Private A Ready Test.

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz


The sky bled.

A slow hemorrhage of crimson light filtered down across the shattered statues and collapsed tombs that littered the Valley of the Dark Lords like bones cracked open for marrow. Each gust of wind dragged with it the cries of the past—moaning through hollow eye sockets, scraping across worn glyphs carved by the long-dead. Here, history didn't whisper. It howled.

Serina Calis stood alone atop a jagged outcropping of blackened stone, her cloak pulled tight against the dry, corpse-warm wind. Below, the ruins stretched outward like a graveyard in motion. Her silhouette was regal, almost mournful, a dark monument in and of herself. But mourning was not in her nature. Not anymore.

Her eyes tracked the horizon with a predator's patience.

She had arrived unannounced. No honor guard. No procession. Just a silent landing at the outskirts of the ancient valley in the dead of night, and a single command sent across encrypted Sith channels:

Come. Prove you are worth corruption.

No name. No destination. No further instructions. Only the promise that someone would answer. That someone would crawl from the dirt of the galaxy to this sacred rot, daring to think they could stand before her and be anything but consumed.

She rolled the Kyber shard between her fingers, its glow soft and pulsating like the throat of a creature about to sing. Her expression was unreadable—until the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Let's see who you are," Serina murmured aloud, voice velvet and poisoned honey. "Let's see what bleeds when I peel you open."

There was something sensual in the way she said it. Not lustful—needful. Like the craving of a biologist faced with a new species. Or a predator toying with her food. She wanted to know what this acolyte feared, where they lied to themselves, what they would surrender for power. She wanted to see how easily they would beg for it.

Her fingers came to rest just above her thigh, where the lightsaber hung low. A slow smile curved on her lips—dangerous, self-assured, utterly without mercy.

The tombs around her rumbled faintly with the stirrings of something ancient.

And still she waited.

Unmoving.
Unbending.
Unkind.

Let them come. Let them crawl.

The test had already begun.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Darth Kharnaz's light freighter came to a rocky landing, sending ancient dust flying and carving a new trench in the hallowed ground. It was not always his, but the pilot was easily dispatched. It had markings that told him that it used to belong to the Sith. Fitting then that it belonged to him now.

She had arrived unannounced. No honor guard. No procession. Just a silent landing at the outskirts of the ancient valley in the dead of night, and a single command sent across encrypted Sith channels:

Come. Prove you are worth corruption.

Something told him to change his commlink frequency. He couldnt put a name to it, but his par felt as if it was acting on autopilot when it tuned to the right frequency. There he had heard it, the summons. The challenge. The promise of power. It had led him here, to Korriban. Here the dark side flowed strongly, more powerful than anything he had felt before. He would prove himself.

Leaving his ship he sniffed the air. Death and misery came to his senses, and he howled, allowing his own anguish to join the ancient pain he smelt in the wind. But there was something else. No, Someone. Someone powerful, a force stronger than he could have imagined. This must be his summoner. Lightsabers at his side, he marched, always keeping his guard up. He would find this being, and he was determined to learn all he could from them. His time was just beginning.

 

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz


She felt him long before she saw him.

A ripple through the ash-choked winds. A blunt, clumsy tremor of presence. Like a rusted blade forced through silk—coarse, unrefined, but undeniably there. He came with noise, like all beasts of ambition. The freighter's descent tore a fresh scar into the valley floor, its landing a scream against the stillness of the tomb-world. Dust plumed into the sky in violent protest. Debris scattered across ancient ground not meant for the footsteps of the unworthy.

Serina didn't flinch. She simply turned her head—ever so slightly—as if regarding the end of a very long equation, and finding the answer dull but serviceable.

Her hair fluttered faintly in the heat, catching the red light of the bleeding sun overhead. Her lips parted—not to speak, but to exhale the slowest of breaths. There. She tasted him. Rage. Pain. The stink of recent violence, still clinging to his aura like grease. A stolen ship. A half-formed mind. And a hunger that made her teeth ache with secondhand desire.

He howls, she thought with cold amusement. How quaint.

The sound of it echoed across the valley. It bounced off the cracked effigies of long-dead tyrants and crawled its way up the cliffs where she waited. For a moment, the wind itself paused to listen. Korriban had heard every kind of scream across ten thousand years—but it had not heard him. Not yet. And perhaps it would forget him just as quickly, if he proved dull.

Serina turned fully now. Slow. Deliberate. Her boots scraped softly across obsidian stone as she stepped to the edge of her outcropping. Cloak billowing, she became a figure carved from shadow and flame, a statue too poised to be real, too alive to be safe. The red sky flared behind her like the eye of some buried god, and the wind coiled around her body like a worshipper too frightened to touch.

Below, the figure advanced.

