I sat in the small but comfortably furnished cabin of my starship, wondering how everything had gone so differently from what I intended. I did want to recruit locals, but the way it happened… was nothing like my plan. The core of my strategy had always been secrecy: build as many "cells" as possible on planets convenient for me, avoid attention, and then, at the right moment, ignite a coordinated uprising—ideally alongside a major CIS offensive.
And now, sitting in silence, half‑lost in a meditative trance, I had to admit something bitter: I still didn't fully control my emotions. Otherwise, I couldn't explain what happened. I should've quietly found the most motivated individuals and spoken to them privately later. But no… my sense of justice flared up and pushed me into "debates" with that Confederacy agent. As I thought about it, I slipped deeper into the trance, and the more I remembered, the more I realized it might have been something far greater than simply wanting to speak my mind.
Back then, I entered a strange state where I instinctively knew what to say and when. It felt like I had caught some invisible rhythm the world moved to, and I simply followed it—adding only my own ideas from my previous life, ideas that didn't exist in that rhythm. On Earth, I sometimes wrote poetry, and this reminded me of that rare feeling of true inspiration. Usually writing poems was a long, exhausting process of finding the right metaphors and rhymes. But a couple of times, everything came out perfectly on the first try, as if the lines wrote themselves. Those poems are still my best work. And that was exactly what the recent sensation felt like. Realizing this, I suddenly "woke up," staring blankly at the wall as the rest of that cursed day came back to me.
The police had surrounded our "secret" meeting place, along with a couple dozen clones. But I hadn't been slacking in my training. The films described certain things in great detail—Luke's training with the remote, for example. I wasn't the Chosen One with Force‑cheats, but by spending most of my free time practicing, I'd gotten decent at deflecting blaster bolts. If more than two enemies fired at me from opposite sides, I couldn't block everything yet. But as long as I kept them in front of me, I could deflect their shots with short, controlled swings.
And I had to admit: without me and Kem, the locals wouldn't have lasted long. I wasn't much of a fighter in my "previous" life, but like everyone else, I'd served in the military, and I often took part in medieval reenactments—gaining at least some experience with swords. And even though a lightsaber weighed almost nothing, I was still the most capable fighter among us.
After we broke through the perimeter around the warehouse, real clashes with law enforcement began. The locals, surprisingly, listened to me as if I were their actual leader. They quickly organized, contacting friends who had watched the broadcast online, and now poured into the streets together. No one questioned my orders. In their eyes, I saw a stubborn determination to go all the way. I didn't understand what exactly in my speech had "infected" them so strongly, but there was no time to think about it.
The clones had only a couple of light reconnaissance walkers—the tiny ones, barely taller than a person. In Warhammer, their slightly larger analogues were called Sentinels. Here, I had no idea what they were called, and neither did the locals (author's note: AT‑RTs).
Thankfully, casualties were minimal. The locals listened to me and used only stun bolts, then tied up and dragged away the incapacitated enemies. I usually lured opponents toward myself, stepping aside so they had to expose themselves to shoot at me. Then the militia fired all at once, and sheer numbers guaranteed at least a couple of hits. I also knocked down their cover with the Force. With my support, the enemy didn't stand a chance.
Kem, however, had to be hidden after he brutally killed a police officer who rushed us. Showing that kind of savagery now would cost us the support of defectors from the army and police—who, surprisingly, existed.
Similar events unfolded in other cities, though not all as successfully. But enough about that—the whole thing deserves its own chronicle, and now wasn't the time to relive every detail.
Still, the events needed to be analyzed. Later. I had already spent an extra hour of my five‑hour sleep on this "meditation."
Whether I acted through the "will" of the Force or simply used some unknown technique like self‑hypnosis, reality didn't become any more pleasant. And after three local days on Riflor, I finally understood the balance of power.
On the first day, my followers spread the recording of my speech across the entire planet—and, I suspect, beyond it—despite my requests. Chaos erupted. The timing had been perfect: a major natural disaster had recently struck, and the locals, having received no help from the Republic or their own authorities, were eager for change. CIS agents had probably stoked that fire before their first appearance—but I had taken all the momentum.
By the second day, the sides were clear, and we united all allies and sympathizers under the working name "Revolutionary Alliance." (Author's note: any resemblance to real organizations is coincidental!) There was chaos, but nothing noteworthy. I travelled around the planet giving speeches and establishing a headquarters. A few competent officers on leave volunteered to handle organization, so we now had some semblance of a structure—though if you shook it too hard, it would fall apart. Fortunately, no one was in a position to shake us. The planet had only three factions:
First, the Revolutionary Alliance—by far the majority, about sixty‑four percent. I even became a sort of "revolutionary leader" with unquestioned authority, like Lenin. But I didn't keep all command power for myself. Following old wisdom, I handed it to the most capable people.
