Jin-Woo stepped forward, his voice low and confident. "The one who should be asking questions... is me."
He leveled his blade.
"Tell me, Count Dooku... will your battle style change in twenty years?"
Dooku didn't answer. He moved first.
Form II: Makashi. Elegant. Efficient. Deadly.
Dooku lunged forward with pristine footwork, his blue lightsaber slicing through the air in a tight arc aimed at Jin-Woo's collarbone. His blade moved with the refined grace of a fencer—every motion precise, every angle sharp.
But Jin-Woo didn't even flinch. He stepped into the strike, meeting it mid-motion with a flawless block.
Form III: Soresu.
The defensive style unfolded through his movements—tight parries, circular motions, redirecting the force behind each Makashi thrust with smooth efficiency. He absorbed Dooku's speed and returned calm.
Another sequence. Dooku spun in and delivered a feint-into-lunge—typical of Makashi. Jin-Woo shifted again.
Form V: Shien.
His counterattack came from a reverse grip, deflecting Dooku's slash and twisting into a backhanded slice meant to test the Count's defense. Dooku ducked and disengaged with a fluid backstep, cloak flowing like a shadow in the snow.
Their sabers clashed once again—CLANK!—black and blue lighting up the pale plains of Galidraan.
Dooku pressed harder now, launching a flurry of rapid Makashi attacks—tight jabs, angled thrusts, and sudden pivots to catch Jin-Woo off guard.
Jin-Woo let him push.
Form IV: Ataru.
With sudden agility, Jin-Woo flipped backward, letting the momentum lift him above a low swing before planting his feet into the snow, shifting back into a grounded stance. Dooku's eyes twitched in confusion. He was adapting—no, mastering—every style he touched.
Dooku narrowed his gaze. "Who trained you, Armored Man?" he asked, panting only slightly. "Was it the Mandalorians?"
Jin-Woo didn't respond immediately. He stepped forward again, this time slower, blade poised to strike—his technique now shifting, smoother, more deceptive.
Form VI: Niman. The balance. The fusion of all forms.
Jin-Woo's saber moved in ways Dooku couldn't predict—each strike drawing from something else. A Makashi thrust here. A Djem So overhead slam. A Soresu block spun into a Juyo-style twist.
He parried Dooku's next attack and whispered under his breath.
"If Mandalore were trained like this," he said coldly, "they wouldn't have this problem in the first place."
Dooku's brows furrowed. He stepped back now—instinctively.
He's not following any style, he realized. He's using all of them… and evolving them.
(Note: Jin-Woo adds a small portion of his Shadow Monarch strength, which is why he is equal to Dooku, even though his level is lower in the Jedi ranking system.)
Jin-Woo pointed his blade forward, his stance wide and commanding. "Round two, Count?"
Dooku tightened his grip on the lightsaber, cloak billowing with the wind."…Gladly."
Jin-Woo smiled silently, his blade humming low and steady.
Dooku narrowed his eyes, grip firm on his saber. "Why are you smiling?"
Jin-Woo didn't answer. He simply tilted his chin upward… and pointed. Behind Dooku.
The Count's instincts screamed—he spun around just in time to see a shadowy figure lunging toward him from the rear. A flicker of energy, humanoid but warped, cloaked in darkness.
A [Force Phantom], conjured from Jin-Woo's will.
Dooku reacted instantly, thrusting out his hand with a focused Force Push. The phantom staggered—only for Jin-Woo's own hand to rise, and—
A burst of black [Force Lightning] lanced from Jin-Woo's palm, striking Dooku's saber hilt mid-spin as it returned to his grip. The jolt didn't aim to injure—it disarmed, precise and surgical. The lightsaber flew from Dooku's hand and clattered across the snow, skidding to a stop several meters away.
The Force Phantom took its opportunity. In an instant, it reformed, lunging again—this time pinning Dooku to the ground.
Jin-Woo took slow, deliberate steps forward.
Then snapped his fingers. The phantom evaporated, fading into curling tendrils of shadow.