He was tall. Young. Reckless, clearly. His emotions splayed across the Force like a drunk's confessions—raw, loud, utterly without shame. That pleased her, a little. Not because he was powerful. But because he was easy to break.

She said nothing.

Let him approach.

Every step he took up the winding stone path toward her platform was a silent test. She watched the rhythm of his stride, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands hovered too close to his weapons. He was coiled like a spring, all aggression and uncertainty wrapped in a fresh skin of bravado. He thought he was ready. They always did.

The edge of her smile returned. Not warmth. Not approval. Something else.

Possession.

She stepped forward once more, descending from the rock with grace so measured it became art. She made no move to conceal her presence in the Force—instead, she let it unfurl. Slowly. Like ink into water. Cold fingers brushing the edges of his mind. She was the temperature drop before a storm. The silk over a blade. The ache before the scream.

His path brought them within a few meters. He stopped.

Good.

Her eyes finally found his.

Those eyes—impossible violet, twin shards of alchemized amethyst—held him in absolute stillness. There was no aggression in them. No panic. Only pressure. As if the air itself bent around her will, and he had entered her gravity. Her gaze slid over him once, cataloguing every tremor of the Force around his body, every tightening of muscle, every suppressed fear he thought buried. She could see the shape of his ambition, and she smiled as if already knowing its end.

Still, she didn't speak.

Instead, she circled him.

Slow. A serpent tasting the air around fresh prey. Her cloak whispered with each movement, her presence curling tighter with every step. Not touching him—invading him.

And then her voice came. At last. Low. Smooth. Each word a needle pressed into nerve endings.

"You howl like an animal… but you walk like a man. Which is the lie, I wonder?"

She stopped at his back. Close enough for him to feel her breath against his ear.

"No name. No history. No legacy. You come here with nothing but a blade and a need. Good. That is how all useful things begin."

She stepped past him then, walking to the edge of the ridge, arms folding behind her back. Her voice drifted, soft as ruin.

"Tell me, what are you?"

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Darth Kharnaz saw her upon her pedestal. His instincts told him that she had seen him long before he even knew she was there. Good. Kharnaz was not one for subtlety.

As he climbed the path he subconcously moved more aggresivly. Something deep within him recognised the being as a predator, and it was not used to being the prey. His body got ready to enact the fight or flight survival tactics, and Darth Kharnaz never fled.

She was not what he had expected. He had expected a great warrior perhaps. Someone with rage beyond his own. But instead he only saw power. Not the raw angry power like his, but calm, purposeful. Every move she made was purposeful, not using any more energy than needed. And as she revealed her force presence it was like being smothered with a burning rug. Hot, painful and impossible to escape.

"You howl like an animal… but you walk like a man. Which is the lie, I wonder?"

She stopped at his back. Close enough for him to feel her breath against his ear.

He bristled at the invasion of space. His fingers twitched, but he held back his urge to fight. At least for now.

"Men are weak, fearful of their own emotions. Animals are only there to be taken advantage of by the strong. I have surpassed both."

"No name. No history. No legacy. You come here with nothing but a blade and a need. Good. That is how all useful things begin."

She stepped past him then, walking to the edge of the ridge, arms folding behind her back. Her voice drifted, soft as ruin.

"Tell me, what are you?"

He straightened up to his full height, and bared his fangs.

"I am Darth Kharnaz. I come here as a blunt weapon, looking to be sharpened by a master smith."

 

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz


His name hung in the air like a challenge.

"Darth Kharnaz."

The syllables rang across the stone like a rusted bell struck too soon, echoing without invitation. Serina did not flinch. Her body did not react. Her expression did not shift. But something far deeper than flesh stirred—something cold, ancient, and intimately disappointed.

She stood at the edge of the ridge with her back still turned to him, violet gaze fixed on the horizon where tombs loomed like rotten teeth jutting from the bones of the planet. The wind stirred around her, catching the hem of her cloak like a banner atop a gallows. The silence that followed his declaration was not empty. It was thick. Saturated with judgment.

Seconds passed.

And then, slowly, Serina turned.

The motion was precise. Measured. She faced him like a blade being unsheathed—not for violence, but for revelation. For truth. The sun behind her set her figure aflame in silhouette: narrow hips, tall frame, hair coiled in a severe twist, the long line of her neck exposed just enough to seem disarming—inviting—before the predator's eyes returned to him.

She said nothing for a time.

Only studied him.

Her gaze was not casual. It stripped.

Stripped away the title. The posture. The bravado. It pulled at the threads of his being like a weaver testing a flawed tapestry. And beneath it all… she found it. That raw, unprocessed ore of rage. That delicious, arrogant conviction that he was ready for power. That he had already become something.

Even Serina herself did not bare a Darth title, yet.

A slow, indulgent smile curled across her lips.

"A blunt weapon that names itself a sword," she said finally, the words rolling off her tongue like honey over poisoned glass. "How… masculine."

