I have felt it stir long before thought gave it a name; a low, crawling insistence beneath my ribs, like something buried alive that never stopped scratching. The Dark Side does not whisper to me anymore; it remembers me. In its memory is blood, and in my blood is purpose. I walk through corridors of stone and shadow and feel the weight of Sith eyes long turned to dust, and still they judge, still they leer. It is then that the need sharpens; not reasoned, not justified, but absolute. I do not hunt them for doctrine. I hunt them because the silence feels wrong when they still exist. Who betrayed whom?
There was a time I believed hatred required cause, that murder demanded provocation. That lie died early, or did it? The Sith do not need to offend me; their continued breathing is enough. Their philosophies rot worlds even when spoken softly, their mercy is a mask worn only until a blade is drawn. I have seen what they build, empires of bone, academies of broken children, legacies soaked in ritualized cruelty; and something in me rejects restraint. Not with rage, but with clarity. They should not be allowed to continue. That truth settles in me like gravity.
When I hunt them, as I do Jedi or Dark Jedi, it is not frenzy but ritual. I observe, stalk, learn their habits and their delusions of grandeur. Sith always believe themselves untouchable, chosen by fate or prophecy, and that belief makes them predictable. I savor that moment when certainty fractures: when they realize they are not the hunter, not the heir, not the inevitable future. Just another body awaiting a conclusion. I do not rush it. I let understanding bloom just before the end.
Killing them, even as my daughter condemns me against it, still with love, committing murder, does not bring me joy, but it brings alignment. Like setting a dislocated bone back into place, there is pain, resistance, and then a grim relief. Each death feels less like an act of violence and more like removal; a cancer excised, a corrupted note silenced. Their screams echo differently than others', thick with disbelief and wounded pride. They die knowing the Dark Side did not save them. That knowledge matters.
I have been called monster, butcher, heretic to their cause. Let them name me what they wish. The Sith worship power but cannot endure accountability, and I have become that reckoning. I do not challenge them in grand duels for spectacle; I end them in shadows, in moments stolen from their arrogance. No audience, no legend; just absence where they once stood. History forgets quickly when there is nothing left to remember.
Sometimes I wonder if I am purging them or merely pruning a reflection of myself, and I look at my little cub, and her smile is all the acknowledgement I need. That thought lingers longer than I like. The line between hunter and hunted blurs when the blood dries, and I am left alone with the echo of my own breath. Yet even then, the urge does not fade. It waits. Patient. Certain. The Sith would call it destiny. I call it necessity. My daughter calls it Fatherly protection from the galaxy's Boogeyman. And I am the Monster she fears, but in her heart, our hearts, I'm the good villain in her fairy tale story.
I do not believe this path will redeem me, nor do I seek forgiveness from the Force or from ghosts. I act because inaction feels like complicity. The Sith perpetuate themselves through fear and ambition, and I have decided to become the fear they cannot outrun. If that damns me further, so be it. Damnation is a small price for silence....and my daughter's protection. Let them come.
So, I will continue to hunt them. Kill them. Eradicate them.... like all those that aren't me. In unknown wagging tongues, where one slip will force me to cut out that muscle; I shall pray for them. Not for balance, not for justice as others define it; but simply because they exist, and I cannot abide that truth. The galaxy will not notice at first. It never does. But one day, when their temples stand empty and their doctrines rot unread, perhaps the darkness will feel thinner. Until then, I will continue, because I must, because I can, and because nothing else feels more honest.
My former Master was right about one thing.....he should have left me in chains and killed that feral predator.
There was a time I believed hatred required cause, that murder demanded provocation. That lie died early, or did it? The Sith do not need to offend me; their continued breathing is enough. Their philosophies rot worlds even when spoken softly, their mercy is a mask worn only until a blade is drawn. I have seen what they build, empires of bone, academies of broken children, legacies soaked in ritualized cruelty; and something in me rejects restraint. Not with rage, but with clarity. They should not be allowed to continue. That truth settles in me like gravity.
When I hunt them, as I do Jedi or Dark Jedi, it is not frenzy but ritual. I observe, stalk, learn their habits and their delusions of grandeur. Sith always believe themselves untouchable, chosen by fate or prophecy, and that belief makes them predictable. I savor that moment when certainty fractures: when they realize they are not the hunter, not the heir, not the inevitable future. Just another body awaiting a conclusion. I do not rush it. I let understanding bloom just before the end.
Killing them, even as my daughter condemns me against it, still with love, committing murder, does not bring me joy, but it brings alignment. Like setting a dislocated bone back into place, there is pain, resistance, and then a grim relief. Each death feels less like an act of violence and more like removal; a cancer excised, a corrupted note silenced. Their screams echo differently than others', thick with disbelief and wounded pride. They die knowing the Dark Side did not save them. That knowledge matters.
I have been called monster, butcher, heretic to their cause. Let them name me what they wish. The Sith worship power but cannot endure accountability, and I have become that reckoning. I do not challenge them in grand duels for spectacle; I end them in shadows, in moments stolen from their arrogance. No audience, no legend; just absence where they once stood. History forgets quickly when there is nothing left to remember.
Sometimes I wonder if I am purging them or merely pruning a reflection of myself, and I look at my little cub, and her smile is all the acknowledgement I need. That thought lingers longer than I like. The line between hunter and hunted blurs when the blood dries, and I am left alone with the echo of my own breath. Yet even then, the urge does not fade. It waits. Patient. Certain. The Sith would call it destiny. I call it necessity. My daughter calls it Fatherly protection from the galaxy's Boogeyman. And I am the Monster she fears, but in her heart, our hearts, I'm the good villain in her fairy tale story.
I do not believe this path will redeem me, nor do I seek forgiveness from the Force or from ghosts. I act because inaction feels like complicity. The Sith perpetuate themselves through fear and ambition, and I have decided to become the fear they cannot outrun. If that damns me further, so be it. Damnation is a small price for silence....and my daughter's protection. Let them come.
So, I will continue to hunt them. Kill them. Eradicate them.... like all those that aren't me. In unknown wagging tongues, where one slip will force me to cut out that muscle; I shall pray for them. Not for balance, not for justice as others define it; but simply because they exist, and I cannot abide that truth. The galaxy will not notice at first. It never does. But one day, when their temples stand empty and their doctrines rot unread, perhaps the darkness will feel thinner. Until then, I will continue, because I must, because I can, and because nothing else feels more honest.
My former Master was right about one thing.....he should have left me in chains and killed that feral predator.
