Kai sat cross-legged in the meditation chamber once more, the Sith holocron now dormant beside him. In his hand, he gently cradled the crystal that had become so much more than a keepsake. Its once colourless surface now shimmered faintly, touched by threads of blue and red—subtle, as if unsure of what it was becoming.
The memory of the Mandalorian lingered vividly in Kai's mind. The armour, the struggle, the victory. But what stayed with him most was the reverence with which the warrior had held the pearl—the crystal. It had been more than a trophy, more than a prize. It had meant something.
He turned the crystal over slowly in his fingers, watching the hues shift in the soft light.
"Who were you?" he whispered to the crystal. "And why do I feel like you're part of something more?"
There was no answer—only the pulse of the Force, faint and ancient.
Kai closed his eyes again, seeking that connection, that strange sense of belonging the crystal evoked. His mind drifted to the vision. He saw the sands again, felt the heat, heard the thunderous roar of the krayt dragon. And he saw the warrior—calm, unwavering, fearless in the face of death.
There was something familiar in that presence. Not the face—it had been hidden—but the feeling. Strength tempered by discipline. Confidence without arrogance. A path not so different from the one Kai himself walked now.
And yet, where the warrior had come from—what path had led them to the desert—remained a mystery.
The red and blue shimmer deepened slightly as the crystal warmed in his palm. Not with heat, but with awareness. It responded to his meditation, to his wondering, almost as if it remembered being seen.
Kai opened his eyes, his thoughts drifting toward the power Naga Sadow had described—psychometry. If the Force could let him see the past of the object, perhaps there was more. Perhaps there was a way to feel the life behind the memory. To connect across time.
He didn't know if the Mandalorian had been Jedi, Sith, or something entirely apart.
But he knew this crystal had meaning—power born not of the Dark or the Light, but something deeper. Something earned.
Kai rose from his place slowly, tucking the crystal away under his tunic, where it rested once more against his chest.
The path ahead was growing darker, stranger.
In the days following his vision, Kai felt a deepening sense of purpose. The image of the Mandalorian, the mighty krayt dragon, and the shimmering pearl still burned in his thoughts. But each time he reached for more—another fragment, another clue—his efforts fell short. The vision had been vivid, but psychometry wasn't something he could master overnight.
So, he changed course.
If the crystal's past was locked away, then perhaps it was time to refine the key.
Kai sat within the hangar of the abandoned Rebel base, legs crossed beside his X-wing. Its hull was weathered, scarred from battle and time, but its presence was comforting—familiar. He reached out with the Force, letting his fingers brush the underbelly of the starfighter. It had seen much, and more importantly, it had felt much.
He closed his eyes, opened his mind, and breathed deep.
This time, he didn't expect visions of dragons or warriors. He simply listened.
At first, there was only silence. Then, slowly, echoes.
A flurry of blaster fire. The sharp drop into the Death Star's trench. The cold grip of fear. Luke's voice, calm but urgent. The hum of his own nerves in that final moment before victory.
Kai pulled back with a shudder, heart racing—not from what he saw, but from the clarity. He had seen his own memory, yes, but through the lens of the ship. Its experience.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was progress.
Later that evening, he tried again—this time with R6.
The little astromech beeped in confusion as Kai gently rested a hand on its dome and knelt beside him.
"Just go with it," Kai murmured.
He opened himself to the Force again, brushing past the surface of the droid's memory banks, reaching for feelings, not data.
Suddenly, he was somewhere else—inside the droid's perspective. The whir of its motor, the cold of space, the panic as Kai's fighter spun out during a training session, the relief when he'd regained control. Not words. Not pictures. Emotions.
It worked.
Kai let go, blinking as he returned to the hangar. R6 let out a soft whistle of curiosity.
"Don't worry," Kai said with a faint smile. "You're not next in line for a vision quest. I just needed to practice."
He glanced down at the crystal resting against his chest beneath his tunic. The soft red-and-blue sheen hadn't changed, but it no longer felt inert. It was waiting—waiting for him to be ready.
Soon, he would be.
But first, he had to earn the past. One feeling, one memory at a time.
Days bled into weeks as Kai sank deeper into his study beneath the ancient temple. The ruins, once still and cryptic, had begun to open themselves to him. The obelisk chamber had become more than a curiosity—it was now a place of learning, of challenge, and of transformation.
Each evening, when the jungle quieted and the sun dipped low beyond the canopy, Kai descended into the hidden sanctum. There, the holocron awaited him, flaring to life as though it too anticipated their sessions.
The specter—Naga Sadow, though Kai had never dared speak the name aloud—was relentless. His lessons were not like Obi-Wan's, not filled with compassion or tempered wisdom. No, the Sith Lord's approach was colder, more analytical. He dissected history with cruel precision, stripped away the romanticism of Jedi teachings, and forced Kai to confront uncomfortable truths about the nature of the Force.
"You seek strength, but cling to balance," Sadow had once hissed. "A blade dulled by hesitation will not cut through destiny."
Kai pushed back when he could, sparred with logic rather than surrendering to it. He questioned everything—what made a power dark, what justified using fear, where the line between survival and corruption truly lay.
The specter respected that, in his own way.
In between these philosophical battles, Sadow taught him abilities the Jedi would never dare mention.
He practiced manipulating emotions—not to dominate others, but to understand how the Force moved through feeling. He learned to enhance his senses beyond normal perception, to hear the heartbeat of the jungle, feel the breath of the wind before it shifted. And with effort, he began to feel the presence of others—life signatures, pulsing through the forest like faint stars.
One ability fascinated him above all else: Force concealment. Sadow taught him how to veil his presence, to mask his connection to the Force from others. It was subtle, delicate, and immensely difficult. But it spoke to Kai's cautious nature—power without exposure.
Despite the dark origins of these teachings, Kai never felt himself slipping toward hatred or ambition. He remained grounded, practicing Soresu in the overgrown courtyards, meditating beside the relics of the ancient temple, speaking with R6 during his meals to retain a sense of the present.
He was walking a narrow path—neither Jedi nor Sith.
Some nights, he returned to Obi-Wan's holocron and simply listened. The old Master's calm presence served as an anchor, a quiet counterpoint to Sadow's fire.
And in this strange balance of light and shadow, Kai continued to grow.
He wasn't sure what he was becoming. But each day, the Force felt more like a companion than a mystery.
And Yavin IV, with all its secrets, still had more to show him.