The Senate chamber was suffused with a cold, unnatural quiet—like the calm before a storm, or the silence of a tomb waiting to be sealed forever. Once a place of hope and unity, it now felt hollow, haunted by ghosts of promises broken and blood spilled.
Lara stood at the center, wrapped in the heavy robes of her office but still bearing the weight of Mandalorian armor beneath them. Her hands, scarred and trembling, rested on the ancient lectern. The eyes of the galaxy were upon her—leaders, citizens, Jedi, and enemies alike. But none truly saw the battle waging within her.
Queen Jade sat beside her. Or rather, the woman who wore her face like a mask—Victoria, the witch who had claimed the dead queen's identity. Her smile was serene but cruel, eyes cold fires beneath perfect composure.
"Chancellor Lara," Victoria's voice was soft, honeyed, weaving through the chamber like a subtle poison, "You have carried the galaxy's hope on your shoulders. But even the brightest flame needs a keeper. Let me be that keeper. Together, we can build a peace that outlasts the stars themselves."
Lara's voice broke the silence, low and wary. "Your light is no flame. It is a shadow in disguise. Why should I trust darkness when I have sworn to protect the light? Victoria's smile never faltered. "Because sometimes the light cannot survive without walking through the shadows. The galaxy needs vision beyond war and broken promises."
Days passed like a nightmare, Victoria's words seeping into the hearts of the Senate. Lara felt herself unraveling—each memory of loss and sacrifice a cut deeper than the last. Faces of fallen comrades haunted her dreams, screams echoed in the void, and the cold steel of her armor felt less like protection and more like a chain.
Connie and Cvince, her closest Jedi allies, watched with mounting dread. "Lara is drowning," Connie whispered to Cvince in the quiet halls. "She fights to keep her hold, but the darkness gnaws at her soul." "We must be ready," Cvince said grimly. "Not for the wars outside, but for the one coming within." The Council chamber was cold. Jedi Masters and mentors, cloaked in humility and history, gathered to confront the growing storm. Lara's voice, once strong and unwavering, now carried the weight of exhaustion and doubt. "We have built something fragile—something precious," she said. "But the peace we have forged stands on the edge of a blade. Trust is breaking. Fear grows."
Suddenly, a chill filled the room, the air thickening with menace. Jsepi, the boy Lara had rescued from the wastelands of Tatooine years ago, stood before them. His dusty robes seemed to flicker unnaturally, shadows twisting at the edges of his form. A red-and-black double-bladed lightsaber ignited with a hiss, bathing the chamber in blood-red light. "No…" Lara's voice cracked as she stepped forward, desperation etched in every movement. "Jsepi, you're not lost. Please, remember who you are." But the boy's eyes were voids—dark, empty, and cold. "I am no longer who you saved," he whispered. "I am the Blacken Death. Your hope was a lie. Your Jedi are ashes. Victoria's mask melted away as she stepped forward, revealing her true, twisted face beneath—a visage carved by time and bitterness. "You built your sanctuary on sand, Lara. It was doomed the moment you sat on the throne." Lara lunged toward Jsepi, but the betrayal was deep and swift. The Blacken Death's blade pierced her chest, searing through armor and flesh. Her blood spilled like ink across the ancient floor, dark and hot. She fell to her knees, breath ragged, pain consuming.
With trembling hands, she reached out to Victoria—her last hope flickering like a dying star. "Remember… the light… endures…" Victoria turned away, unable or unwilling to meet the final plea of the woman who had once been a beacon. Silence swallowed the chamber—broken only by the slow, sickening drip of blood pooling on stone. Outside, the twin suns rose cold and distant over a fractured galaxy. The new Senate glittered with false hope, but beneath the golden domes, fear and betrayal festered. Connie and Cvince stood by the broken doorway, staring at the emptiness where their leader had fallen. "The Jedi are no longer the guardians of peace," Connie whispered. "They are survivors of a shattered legacy." Cvince clenched his fists, eyes burning with a mixture of grief and determination.
"The fight is only just beginning." In the shadows beyond the shattered chamber, Victoria and the Blacken Death rose, dark flames of vengeance and power burning behind their eyes.
"Our enemies believe they fight darkness," Victoria said, voice cold as the void. "But they fight only the shadows we reveal." The Blacken Death smiled—a chilling, hollow thing.
"Let the galaxy bow not to a throne, but to fear itself. From the ashes of this broken hope, the Sith shall rise." And as the stars flickered coldly above, the last light of Lara faded forever.