Dooku gasped slightly, on his back in the snow, weaponless, coat torn, his heart pounding.
Jin-Woo looked down at him calmly.
"It's my win, Count," he said flatly.
Dooku looked up at him, face twisted with both frustration and disbelief. "You… are you a Sith?" he muttered. "That lightning… it wasn't blue. It was black. No record in the Jedi Archives ever documented such power."
Jin-Woo tilted his head, voice calm as ever. "I had a capable master," he said.
Dooku, still seated in the snow, his breath visible in the cold air, stared up at him with narrowed eyes. "Elaborate," he said, voice tight. "The Sith are evil. That's the truth in the Archives. The Dark Side leads only to pain. To suffering."
Jin-Woo let out a quiet, almost amused breath. "Not if you're a businessman."
Dooku blinked. "What?"
Jin-Woo folded his arms, standing over him like a black statue of judgment. "There's one Sith. Only one. In this entire galaxy… who actually had brains. Lived with the Dark Side. Didn't chase immortality or planetary domination. No galactic conquest. He just… used the Force. Profited. Built. And believe it or not—he died peacefully. Surrounded by his family."
"Bullshit," Dooku said immediately, the word cutting through the cold. "If there was a Sith like that, it would've been in the archives. It would've been a warning. A case study."
Jin-Woo's voice didn't waver. "You're assuming the Jedi record everything they find. You ever wonder what happens to information that doesn't fit the narrative?"
"Some of your Archives," Jin-Woo continued, "were purged. Modified. Forgotten. Or maybe they were too scared to admit it. That Sith from the Old Republic weren't always mad dogs… but monsters beyond comprehension."
"Some of them could devour planets. Like Vitiate. Or Nihilus. Sith who weren't just wielders of the Dark Side… they were black holes in the Force. That's why the old stories had to be erased. Why the Republic wanted them forgotten."
He tilted his head slightly, mocking. "Because if the people remembered what real Sith were capable of… the Republic wouldn't sleep so well at night."
Dooku went silent. Truly silent. His lips parted, but no answer came.
Then, at last, he said quietly, "Why do I have a feeling you know more about us… than we know about you?"
Jin-Woo's smile widened beneath the mask. . "Because I do."
"This master of yours…" Dooku finally asked, voice quiet but edged with incredulity. "What was his name? What did he do?"
Jin-Woo raised a hand casually, then snapped his fingers.
A ripple echoed through the Force like thunder muffled beneath the snow. From the air around them, the shadows thickened—and suddenly, one by one, phantom figures began to appear.
Not one. Not ten. But a hundred.
All of them [Force Phantoms]. Silent, eyeless, ethereal soldiers standing in formation like a battalion waiting for orders. Their mere presence twisted the atmosphere into something oppressive, unreal.
Jin-Woo spoke calmly. "His name… was Darth Vectivus. He was a businessman."
Dooku's jaw slowly dropped. "…What?"
Jin-Woo gestured toward the phantoms. "He used those to mine rocks. Focused on profit. Investments. Safe markets. And, believe it or not—he didn't conquer. Didn't kill billions. Didn't throw lightning at politicians."
The Count blinked. "Those are armies. Armies! And he used them to… to mine rocks?!"
"Rocks with value," Jin-Woo corrected with a nod. "Mine needed profit anyway."
Dooku just stared at the sea of Force Phantoms. "And… he lived peacefully? With power like that?"
Jin-Woo tilted his head. "Exactly why he's not in your archives. He didn't burn the galaxy. He didn't even shout. Just made money. Kept his family safe. Got old. Died rich. Probably with a wine glass in his hand."
Dooku was visibly shaken now. "So that's it… his apprentice… is a money lover too."
Jin-Woo gave a smug shrug. "Stonksss, baby. Gotta chase that revenue."
Dooku stood in silence, tension still lingering on his breath. His hands, though no longer raised, remained at his sides in careful control.
