Duel Galactic Kaggath Round 2: Darth Virelia vs CT-312

[Mauve]

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Molten rock covered the arena floor, churning under the pressure of its own heat. The dying corpse of the Wroyshr tree lit up with flame, descending steadily as its base burned away. Great branches broke away and were quickly consumed by the lava. As it devoured the last remnants of the first round’s environment, the second round’s stage took shape.

Platforms were scattered throughout the arena. They ranged from small ones which could barely hold one person to larger ones that evoked small duelling rings. Dozens of them floated at various heights, their machinery shielded against the heat from below.

Together, they formed the battleground for this round: a precarious battle above all-consuming lava with limited space to stand on.

Those who fell would be incinerated by the lava and forgotten in a tomb of molten rock.

The announcer’s voice cut through the excited chatter of the crowds as the combatants were ferried into the arena on small, floating platforms: “In remembrance of the Battle of Mustafar, fought by the First Order and the Galactic Alliance many decades ago, we present to you the second battlefield of the Kaggath!”

“Weeeelcome back for ROUND TWOOOO! Standing on the platform, the masked six-eyed demon herself, the tenacious, the terrible, the Darth Vireliiiiaaaaa.”

“And facing her across the platform, the Scout Extraordinaire, she’s mean, she’s lean, and she’s here to shoot your dream, it’s CT-312!”

Thirty minutes after the chaos and carnage of round one. Five minutes after the sudden announcement of a bounty that ripped through the arena like wildfire. The second round… began.

“CHALLENGERS! BEGIN!”

Darth Virelia | CT-312

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Virelia //:
//: Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:
//: WEARING:Halcyon Armour |Contact Lenses |Wrist Mounted APG |Ancile Shield |Aredian Armlet //:
//: EQUIPMENT: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LO-18D | LO-22S | Sunshot Pistol //:
//: LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round | Shiva Knife //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 3x Ravenous Grenades | 2x Kushute Grenades //:
//: 1x Ion Grenade | 1x Flash Grenade | 1x Incendiary Grenade | 1 x Smoke Grenade //:
​

The air shimmered with heat. CT-312 stood near the edge of her platform. One boot planted forward, her weight evenly distributed for movement. The whole arena had changed. Below her the ground had been replaced by molten death. Lava bubbled and churned. Around her were suspended metal discs. The heat radiated in waves that could be felt throughout the arena. CT-312 watched as the Wroyshr tree crackled in its final movements as it burst into the inferno with violent flames.

CT-312 watched it go. Feeling the heat rise up and around her. Slowly seeping through the suit of armor she wore. Only fire, air, and steel. The Camo Scout didn’t pull back as flames rose higher. The transition was almost ceremonial. Grand, yet pointless. She didn’t need theatrics. But the audience did. The crowd roared above. CT-312 tuned it out, like she always did. Irrelevant. That sound didn’t exist in her world. Only the target.

Six eyed demon. A Sith Lord. CT-312’s grip tightened on her rifle. Her fingers flexed once, then settled. Calm. She’d been deployed alongside Sith Lords before. Escort missions. Battle operations. The objective was to work with them. More accurately, for them. Don’t ask questions. Disposable.

Now she was fighting one.

A bounty put on the organizers mid-broadcast. The arena structures collapse into magma. Combatants scramble to prepare for the next round. Someone upstairs had lost control. Or maybe they never had it to begin with.

This whole thing was a chit show.

CT-312 had been scanning the floating platforms ahead. Varying sizes. Spaced irregularly. All of them suspended by repulsorlift engines. Straining against the heat. Hazardous. There was no cover. No do-overs. The Camo Scout took a step forward. Feeling the heat crawl up through her boots and into her calves. She could feel the armor warming beneath the plating. It wasn’t just temperature. There was pressure. This was an environment that punished you, if you made a mistake.

Her objective. Survive. CT-312 adjusted her stance. Raising her maser rifle. 'Confirm first. Move Second. Kill third.' The signal came through her comms as the announcer’s voice boomed over the lava choked arena. Instead of moving. CT-312 was curious. She would wait to confirm something with this Sith Lord. She wasn't going to leap just because the crowd wanted her to. Her repulsors on stand-by. Calculating. On guard, just in case.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 2."

Tags - CT-312



The heat was alive.

