He had no name.
Not one the galaxy remembered.
Not yet.
But his presence moved ahead of him like a wave—slow, inevitable, unrelenting. Whispers followed in his wake: sightings of an armored figure cloaked in shadows, emerging from ruins and tearing through fortified outposts without a sound. The rumors spread through spice routes and merchant lanes. Holonet fragments, grainy and distorted, only fueled the myth.
Some claimed he was a rogue Jedi gone mad.
Others believed he was a Sith revenant, summoned by ancient rituals.
Few survived their encounters.
And that was intentional.
Outer Rim – Derelict Fuel Depot, System W5-Belaran
Three bounty hunters cornered him among rusted cargo haulers. No insignia. No allegiance. Just credits on their minds and a target in their scopes.
"You're the one they say crushed a trade guild's cruiser with a single strike?" the Trandoshan growled. "Let's see if that spine bends."
He said nothing.
They moved as one.
The first fired—a disruptor bolt. It never reached him. It curved midair, pulled sideways by a gravitational ripple that made the air shimmer.
The second went low with an energy blade.
He stepped around her and with a gesture, folded her knees with invisible weight. The scream cut off sharply.
The last tried to flee.
He let her go.
Let her speak.
Mid-Rim – Smuggler Relay, Encrypted Transmission"…seen him with my own eyes. Tore through the guardpost like it was made of smoke.""…Republic won't touch it. Jedi haven't said a word.""…no symbol, no name. Just death."
Aboard the Seized Frigate "Ashen Thorn"
He knelt in the half-lit chamber where the last crew once prayed.
He did not pray.
He remembered.
The Old Republic. The Jedi who bickered and debated while the galaxy burned. The Sith who swore themselves to war, only to crumble under their own ambition. The great Empire that rose from the ashes of idealism—built with strength, shattered by ego.
He remembered Revan.
The way the Force bent around him—not in worship, but in acknowledgment.
Malgus had been loyal once.
But loyalty had failed him.
Now he followed only truth.
And truth required strength.
The Force itself was quieter in this age.
But it wasn't gone.
It had simply… withdrawn.
He could still sense it, in distant enclaves where Jedi meditated behind barriers of fear. In dark corners where shadows lingered and whispers promised the return of the Sith. But it was fragmented. Diluted. No longer the tide that had once reshaped empires.
They had all grown weak.
Even those who ruled in secret, hidden within the Republic's body, stank of caution.
Outskirts of the Reach Nebula – Pirate Ambush
An opportunistic mercenary fleet attempted to intercept his vessel after picking up a phantom transmission.
Two attack frigates and a host of smaller crafts.
He boarded them personally.
No alarms. No lightsabers.
He moved like a storm—silent, unstoppable.
One corridor collapsed behind him as he left it—a single gesture sealing it in molten metal.
At the end, one mercenary remained alive.
He said nothing.
He only looked.
And the survivor ran.
The myth was spreading.
As it should.
The Path Ahead
He felt the Force nudging him—not dragging, not forcing.
Guiding.
There was something on the edge of perception. A place… different. Centered. Balanced. Hidden, but shining brighter by the day.
A place not of weakness, but of truth.
His fingers curled slowly.
"I am not here to rule," he murmured.
"I am here to break what is false."
The Galaxy Reacts
In ancient Sith ruins, acolytes bowed before old shrines—names long erased—but whispered of him in reverence.
In forgotten Jedi outposts, the Force trembled, alerting seers and watchers that something was awakening—but without direction, without clarity.
The Republic, unknowing, continued in its hollow march of politics and peace.
But the storm had risen.
And though his name had not yet been spoken aloud…
It would be.