Second, the Republic's forces and their sympathizers—specifically, two or three cartels (reports varied) that profited from the war, plus the planetary defense forces. The cartels had their own trained armies, far larger than the Senate's garrison. Altogether, about twenty‑five percent of the population. A lot, and far better armed than my militia with their simple carbines. Thankfully, weapons weren't banned here, and almost everyone had at least some firearm and basic training.
Third, the undecided—though there were almost none—and those ideologically or financially invested in a CIS takeover. They had far more weapons and equipment than we did, almost on par with the authorities. Many pooled their wealth—no doubt earned "honestly"—to hire mercenaries. But they weren't united; each barricaded themselves behind shields on their territory, shooting anyone who approached. A real anarcho‑capitalist paradise. They would've stayed in their lairs, but we managed to direct Republic forces toward them twice yesterday.
All three forces were now mixed together on poor Riflor, already devastated by earthquakes. Over three days, we took control—though not fully—of the central part of the planet. The fighting had shifted toward the poles, where the largest spaceport and the Republic base were located.
The locals looked at me with hope, and I tried to give them that hope while keeping a calm expression. But things were far from ideal—and I don't mean the current situation, but the overall balance of power. Still, that was something to worry about later. I had some ideas, though my most radical supporters wouldn't like them.
The final battle took place near the spaceport. Many died during the unrest, but surprisingly fewer than during the earthquakes, so the locals were ready to fight to the end.
The spaceport was surrounded by several deflector shields, which only delayed the inevitable. We had enough heavy weapons to break through in half an hour, and the enemy had no reserve power. As usual, we sent small recon droids ahead. I feared they were stalling to rig everything with explosives. But to our surprise, we saw cartel members loading loot onto their ships.
The locals were furious. They clearly had personal grudges against the cartels, so stopping them was impossible. I had no choice but to lead the attack myself.
Honestly, the battle wasn't memorable—because there wasn't much of one. The enemy had maybe two hundred clones on the walls. A formidable force, but not in an urban environment. It was easy to take cover, so only a few unlucky Advozse in the front ranks died, which only fueled the others' anger.
Once I started hurling debris at the wall with the Force, their fire almost stopped. A small group managed to reach the wall and plant charges while the rest covered them.
Unfortunately, by then the first enemy ships were already lifting off. Our borrowed AA guns shot down only one small shuttle; the rest escaped.
When we stormed inside and forced the remaining clones to surrender, the cartel fighters were already gone. But they left behind several crates they hadn't managed to load. Inside were combat suits, weapons, ammunition, and a large amount of illegal stimulants. I burned all of it immediately and escorted the prisoners, questioning them along the way.
Even though we had captured and repurposed several factories to produce anti‑orbital defense systems, what I heard convinced me completely: the planet wouldn't last even a week against the sector's Republic fleet. This wasn't Jabiim with its "wonderful" weather. Here, another earthquake would destroy all fortifications and tunnels, helping the "liberators."
With the last enemy stronghold taken, resistance collapsed within a day. News of the uprising must have already reached Coruscant, and uninvited guests could arrive at any moment. So I made the strategic decision to wrap up the operation on Riflor.
We hadn't done everything, but we had freed a significant portion of the planet's resources from the "golden percent" and redirected them toward rebuilding cities. My work here was done—but the galaxy still had endless work left.
Now I had two paths: lie low, or build on our success by taking more planets. I was sure I could spark uprisings on several more worlds. But what were ten—or even thirty—freshly revolutionized planets compared to the Republic fleet? Even if I sent agitators everywhere and half of them succeeded, the resulting alliance still wouldn't have the strength to resist even one of the major powers.
And when local authorities began losing influence, they would likely flee with the remaining fleet, leaving us with nothing. Building our own ships required time, specialists, and a functioning trade network—or time to create one.
We had none of that. So that option was out.
What then? Fortify the liberated systems? But with a blockade, many worlds without agriculture would starve, and clone troopers "feeding" the population would be seen as saviors. And ships could simply bombard all defensive positions from orbit—not to mention jamming communications.
So expanding our success was a dead end. I knew from my past life—miracles don't happen, and relying on "maybe" always ends badly.
So what should I do? The answer was simple. If I had controlled myself better, I would have followed my original plan from the start—remaining hidden, weaving my own "web" atop the threads of other schemers. But I could still return to that plan. Now wasn't the time to despair.
So I gathered several hundred of my most devoted followers at the spaceport. Most had been present at those debates with the CIS agent, and I could feel their trust—some even radiated a kind of puppy‑like loyalty. My words had never affected people like this before—clearly the Force had played a role, though I didn't know how or when. I must have used it subconsciously. Looking over the uneven rows of sentients—mostly Advozse—I finally spoke, making sure the broadcast was going out to the entire world:
"Victory!"