She descended the last few steps until she stood before him on level ground. Her presence in the Force wrapped tighter now—no longer a smothering blanket, but a collar. Invisible. Inescapable. Meant to remind.

Her fingers lifted, brushing lazily at the air in front of his chest. She didn't touch him. She didn't need to. The gesture was not affection—it was possession. The way one gestures to a fine beast before breaking it in.

"You claim the title of 'Darth' as if it were something you found in a ruin. As if you chose it."

A step closer. She was almost within reach now, and the scent of her—sandalwood, sweat, blood—mingled with the scorched air around them.

"That name is not a crown. It is a brand. Burned into flesh by flame, by agony, by worth."

She let the word linger on her lips, as if tasting the challenge.

Her hand lowered.

"Do you believe this path is shaped by your declaration alone? That you can simply declare yourself Sith, like some grubber on the Outer Rim wrapping rags around his throat and calling it a cloak?"

She moved behind him again. Slowly. Intimately. A circling vulture, or a lover admiring the shape of the meal before the feast.

"The true Sith do not claim their titles."

Her voice became a breath against his ear, dripping into him like oil.

"They survive them."

Another step, and she was before him again—her eyes like twin storms contained in amethyst. No flicker of emotion. No haste. Just the steady, surgical rhythm of someone who had torn apart a thousand men and remembered only the interesting ones.

"You hunger. Good. Hunger is honest. But pride…"

She tilted her head. Her gaze dipped to the fangs he had bared earlier, then back up.

"Pride is an untempered alloy. Soft. Brittle under flame."

Then, a faint smile.

"And I do so love to melt things down."

She turned from him again, stepping away. Her cloak whispered against the ground like silk through teeth. Each footfall was the punctuation of a lesson not yet finished. She gave him her back again—deliberately. A test. An invitation. A warning.

"Follow."

The word came without emotion.

She did not explain where.

Not because he didn't deserve to know.

But because he had not yet earned the right to ask.

And behind her, the tombs waited.

So did the pain.

And the forge.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

It was all Kharnaz could do to not wither beneath her gaze. She stripped every layer of him away, everything he believed he was was revealed to her. And then she found what she was looking for. Was it his rage? His power? Or something else? Kharnaz did not know. The air moved differently around them, wind rushing through his fur but leaving the dust untouched. Moving towards her. Caught by her power and authority.

His fingers twitched again. She was claiming him, he knew that. But still he fought against himself. He fought to restrain the urge to lash out, to kill her for daring to think she could own him. But he pushed it down. She must own him. That was the only way.

"The true Sith do not claim their titles."

Her voice became a breath against his ear, dripping into him like oil.

"They survive them."

Kharnaz snarled.
"Then I shall endure. I shall prove to you that I am worthy to be a Sith. To be... your apprentice"

"And I do so love to melt things down."

His fur stood on end. It was hot on Korriban, but yet he felt a sudden chill. Was this a threat? No, a declaration. He had spent a long time building up his pride, from being a lowly gladiator to the master of himself. And now he was giving it up again. A question lingered in his mind. Is this worth it?

Follow."

The word hung in the air between them. Kharnaz was suddenly intimately aware of the tombs around him. Ancient crypts filled with those Sith who had come before. Those who had perished. Those who were weak and failed, and those who were strong. They stood, ancient and open, as if waiting to entomb him if he fell. He could turn away. He could leave. But that was not Kharnaz's nature. He does not flee. And if this woman could impart even a fraction of her knowledge to him, he would be greater than he ever could be alone. He bowed his head.

"Yes, my master."

His first step felt heavy, as if he was walking on a high gravity planet. It took great effort to lift his leg and move forward. As his paw hit the ground again he heard a rumble. In the distance a statue of an ancient warrior broke, falling at the feet of another. Kharnaz paid it no mind. He was on the right path now, if he were to survive. And he had no intention of failing. He would do whatever it took.

With each step his pace quickened, until he was walking at the same speed as the master. But he was careful to not go in front of her. The very thought of putting himself ahead seemed unthinkable.

 

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz


She heard the snarl before she heard the words.

A low, guttural sound—not just of challenge, but of transformation. She did not slow her stride. The path beneath her feet was ancient, carved by hands long dead, its edges worn smooth by the procession of thousands who had believed themselves worthy. Most had never returned.

And yet she smiled.

Not a pleased smile. Not a kind one. The curve of her lips was subtle, like the first line of a knife etched into flesh—shallow, but pregnant with promise.

"Then I shall endure," he growled, the words scraping from his throat like they had been torn out with claws. "I shall prove to you that I am worthy to be a Sith. To be… your apprentice."

Ah.

There it is.

The surrender. The beginning. Not the obedience—that could be beaten into any beast with time—but the choice to bow. To choose the chain. That was what mattered. That was where it started.