The chamber was steeped in crimson and silence. Lara's blood still stained the stone, a stark testament to the fall of the last true light. But death was merely the beginning.
The Blacken Death moved with lethal purpose — a storm of shadows and fury. His double-bladed saber hummed like a predator's growl as he turned his gaze upon Victoria, whose cruel ambitions had twisted her into a false queen. "You wore the mask," he hissed, "but power is not given — it is taken."
In a flash of savage grace, the Blackened Death's saber swept through Victoria, severing her throat. Her scream was choked, her body collapsing lifeless, broken, her eyes wide with disbelief and rage. He stood over her fallen form, dark breaths rising like smoke.
"Let this be the first of many endings," he whispered. The Blacken Death's eyes burned with dark fire as he unleashed a merciless campaign — stalking down all who might challenge him, like a ruthless predator in the shadows. Senators who whispered dissent found their chambers set ablaze. Jedi who clung to hope were hunted, cornered, their lightsabers extinguished by death. In the deep corridors of the Imperial Palace, old allies turned to ash.
Each kill tightened his grip on the Senate — his rule born in blood and fear. He was no gentle ruler. He was a killer , he reveled in chaos and carnage, twisting every victory into a brutal lesson: power belongs to the ruthless. Far across the galaxy, the news spread like wildfire — the Chancellor slain, the Queen exposed as a traitor, and the Blacken Death's merciless rise. Rebel cells splintered into factions, each scrambling for control amid the growing darkness. The Jedi Order, shattered and leaderless, went into hiding — haunted by the ghosts of their failure. In remote systems, whispers told of a shadow stalking the stars, a new Sith Lord whose name was spoken in fearful reverence and trembling dread.
Connie and Cvince, bloodied but unbroken, gathered the remnants of the Jedi in a secret refuge. Connie's voice was resolute but heavy with sorrow. "We lost our light, but the Force remains. We must endure — not for glory, but for survival." Cvince nodded, eyes cold steel.
"The galaxy is fractured beyond repair. But where there is shadow, there can be light. We will fight."
In the cold expanse beyond, the Blacken Death stood atop a tower of bones — a monument to conquest. His voice echoed through the void. "The galaxy will kneel. Not to heroes or kings, but to fear and power. The age of false hope is over. The Sith shall reign eternal."
And beneath the shattered stars, the last light of peace flickered — fragile, but defiant — awaiting the day it might rise again.
Planets burn. Moons crack. Massive statues of the Blackened Death rise where once temples stood. His face—twisted and masked—becomes the symbol of terror across the stars.We see: Jedi temples crumbling under orbital fire. Mandalorian clans kneeling or dying.
Civilians dragged from homes under floodlights. Children branded with Sith symbols in "loyalty camps." The Empire is no longer political. It is religious. Fanatical. Brutal.
A vast chamber carved from obsidian and bone. The Blackened Death, cloaked in flame-colored robes, sits atop a throne made of lightsabers—each one a trophy.
Below him kneels a bloodied Imperial governor. BLACKEN DEATH You failed to crush the dissent on Harnis. GOVERNOR (trembling) We underestimated the rebels. I beg for another— SCHHH— The governor's head rolls as the Blacken Death ignites his saber with a flick of the wrist. BLACKEN DEATH No forgiveness. Only order. His voice echoes as the guards drag the body away.
Massive machines hammer out war droids, Sith cruisers, and slave collars. Workers are chained, starving. Overseers bear black insignias. In the control tower, the blackened death watches with cold detachment, now fully consumed by the dark. The Blacken death: we Increase output. The next rebellion must be crushed before it breathes.
Children are trained with cruelty—fighting with shock-staffs, learning to choke, crush, and dominate with the Force. The Blacken Death walks between them, silent, hands clasped behind his back. A child hesitates in killing another. BLACKEN DEATH Mercy is weakness.
He reaches out—the child bursts into flame. No one flinches. No one mourns.
Galaxy wide broadcast The Blackened Death appears on every screen. Worlds pause. All attention falls to his image. BLACKEN DEATH The Jedi are extinct. The Force is ours alone.
You will serve, or you will be ash. Across the stars, people fall to their knees.
The museum of traitors' Books turns to ash. Holograms melt. A lone Sith Acolyte lifts the charred mask of Lorenzo, placing it in a museum of traitors. Beside it: Dom's broken lightsaber. Lara's scorched robes. Trax's bloodstained war medal. Mr. Larusen's neural crown. A sign reads: "The Last Liars".
A once-free galaxy collapses into the crushing grip of a new Sith Empire — more brutal, more unforgiving, more perfected in its cruelty than any before