It didn't just crawl along the skin or shimmer in the distance—it clawed up through the air, hungry, omnipresent, wrapping around everything like a lover turned predator. The Wroshyr tree, once proud and ancient, was now a funeral pyre. Its embers rose like black snow, flickering against the blood-orange haze that filled the arena. Cracks echoed from the dying trunk as it collapsed in full, swallowed by the molten abyss below.

Serina Calis watched it burn.

She stood alone on her platform, robes still torn from the last engagement, blackened at the hem. The simple synthweave clung to her like a second skin beneath the open robes, her pale shoulders marked with trails of ichor—some fresh, most already crusted. She had not healed. She had not changed. She had merely survived.

Survival was enough.

The announcer's words rippled through the haze like distant thunder, barely heard over the roar of the lava. The crowd roared in kind, expecting blood, spectacle, madness. But Serina remained motionless. Her bare feet were planted at the center of her platform, balanced with the casual poise of someone standing atop a throne, not a deathtrap.

Across the chasm of molten fire and dancing platforms stood the scout.

CT-312.

Serina's gaze found her immediately—angled posture, steady rifle grip, repulsors primed but not yet triggered. A professional. The kind that lived on instinct, not impulse. No taunt in her stance. No desperation. Only calculation.

Serina studied her the way one might study a blade in another's hand.

Her eyes—unaugmented, human, blue as ice—narrowed slightly beneath her hood. No six-eyed mask. No armor. No weapon visible at all. Just flesh. Breath. Will.

She saw the trooper wait. Good. Waiting was rare in these arenas. Most leapt to violence like dogs to meat, eager to prove something. But this one paused. Calculated.

So Serina responded in kind.

She moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Not with menace or flourish—but with form. One foot turned outward, then the other, a pivot of her hips to square her chest toward the scout across the void. Her arms unfolded from her sides, letting the robe part slightly to reveal the black bodysuit beneath, still scarred with saber-burns and dried ichor, her stomach wrapped in fresh black bandage. She looked half-dead.

And then she raised her hand.

A salute.

A full, proper, military-grade salute.

Open palm to her brow, fingers together, no motion wasted. She held it for a full breath—longer than etiquette demanded—then let it fall, slow as dusk, back to her side.

It wasn't honor.

It wasn't mercy.

It was recognition.

Serina stepped forward to the edge of her platform, where the heat licked against her toes and the shimmer of rising thermal distortion made the air dance. She said nothing.

She simply stood there.

Watching.

Letting the moment settle. Letting the audience, high above and distant, lean in with bated breath. Letting CT-312 make the next move. Not out of laziness.

But out of respect.

Not for the trooper. But for the dynamic. The configuration of the moment. The power in balance, unspent.

Serina's head tilted, ever so slightly. Her robe flared open with the lazy tug of the wind, heat currents tossing it like smoke around her ankles. She did not ignite a weapon. She did not extend the Force. She did not posture.

Instead, she took one more step.

A test.

Not aggression.

Invitation.

The molten rock below shifted, belched fire. One of the smaller platforms dipped into the edge of the lava and vanished without ceremony, consumed like paper in flame. A warning.

But Serina didn't look down.

She looked only at her.

CT-312.

A ghost of a smile curved her lips—dry, sardonic, but not cruel.

The trooper had already made the hardest decision: to pause. Serina would reward that.

Her left hand lifted again—not in salute this time, but open-palmed, level with her shoulder. Fingers splayed just slightly. A peace gesture. A rare thing, from a Sith. It offered no advantage. No cover. No deception. Just clarity.

I am not your enemy.

Not yet.

And then she closed her hand into a fist.

Just once.

A second test. A subtle signal. A chance to align.

A truce—on her terms.

She did not speak. There were no words the audience needed to hear. No declarations. No dares. Only the silent question left between two professionals standing over hell:

Is this necessary?

Serina could feel the other fights unfolding. The circuits behind the ray shields. The delicate, intentional cracks she had paid to have installed. The air shimmered in more ways than heat alone. One of those matches—her match—was coming. But this?

This didn't need to end in fire.

Not if the scout had the sense to read the moment. Not if she saw past the theatrics. Past the titles. Past the fangs.

And if she didn't—

Well.

Then Serina would burn her down like all the rest.