Serina didn't turn. Didn't react. Her back remained to him like a temple door just barely ajar, the secrets inside not offered—but waiting. She could feel his hesitation like heat, his pride breaking apart under its own contradictions. What he did not yet understand was that the moment of bowing was not weakness.

It was conversion.

And it was delicious.

When he said the words—"Yes, my master"—the Force around them rippled. No explosion, no dramatic shift. Just a settling. A quiet lock falling into place. The valley itself seemed to exhale.

Serina finally stopped walking.

"Mistress." she corrected.

The ground beneath her vibrated softly. Far off, a statue crumbled into pieces at the foot of another—an ancient warrior devoured by his successor. She glanced at the sound, just once, then returned her gaze forward.

How fitting. How quaint. The valley, too, recognized the moment.

The crunch of gravel beneath padded footfalls reached her ears. He followed now. Carefully. Cautiously. Not close enough to threaten. Not far enough to flee.

Good.

That meant he was beginning to learn.

She let him walk behind her in silence for a time, the two of them passing through a narrow ravine choked with age-blackened murals and obsidian teeth of broken architecture. Wind howled between the rocks, whispering old names, forgotten betrayals. A sandstorm brewed on the far edge of the horizon, roiling like the surface of a mind not yet tamed.

And then she spoke.

Barely above the wind.

"You are not my apprentice."

She stopped again.

This time, she turned.

Serina faced him fully now, standing amid the jagged stones like a goddess posed in front of a funeral pyre—her cloak whipping in the heat, her eyes fierce and merciless.

"Not yet."

She stepped forward, and the air pulled with her—dragged as if gravity itself bent toward her will. Every movement of her body was sculpted, tight, not an ounce of wasted energy. She came to a stop mere inches from him.

Close.

Too close.

Her fingers, gloved in leather etched with ritual lines, lifted to his chin. With the barest pressure, she tilted his head upward to meet her gaze.

It was not tenderness.

It was claiming.

"You are a tool," she whispered, voice thick as blood and low as sin. "Not yet shaped. Not yet tested. But perhaps…"

She leaned in, just slightly. Just enough that her lips nearly brushed his ear.

"…worth sharpening."

A breath. Warm. Measured. It ghosted over the fur of his neck with something almost intimate. Almost.

And then, with the same ease she had touched him, she withdrew.

Her hand fell back to her side.

"If you survive the tomb."

She gestured now—one hand lazily rising, two fingers extended toward a jagged, half-collapsed structure near the edge of the valley. Its gate was partially buried in sand. The stone above bore no name. Only the image of two figures—one kneeling, the other burning.

"No food. No water. No lightsaber."

She turned from him again.

"Inside, you will find nothing but your limits."

And then she walked on.

The test had begun.

He would follow—if he dared.

And if he crawled back out?

Then—and only then—she might teach him to rise.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

"You are not my apprentice."

Kharnaz stopped still. He would not come all this way to be rejected. Anger swelled within him.

"Not yet."

His anger morphed into something else. Dedidaction. Pride. He looked up at her in awe, waiting on her every word.

Her fingers, gloved in leather etched with ritual lines, lifted to his chin. With the barest pressure, she tilted his head upward to meet her gaze.

Kharnaz reacted immediatly, his paw grabbing her wrist, gripping tightly. But as he matched her eye contact his grip loosened and fell away.

"…worth sharpening."

This stirred something. This was what he had come for. He salivated imagining what he could become at her side.

"If you survive the tomb."

He followed her pointing and saw it. The decrepit structure barely standing, its gate partly buried by the sands of time. He did not know what was in there, how could he? But he did know what he would find once he made it through.

Strength. Power. And most importantly, purpose.

Kharnaz unclipped his lightsabers from his belt. He held them for a moment. He did not want to part with his weapons. The pits had taught him that to lose your weapon was death. But in order to become a weapon, he would have to sacrifice them for now. With the force he relinquished his lightsabers to her. Whether she took them or not he could not see. He bowed.

"It will be done, Mistress."

He marched on, leaving his pawprints in the dust. As he got closer he could feel the tombs presence. It was dark, hungry, as if the open gates were some beasts maw waiting to swallow him. He stood outside, feeling the air rush into the tomb. Who it was for he could not tell, time having eroded it long ago. He answered the tombs call with a howl, before stepping inside the darkness.

 

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz


The tomb breathed.

As Kharnaz crossed the threshold, the world behind him vanished. Not literally—the jagged horizon, the choking sun, the burning sands—they all still existed. But the moment he passed into the ancient crypt, it was as though the galaxy behind him had turned to myth. A half-remembered dream. The tomb sealed around his senses like flesh around a wound.

There was no light. No sound. No wind. Only the feel of the stone beneath his paws—cold, uneven, cracked by the weight of forgotten centuries.