With that single word, I marked the fall of Riflor's authorities. After long applause and shouts, I gestured for silence and continued:
"Together, we achieved what none of us could have accomplished alone. Over the four days of fighting, everything seized from the enemy was redirected toward building new, earthquake‑resistant homes. You've already seen them—and some of you are helping build them. But our enemies are not asleep. We have won, at great cost, but the Republic or the Confederacy will return, and we have no fleet to stop them. But that does not mean we must give up. Citizens…"
I turned toward the camera, addressing the viewers:
"To secure victory, we must temporarily restrain our passion and lie low. Wait for the right moment—and I will do everything I can to let you know when that moment comes. We have gained what we fought for, and now we must preserve it."
As I said this, many faces in the hall hardened, and the reaction in the chat was mixed. They weren't expecting these words from me—certainly not these. But I wasn't here to indulge their desires.
Finishing my speech, I bowed slightly and concluded:
"Riflor will hold new elections for its Senator and rejoin the Republic. In the meantime, organize yourselves, learn, and study the books I've left for you. And one more thing…"
As if remembering something, I gave a faintly mischievous smile and looked back into the camera:
"I am beginning recruitment into my personal organization, the Revolutionary Galactic Alliance. Anyone who wishes to join and fight for freedom from capitalist oppression—contact the standard address. I will leave the planet in twenty‑four hours, so you have time to think."
I placed my right hand over my heart, bowed again, and ended the broadcast.
Judging by the chat, the overwhelming majority supported my decision. They had no desire to continue the bloodshed and understood perfectly well that they couldn't stand against the clone army. But not everyone could accept this outcome. Those who had actively participated in the uprising would almost certainly be arrested—or worse—once the Republic returned. For them, I offered another option. We would take everything we needed from the planet, then build a temporary base somewhere no one would dare approach. Surely our captain, Gertis—with his million stories—knew such a place.
Now it was time to address my most devoted followers standing before me, with a different kind of speech:
"You all know the Republic and the CIS are stronger than us—but don't you dare think I've given up!"
A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd as I continued:
"We will act wisely—and far more cleverly than you expect. Charging head‑on into their armies would only send thousands to their deaths, even if we somehow managed to acquire a fleet. I won't do that. Otherwise, how would I be any better than them? And that is why I called you here."
"Our goals are simple. First: gather as many planets as possible into our alliance so we can ignite multiple uprisings at once. Second… decapitate the Republic. Once the Senate is destroyed, we will gain precious time to expand—and that is when we strike. But we must prepare. That is why I gathered you today."
"Take the manuals. Split into groups of three and travel to other planets. Your task is to form as many cells of our organization—now officially the Revolutionary Galactic Alliance, or RGA—as possible. I added the 'G' purely for aesthetics."
"I will personally send each trio the planet you're assigned to. Even if you're captured, you won't be able to reveal anything about the others. You'll have about six months to integrate yourselves, recruit as many people as possible, and prepare material support—weapon caches, supplies, safehouses. The signal to begin the uprisings will be the destruction of the Senate. You will all hear about it—I'll make sure of that."
"As for me, I will head to Coruscant to prepare. I doubt anyone but me can handle that mission."
At those words, the fire of determination lit up again in the eyes of my closest followers.
Yeah… these people would break themselves in half to carry out my orders.
How the hell was I influencing their minds? And would that influence fade if they were away from me for too long? I remembered something similar in the game—my followers kept sending letters for ages. But if things worked differently here, it would be awkward. Before the attack on the Senate, I'd have to contact at least one of them to confirm readiness.
But that was for the future.
For now, I said warm goodbyes, handed out the freshly printed manuals and datapads—straight from the printing press we built from scratch—and gave everyone their coordinates. Then I boarded the ship, where the crew was already waiting.
They had also studied the theory I'd been teaching online, and I felt that same sense of loyalty from them. Moments like this made me want to scrub my own brain with soap. I didn't want to brainwash people—I wanted them to follow me by choice, damn it. At least most of those who fought on the planet did so willingly. That much I was sure of. For now, though, there was nothing I could do about the rest.
As for the planet I claimed I was heading to… I had lied a little. To accomplish what I planned, I needed to become incredibly strong. And no, I wasn't going to slaughter the Senate. Quite the opposite—I intended to capture them and take them far away. They would be far more useful alive. And while I was at it, I'd try to sic that ever‑present Windu on Palpatine.
But to do any of that, I needed to become stronger—far stronger than I was now. Strong enough to stand on equal footing with at least one Jedi Master if it came to a fight. For that, I needed a teacher—or something like one.
Which brings us to my destination.
As much as I hated the idea, my path led straight to Korriban. If memory served, those damned tombs were full of unclaimed spirits…
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A few words from the author:
Regarding this chapter—I decided not to focus too heavily on Riflor. Yes, it's an important milestone in the protagonist's story, but not enough to dedicate several chapters to it. The Star Wars format has always been about lone heroes operating within larger organizations. If I stray too far from that structure, the story would shift into a genre where the protagonist is busy developing his own territory and improving the lives of his subordinates. That's not really my style (I can't remember what that genre is called, but I'm sure you know what I mean).
So, the "gun" has been hung on the wall, and the development of the R.G.A. will come later.