deploy these?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "But power struggles within the Council diverted resources. Politics suffocate innovation."
"I'm familiar with that problem."
"I suspected you might be."
The hologram dimmed slightly as his focus returned to me.
"You are not of my era," Nox said quietly. "Yet you carry echoes of future conflict. Your mind is layered."
"I've seen enough war to understand one thing," I said. "Power without stability collapses. Fear without structure breeds rebellion. Victory without preparation invites extinction."
Nox nodded once.
"You are not driven purely by loss," he said. "Though you have known it."
"I lost people too," I replied. "But I didn't turn that into a shrine."
A flash of sharp amusement crossed his face.
"Well done," Nox said. "Very few dare to mock a Dark Lord within his own holocron chamber."
"I assume you'd tell me if I crossed a line."
"Oh, certainly."
The Gauntlet of Shadow materialized beside the pedestal — dark metal, etched with subtle Sith script. Its surface seemed to drink in surrounding light.
"This will mask your presence within the Force far more effectively than crude suppression techniques," Nox said. "Not invisibility — concealment. A shadow among storms."
"And the Mind Prison?"
The air behind him shimmered, revealing a circular construct embedded deeper in the temple wall — layered rings rotating slowly around a central void.
"Time compression," Nox said. "One hour outside equals one thousand years of subjective experience within."
"That tends to ruin people," I said.
"It annihilates most," he corrected. "Memory overload. Identity collapse. Fragmentation."
"And you?"
"I endured it," he said quietly. "But I was not unchanged."
I met his gaze.
"I've faced battlefields where survival required becoming someone else," I said. "I've watched worlds burn and chosen to keep fighting. When you survive long enough, you understand that hope isn't naive."
Nox tilted his head.
"Explain."
"Hope isn't believing everything will be fine," I said. "It's deciding the future is worth building — even when it's ugly."
The chamber fell silent.
For a long moment, the Sith Lord simply observed me.
"Interesting," he said finally. "You are not what I expected."
"Disappointing?"
"No," Nox replied. "Promising."
The schematics of starfighters and armor slowly rotated in the air between us.
"Take these designs," he said. "Adapt them. Your war will demand innovation. If your legion is to survive prolonged conflict, they will require more than borrowed technology."
"And the price?" I asked.
"There is always a price," he said calmly. "You will enter the Mind Prison. You will test whether your convictions survive a thousand years of simulated conflict."
"And if they don't?"
Nox's crimson eyes glinted faintly.
"Then Malachor gains another statue."
I exhaled slowly.
"Fair."
He extended one armored hand toward the Gauntlet.
"Very well, Dagon Marek. Heir not by blood, but by will. Let us see whether war has forged you… or merely hardened you."
I stepped forward and took the Gauntlet.
It was colder than the stone around us.
Somewhere in the distance, the frozen sea of Malachor remained silent.
The test was about to begin.