And the hunger.

The moment he entered, he felt it: the Force here was not passive. It did not flow. It fed. It pressed inward from the walls, thick and oppressive, whispering madness and memory into his ears. Voices rose and fell without words, not speech, but pressure—judgment.

For the first few paces, it seemed nothing more than a corridor. Narrow. Sloping downward. Airless. The stone bore shallow carvings eroded into near-meaninglessness: outlines of figures in combat, blades clashing, one always kneeling, another always victorious.

But soon, the corridor widened into a chamber.

A circular arena, half-collapsed, with walls bowed outward like ribs of a great dead beast. Dust filled the air like fog. In the center, a circle of black stone bore a single, ancient inscription in jagged Sith script—Trial by Revelation.

And across the far wall, a mirror.

Or… no. Not a mirror.

A surface.

It gleamed like glass, but did not reflect his form. Instead, it showed an image. Moving. Shifting.

The Arena.
Kharnaz stood again in the sands of the gladiatorial pits—only now he was alone. No crowd. No handlers. Only the blood-slick walls and the silent sky above. His breath echoed. His heart pounded.

Across from him stood… Kharnaz.

But not as he was.

Stronger. Taller. His muscles more defined. His presence in the Force sharper, darker, predatory. This version of himself stood without hesitation, eyes glowing with fire. Clad in blackened armor laced with Sith runes, this phantom carried no lightsaber—only his claws, and the certainty of his own perfection.

The Force shimmered. Reality twisted.

The double charged.

There was no warning. No dramatic proclamation. Only the sudden, brutal violence of a perfect version of himself barreling forward to strike with lethal precision—aiming not to test, but to kill.

This was the trial.

Not against a beast.
Not against illusions.
But against the self he believed he could be—and all the weaknesses he still carried.

No weapon. No allies. Only instinct. Will.
And the knowledge that to fail here would mean being consumed by a tomb that had buried thousands greater than him.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

As Kharnaz crossed the threshold he felt as if he had been swallowed by some massive beast. Any light was snuffed out, leaving him to prowl through the darkness. It was still dim even with his exceptional shistavanen eyesight. He moved forward, making sure to portray a sense of confidence for any onlookers, which although he could not see any he still felt as if he was being watched.

The force was oppressive here. Normally the force felt like a powerful river to draw from but here it was if he was caught in raging rapids. He blocked out the whispering that seemed determined to break him. He was not here for some long dead voices. He was here for destiny.

As soon as the chamber opened up Kharnaz knew exactly what it was. Although age had ruined it, there was no mistaking an arena, and he knew in his bones that this was were the real trial was to be. Kharnaz smirked. A simple combat shouldn't be much of a challenge to one who had grown up fighting all his life. This would be too easy.

He looked further, reading the stone tablet. "Trial by Revelation." He frowned. So this was not just combat then. No matter. He would crush whatever obstacles he needed to. And that was when he saw the mirror. He stepped forward to look closer but as he did the walls shifted. the eerie bone like structures morphed and twisted into steel bars, the stone beneath his paws transitioned to slick sand and the roof vanished revealing a cityscape he knew all too well.

Nar Shadaa. He was back in the pits, where he had lived for so long and where he had fought so hard to get out. Somehow, impossibly, he was back here. Except it was empty this time. There was no leering crowd, or handlers with electro whips. He was alone. But in his peripheral vision he caught movement. He looked to the mirror, which he now saw was not a mirror at all. There was a figure there who he had assumed was his own reflection. It stepped forward into the light and he howled in anger.

This was a cruel test. But he knew he should not have expected different from the Sith. He stared down his opponent and took not of the differences between him and himself. The version across from him was all he wanted to be. Strong. Powerful. Confident. And most importantly, deadly. It lunged at him, and with a howl Kharnaz lunged back, the two gladiators meeting in the middle of the blood soaked sands. To fail here would be not just death, but proof he could not live up to his destiny. Kharnaz could not let that happen. This apparition was going for the kill, and so would he. He would prove that he was worthy, there was no other option for Kharnaz.

 

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



The collision echoed.

A sound like thunder cracked across the arena as Kharnaz met his phantom self—bone, muscle, instinct, fury all converging at once. Dust and red sand plumed from their clash, and for a moment the tomb shuddered, the ancient structure groaning like a creature disturbed from slumber.

But there was no pause. No reprieve.

The specter did not speak. It did not emote. It did not hesitate.

It simply fought.

And its movements were surgical.

It knew his rhythm. Knew where he would strike, where he would dodge, where he would overreach. Every twitch of Kharnaz's muscles was answered by this thing—a perfectly tuned echo molded by the Force itself, forged from his desires, shaped by his fears. And it was relentless.

Even its stance mocked him.