"Whenether you convinced me or not…" Dooku finally muttered, the chill returning to his tone,
"it doesn't matter. I lost. So what do you want?"
Jin-Woo didn't even blink. "A curse," he said simply.
Dooku raised an eyebrow. "A curse?"
"You will never speak of what I truly am," Jin-Woo said. "Not to the Jedi Council. Not to the Republic. Not even to yourself in meditation. Your memory and tongue will be sealed—tied to my design. The only thing you can say regarding this duel… is that you lost to me. Nothing more."
Dooku's eyes narrowed. "And if Master Yoda suspects something? He's no fool."
Jin-Woo's tone remained calm, almost amused. "Then tell Master Yoda to come find me. Nine years from now. He'll be ready for me . And don't worry… he'll understand."
Dooku took a breath. Then exhaled. "…Fine. Get this over with, Armored Man."
Jin-Woo raised one hand—and the shadow behind him surged upward.
It coiled into a twisting form, a sculpture of pure blackness, taking the shape of a jagged humanoid figure with long, frozen limbs. It resembled the Monarch of the Ice Folk—Sillad—its mere presence cold enough to frost the edges of Dooku's beard.
The shadow figure reached out. Dooku clenched his jaw but did not resist as the icy black hand pressed gently over his chest. A soft hum followed—then a sharp jolt of pressure through his bones and mind.
Something sealing. Locking away a part of him.
Jin-Woo lowered his hand. "It's done," he said, voice firm. "Now, go. You've got a planet to protect. Or betray. Whichever."
Dooku turned slowly, his cloak trailing across the snowy plains as he made his way toward the waiting Republic ship in the distance. Each step was deliberate. Heavy. The curse Jin-Woo placed on him wasn't just a seal—it was a weight on his thoughts.
But just as the ramp of the ship hissed open with hydraulic steam,
Jin-Woo's voice rang out from behind him, ."Dooku."
The Count paused, glancing back.
"I can help you," Jin-Woo said, his tone more measured now. "With armor… within a Jedi. A way to protect your people while still wearing your ideals."
Dooku blinked. "…There's a catch."
"There always is," Jin-Woo replied calmly. "Only one condition."
He turned his back and began walking toward his Mandalorian carrier. But his voice carried through the wind.
"One person… needs to be removed from the game. No matter the cost."
Dooku narrowed his eyes. "And who is that, Armored Man?"
Jin-Woo paused. Then looked over his shoulder just slightly, the snow brushing against his boots.
"You can't find him," he said simply. "He's too good at hiding. But don't worry… you'll meet him."
"When you're desperate."
Dooku stood there in the snow, thoughtful. Suspicious. But most of all… uncertain. He boarded the ship in silence.
Meanwhile, Jin-Woo ascended the ramp of the Mandalorian vessel, his footsteps steady.
Palpatine, he mused, his eyes narrowing under the helmet. You're clever. Manipulative. Hidden behind layers of charm, corruption, and design. But no matter how sharp your game is…
You're still beneath Vitiate.
A dark grin touched his lips beneath the mask as the ramp closed behind him.
Inside the humming Mandalorian carrier en route to Mandalore, the atmosphere was tense but calm. The interior was dimly lit, humming with power, filled with warriors who only hours ago were bitter enemies—now forced to coexist under the shadow of a single man.
Myles sat with his helmet in his lap, his gaze darting cautiously toward the cluster of Death Watch members sitting at the far end of the transport bay. His jaw tensed.
"I don't trust you," Myles muttered, voice edged with years of battlefield weariness. "Death Watch has always been a ticking thermal detonator. But if the Armored Man says you're under Jaster…"
One of the Death Watch warriors, still bearing faint scarring from the duel and looking no less fierce, responded calmly. "We only obey one leader now: the Armored Man. He told us to take refuge under Jaster Mereel… until the day we're strong enough to challenge him again."
Myles frowned, blinking. "That sounds like a threat."
"No," the Death Watch soldier replied. "It's a Vow ."