I do not hunt the Jedi as one hunts animals, nor even as one hunts men. I hunt them as one hunts a lie that has learned to breathe. I feel them long before I see them; a pressure behind the eyes, a sanctimonious stillness that reeks of false peace. They walk cloaked in restraint, convinced the universe leans toward their virtue, unaware that such certainty leaves a trail brighter than blood. In the dark places of the world, where rot and truth coexist, their presence is a blasphemy I cannot ignore.
The pursuit is always intimate. I watch them from the margins of their own confidence, study the rituals they mistake for wisdom, the habits they call discipline. They meditate instead of adapting. They hesitate instead of striking. I learn the cadence of their breath, the subtle tremor in their composure when the Force whispers warnings they do not wish to heed. Every Jedi believes themselves prepared; until they realize they are being studied, not opposed.
When I reveal myself, the air changes. Light answers my darkness, and they ignite their blades as though illumination itself might absolve them. I do not rush. I let them speak, let them reach for their rehearsed words about balance and compassion. Their voices always falter when they see that I am unmoved. I do not argue doctrine with corpses-in-waiting. I reduce philosophy to motion, belief to anatomy.
Combat is not rage; it is surgery. I carve away their assumptions with measured strikes, forcing them to abandon elegance for survival. They fight beautifully at first, like dancers clinging to choreography, but beauty collapses quickly under pressure. There is always a moment when their serenity fractures, when panic bleeds through the cracks of training. That moment is mine. It is the soundless scream beneath their calm, the truth they were never taught to face.
As life leaves them, I feel it ripple through the Force; thin, sharp, and final. The galaxy exhales, subtly relieved, though it will never admit it. I stand over the fallen not in triumph, but in acknowledgment. They were not weak; they were misguided, embalmed in dogma and arrogance. Mercy would have been the crueler act. I end them so the lie does not continue wearing a noble face.
I do not hate the Jedi. Hatred would grant them too much importance. I kill them because someone must walk into the sacred rot and excise it by hand. I am not balance, nor am I chaos; I am consequence. And as long as they cling to their hollow light, preaching stillness while the universe decays, I will remain in the shadows, patient and inevitable, hunting the belief that refuses to die quietly.
The pursuit is always intimate. I watch them from the margins of their own confidence, study the rituals they mistake for wisdom, the habits they call discipline. They meditate instead of adapting. They hesitate instead of striking. I learn the cadence of their breath, the subtle tremor in their composure when the Force whispers warnings they do not wish to heed. Every Jedi believes themselves prepared; until they realize they are being studied, not opposed.
When I reveal myself, the air changes. Light answers my darkness, and they ignite their blades as though illumination itself might absolve them. I do not rush. I let them speak, let them reach for their rehearsed words about balance and compassion. Their voices always falter when they see that I am unmoved. I do not argue doctrine with corpses-in-waiting. I reduce philosophy to motion, belief to anatomy.
Combat is not rage; it is surgery. I carve away their assumptions with measured strikes, forcing them to abandon elegance for survival. They fight beautifully at first, like dancers clinging to choreography, but beauty collapses quickly under pressure. There is always a moment when their serenity fractures, when panic bleeds through the cracks of training. That moment is mine. It is the soundless scream beneath their calm, the truth they were never taught to face.
As life leaves them, I feel it ripple through the Force; thin, sharp, and final. The galaxy exhales, subtly relieved, though it will never admit it. I stand over the fallen not in triumph, but in acknowledgment. They were not weak; they were misguided, embalmed in dogma and arrogance. Mercy would have been the crueler act. I end them so the lie does not continue wearing a noble face.
I do not hate the Jedi. Hatred would grant them too much importance. I kill them because someone must walk into the sacred rot and excise it by hand. I am not balance, nor am I chaos; I am consequence. And as long as they cling to their hollow light, preaching stillness while the universe decays, I will remain in the shadows, patient and inevitable, hunting the belief that refuses to die quietly.