Shoulders relaxed. Breath steady. Eyes—glowing pinpricks of molten amber—unblinking, unreadable. It moved with terrifying efficiency, as though it had already lived a thousand battles Kharnaz had yet to dream of.

Every strike Kharnaz threw was a declaration: I will not be broken.

Every counter it offered whispered back: But you are not whole.

The arena responded to their struggle. The bloodstained sands shifted beneath their feet, dragging and grabbing like hands from the dead. Barriers rose and fell from the floor, twisting the terrain between each exchange. The broken cages where beasts had once been released cracked open as if to spew more challenges—but nothing came.

Only the two of them mattered.

In the high rafters—hallucinated or real—figures began to appear. Silent. Hooded. Dozens. Hundreds. Spectral Sith lords from across the centuries stood in silent vigil, watching the duel unfold. Their faces were hidden, but Kharnaz would feel their scrutiny. Not hateful. Not mocking.

Judging.

One false step. One slip in resolve. One lazy blow—and the trial would end with no ceremony. No lesson. Only silence.

And still the phantom pressed him.

It was not stronger. It was not faster. It was not supernatural.

But it believed in its own victory with absolute clarity.

And that belief was a weapon in its own right.

As the clash continued, the walls around them rippled again—not crumbling, but shifting. Brief flashes pierced through the illusion. Visions.

The Force roared in this place—not for either combatant, but for the conflict itself. This trial was no simple duel. It was a confrontation with identity, with the lie of perfection, with the truth of imperfection.

This was the moment the galaxy would forget him—or remember his scream.

He had no lightsaber. No claws of cortosis. No armor. Only what the Force offered. Only what his instincts demanded.

The phantom did not grow tired.

It did not grow angry.

It simply sought to replace him.

To become the real Kharnaz.

The blood-slick arena narrowed with every passing second, the walls curling inward like the throat of a beast ready to swallow them both. Dust rose in spirals. The air vibrated with pressure. Somewhere above, one of the statues collapsed, sending stone screaming to the ground—no longer watching, but waiting.

The tomb was listening.

Waiting to see which of them would crawl from the ash—

—and which would become another forgotten echo.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

The battle raged on. In his peripheral vision Kharnaz saw the figures. He did not care or rather could not care. If he failed to pay attention to the fight it would be over. He could not let that happen.

The ground itself grew hungry. Like the hands of the dead it reached up at the fighters. Kharnaz cared not. He simply crushed the manifestations when they appeared, his footwork expertly demolishing the sand formations. The terraign was no different. Up and down they fought, moving through the arena in their frenzy.

Despite his inital anger kharnaz was on the back foot. He found he was defending more than attacking, his confidence faltering. Doubts started creeping into his mind. About whether he could win. Did he even deserve to.

His arm came up too late. Claws slashed across his face, leaving three deep cuts over his left eye. He could still see with it but it was bleeding. The apparition did not gloat or howl with victory. It tasted the blood and grinned, clearly enjoying the taste of shame and humiliation. Kharnaz got back into the fight, but he knew if he took another hit like that he would surely lose.

This phantom was his match and he knew it. He knew this fight as it was would go on until one of them tired. And despite his strength, even aided by the force, Kharnaz knew that ghosts could not tire. He got the impression the ghost knew too. It had this smugness about it, the certainty of its own success. Perhaps that was what separated them. The conviction.

Hatred was building inside Kharnaz. Hatred for this thing that dared to try replace him. Its perfect moves and precise strikes. How dare it. How dare it take what he had and then think it was better. But looking deeper he hated what it represented.

The differences between them were key in his mind. Control. Conviction. Mastery. Kharnaz saw that was what he was lacking and hated himself for it. He loathed that he had allowed this weakness within himself. He promised himself that he would excise such pathetic weakness, right after excising this imposter.

The force was angry here. It raged around them eager to see one of them fall. Kharnaz leaped back, and focused on his loathing. He channeled his pain and self hatred of his own weakness. That he was too weak to fight back against his father. Too weak to prevent being enslaved in the pits. Too weak to save his mentor. Too weak to prevent being wounded. Self anger rose within him like a hurricane. His self loathing was immense and volatile. He drew upon this souce. He had never felt pure hatred before, and it was intoxicating. The apparition leaped towards him, intent on silencing him once and for all.

Letting the force flow through him he infused it with all his rage. Sparks formed around his claws, then leaping bolts of distilled hatred. He stretched out his arms at his attacker. With a howl of fury he unleashed the turmoil within him, his concentrated malice and hatred lancing out in the form of raw, unchecked and unbalanced force lightning. His hatred, just earlier directed at himself, shifted onto his attacker. It hit the imposter dead on, terminating his jump and throwing him to the floor. Kharnaz yelled as he pumped more power, more of the force into the apparition. It convulsed on the floor, unprepared for the searing pain. it got up with difficulty, Pure rage in its eyes. But Kharnaz understood now. It was not enough to be himself. But with the dark side flowing through him, and his abilities powered by his emotions, he would destroy this specter. And by destroying it he would destroy what remained of his weakness.

They clashed again but it was different this time. Kharnaz was certain he would win. This was not a fight for survival any more. It was a fight to destroy his opponent. Blow by blow they fought, and although the apparition remained on excellent form Kharnaz kept on the offensive. Fueled by his anger he struck again and again, harder, faster. With a cry he telekinetically threw it into a wall. It recovered and leapt forward again, but this time it was stopped mid air. Kharnaz had his paw out in a choke. The creature struggled in the air, clawing at the invisible fingers that crushed its windpipe. Tighter and tighter. With each attempt at inhaling Kharnaz smiled more. He crushed harder, squeezing any insecurities out of himself while excising the oxygen from his enemy.

Crunch. With a sickening snap its vertebrae were broken and its windpipe was demolished. Its lifeless body fell to the ground, hitting the sand hard. Blood pooled out of its mouth as its eyes rolled back. Kharnaz wiped the blood out of his own eye and howled in victory. He looked up at the audience. Instead of the usual cheers he would expect from a normal arena there was silence. The strange figures continued to judge, their decision unknowable. He noticed the arena had shrunk in the battle, now tight to an almost claustrophobic level. But at the other end there seemed to be a passageway. Kharnaz headed to it.

 

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



The corpse of the perfect Kharnaz twitched once more—then lay still.

Not dust. Not mist. Not fading into the Force. It remained, slumped and broken on the floor, a hollowed shell of ambition laid low by hatred incarnate. The sand beneath it darkened with old blood, seeping as if the arena itself hungered for the taste. But it did not feast. Not yet.

For the first time since the trial began, the tomb was silent.

No shifting stone. No whispering Force. No illusions creeping at the edge of perception. Just the wet breath of Kharnaz's own lungs, the coppery scent of blood in his nostrils, and the steady cooling of his own sweat-slicked fur.

The spectators in the shadows did not speak.

But one—just one—nodded. Then vanished.

The others followed.

One by one, the ancient silhouettes evaporated into the darkness, their judgment rendered not in words or ritual—but in withdrawal. He had fought. He had killed. And more importantly… he had understood. He had not just survived the crucible.

He had shattered it.

The arena cracked beneath him.

Not from violence. From finality.

The illusion of Nar Shaddaa peeled away like the skin of a rotten fruit. The sky above closed. The bleachers crumbled into heaps of eroded stone. The cage walls bent and dissolved into the sand, and the tomb reclaimed its true shape—angular, starless, ancient. All around him the bones of failed trials littered the darkness. Rusted blades. Fractured armor. A child's skull, still bearing the brand of its master.

None had made it to the other side.

None until now.

As Kharnaz turned, the far wall—which had once been stone—split. Not by mechanism, not by secret switch, but by will. A narrow passage revealed itself, its edges rimmed in soft red light like veins pulsing just beneath the skin of the tomb. Beyond it, darkness still reigned—but not the same darkness.

This was deeper.

Older.

Welcoming.

The air changed as he stepped closer. No longer hostile. No longer devouring. The pressure around his mind receded like a tide. The tomb no longer tested him. It recognized him.

He had passed.

But not unscathed.

As he moved down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps seemed louder—heavier. The stone no longer merely supported him. It bore witness. The very architecture around him had accepted his presence. The Force no longer pressed against him—it whispered at his back.

And behind him, the corpse of the phantom began to decay. Its skin peeled. Its bones cracked. And where its heart had once been, something remained.

A faint, pulsing shard.

A crystal.

No holocron. No artifact. A thing of himself—twisted, refined, violently born from the combustion of rage and clarity. It was not perfect. But it was true.

And now it belonged to him.

He would know, without being told, that this was a gift only the tomb could give.

Not power.
Not strength.
But definition.

He was no longer simply Kharnaz the gladiator. Not just a beast of violence.

He was something forged.
Something burned clean of illusion.
Something chosen.

And ahead of him, as he turned the last corner of the passage, the light returned. Not bright. Not blinding.

But deliberate.

A single figure stood waiting.

Regal. Immaculate. Still as a monolith.

Serina Calis.

Her hands behind her back. Her gaze fixed like twin blades of amethyst judgment.

No applause.
No welcome.

Only silence.

And the knowledge: she had been watching the entire time.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Kharnaz stood, panting heavily. Never before had so much force flowed through him. It was exhilirating and had left him hungry for more. He watched the figure nod before leaving. Deep down he knew who it had to be.

The walls crumbled around him, shattering the illusion of his home. He was in the old arena again, ancient stone standing around him, faded blood stains and the remains of past failures strewn around him. Kharnaz knew that he could have joined them. But Kharnaz was stronger. He would not be counted among the weak.

The wall split ahead of him. It was admitting him, proof of his success. He walked through it. He felt like a wounded warrior coming home. The force welcomed him here, as if it was waiting for him. It was no longer hostile to him, but present. Whispering promises. If only he would give himself fully to it. But Kharnaz had a different master in mind. One who would teach him to take power by force rather than be granted little gifts of it.

Behind him he could hear the failure that had challenged him break apart, entropy multiplied a hundred fold. He turned to watch it crumble, a smile creeping on his face as he watched it dissolve. Inside its broken rib cage a crystal shone. This was his, somehow the tomb had made that clear. He had earned it, and as he gazed on it he found that it was a reflection of himself. part of himself was kept in this crystal, pure and a perfect reflection of his soul.

He took the crystal with the force, not holding it with his fingers but keeping it afloat above his palm. This crystal represented his ascension. He was no longer just a beast. He was something greater.

He kept moving, deeper and deeper. Until he reached the light. Before he saw anything he already knew who would be waiting for him.

Serina Calis. He understood now that she had been watching everything. He just hoped that he had proved himself enough. He knelt down, the motion coming to him much more easily than back on the surface not long ago.

"Mistress."

 

[Serina Calis]

"To push the boundaries of reality."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



She did not move when he knelt.

Not at first.

Serina Calis stood in stillness that defied time. The wind did not touch her. The dust did not cling to her cloak. The very Force pooled differently where she stood—coiling, breathless, reverent. Behind her, the red sky burned like a dying god's eye, bleeding light over the valley, over the tombs, over him.

Her gaze was fixed on him before he even stepped into the light.

There was no surprise. No softening. No pride.

Only confirmation.

He had returned with the tremor of violence still clinging to him like steam. Blood ran from the old wound at his eye, dried in streaks across his fur. The air around him shimmered subtly with spent fury. She saw the way he held the crystal aloft—not in triumph, but in understanding. He had changed. Something primal had died in that tomb, and something greater had emerged.

He knelt.

And at last, she moved.

Slow, soundless steps across the ancient stone. The sound of her boots striking the ground was deliberate, like ceremonial drums muffled beneath velvet. She stopped just in front of him, and for a moment—just a breath—she said nothing.

Then her fingers lifted once again, but this time not to command, nor to test.

Her hand hovered beside his lowered head, palm facing upward. And the crystal that floated above his own palm rose, slowly, as if compelled not by her will—but by some unspoken law of power.

The crystal settled into her hand.

She turned it delicately, inspecting it with a scholar's curiosity and a sculptor's intimacy. Her thumb traced one flawless facet, and for a flicker of time, the Force sang—a single, vibrating note of resonance.

"It lives," she said, softly. "Not because of what you are. But because of what you killed."

Her hand lowered.

The crystal vanished—folded into her robes.

She would give it back when he earned the right to wield it.

Not a second sooner.

Her other hand reached down—this time, she did touch him.

Fingertips pressed to the underside of his chin, lifting his head. A gesture mirrored from before, but this time, there was no restraint in him. No flinch. He met her eyes—and the amethyst fire within them did not burn this time. It bound.

"You have passed the Trial of Revelation," she said, voice low, cool, and edged with subtle delight. "You have buried your shame in blood. And for that…"

She leaned down, the gesture intimate without warmth, like a blade lowered to kiss flesh before the cut.

"…you may call me Mistress."

A pause.

A smile. Cold. Beautiful. Final.

"But if you ever forget what it cost you, I will carve the memory back into your bones."

She stepped back now, letting her hand fall. Her silhouette stood tall against the tomb's open mouth behind him, black cloak stirring as if stirred by something deeper than the wind.

"Rise, apprentice. There is no forgiveness. No rest. No redemption."

Her voice sharpened, like a drawn saber.

"There is only what comes next."

And the valley watched in silence as a new monster stood reborn in its blood-soaked cradle.

Kharnaz was no longer merely a gladiator.

He was hers.

And the galaxy would come to regret it.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

The crystal vanished—folded into her robes.

Kharnaz frowned. He had earned that crystal in his mind. But he knew better than to object. He would get it back, one way or another.

"…you may call me Mistress."

His head followed the guidance of her hand. He looked into her eyes, seeing power and authority.

"Thank you, my mistress."

"But if you ever forget what it cost you, I will carve the memory back into your bones."

He nodded solemnly. He did not dare to think what that would entail. Only that he would never let that punishment happen to him.

"Rise, apprentice. There is no forgiveness. No rest. No redemption."

Her voice sharpened, like a drawn saber.

"There is only what comes next."

He rose, rising to his full height. He stood more confidently, more upright. He was reborn as a true warrior. He was no longer some gladiator killing only for himself.

He was a Sith Apprentice now. His claws were for his master. And he relished what he could do for her.