[Demon Fort of Draceryos, Meditation Chamber, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
The air was still. The only sound, the fading crackle of the braziers that had long since burned low, their light casting shadows that danced across the runes etched in the stone. The warmth of the flames was distant now, a dull echo against the cold, sweat-slicked skin on my back.
I sat alone, the stone beneath me rough and solid, grounding me after what felt like hours of drifting. In that quiet, the silence was deafening. My thoughts, however, were louder than any roar.
What could I become?
The question did not frighten me. It fascinated me. Enthralled me.
With the dark side of the Force, and the knowledge hidden within the Holocron, there was almost no boundary I could not break. Sith rituals offered me paths ancient and forbidden. Valyrian sorcery, more intuitive, more wild, was compatible with them in strange, wondrous ways. Both streams of magic flowed into one source, the Force beneath it all.
Could I bind oaths in blood and fire? Craft armors that defied dragonflame and age? Enchant weapons with death and madness? Could I shape flesh and spirit alike, create relics tied to soul and memory?
Could I twist the ley energies beneath Valyria, and channel them into power?
Nothing seemed impossible anymore. Only delayed. Only waiting.
The Holocron pulsed again.
It welcomed me, not as a student, but as something else. Not an heir. Not a Sith. Something... new. The interface shifted. A layer that had been dormant, now glowed with living crimson light. I touched it, and the surge struck me like a thunderclap.
A flood of movement. Formulas. Names. Doctrines. Stances. Footwork. Each one defined in agonizing detail. Seven forms, and one more.
Shii-Cho. Makashi. Soresu. Ataru. Shien. Djem So. Niman. Vaapad. Jar'Kai.
Not just concepts, but sensations. Muscles contracted. Breath staggered. My mind was splitting, reforming, adapting. These were not teachings, they were installations. And they were not meant for lightsabers.
They had been converted. Steel, weight, balance, armor. The stances were adjusted to fit a warrior in mail, a duelist with cloak and blade, not a Jedi in robes.
It was made for this world.
It was made for me.
I would need to rename them. The forms, as they stood, bore names of a world long gone, unknown to the people of Planetos. But here, among the Valyrians and Dragonlords, among warriors raised with steel and fire, they needed to be reborn with names of power and legacy. In time, I would assign them new titles, ones worthy of their strength. And I would teach them, carefully and with purpose, to my Dragon Army. Specifically, the Dragonguard, the heavily armored elite sworn to House Draceryos, our vassals, and none more loyally than to me. They were warriors of discipline and blood, and in their hands, these forms would become not just techniques, but instruments of domination.
When I could move again, my feet guided me without thought. Through the lower halls. Past the locked doors and rune-warded paths. Into the training hall, stone-floored, ringed with weapons, silent save for my ragged breath.
I took a practice blade. Long, narrow, balanced like a rapier. I raised it.
Form I. Broad strokes. Horizontal and vertical cuts. No elegance. Just foundation.
Form II. My body shifted. I stepped lighter. Movements narrowed, targeted. Precision. This felt... familiar. Natural.
Form III. Defensive stances. Rotating blocks. Designed for distant projectiles, yet I could feel its value. It focused on maintaining composure, conserving energy, and outlasting an opponent's assault. In this world, it could serve as the foundation for disciplined footwork and patient, unbreaking defense.
Form IV. My body leapt. Spun. Stretched. Aggression. Quick kills. My muscles strained, but they held.
Form V. Blades crashed against imaginary foes. Forward drive. Counters with force and power. I adjusted grip. Shifted stance.
Form VI. Calm. Mixed. Everything I had learned balanced into movement.
Then, Form VII.
Vaapad. Or rather, what had once been known as Juyo and Vaapad. Here, within the Holocron, it had been refined, merged into something perfected. It was not just Vaapad, nor merely Juyo. It was both, balanced and fused. Fury guided by control, aggression without chaos. It felt right. As if this was the version meant to exist all along, prepared not for a galaxy of stars, but for this world of fire and blade.
It was lightning in my veins. My footwork changed. My balance shifted. The blade moved as if drawn by instinct. Every strike landed with the crash of thunder, sudden and unrelenting. The unpredictability of each blow mirrored the erratic nature of lightning itself. Fluid, like a river during flood. I moved without hesitation, without fear, without pause, but fueled by the dark side, by its nature. Each motion enhanced when drawn upon rage and fury, its rhythm aligned with my anger, its power feeding from my will.
Here, I was stronger. Here, I was sharper. The Force around me did not resist, no, it rushed in, wrapped around me, merged with me.
And then, stillness.
I stood there, chest rising and falling. My breath deep. My grip light. The sword lowered.
My eyes caught the blade.
Reflected in the dull steel were not violet eyes. They were fire. Orange, red, ringed with bright intensity. Like embers in a storm.
I did not feel corruption. No whispers. No madness.
But I felt it. A resistance. The world itself, trying to deny what I had become. As if it knew, and feared, that I was not of it.
And it was right.
My soul was not born here. I remembered that now, like a flicker at the edge of my mind. A world of cities without kings. Of stars without dragons. A world of stories.
And I had read those stories.
I had loved those stories.
But now, I was in one.
And it would bow to me.
This body, born of Valyria, blood of Aurion, blood of Draceryos, strength of the Great Dragons. This mind, shaped by two realities, trained in one and awakened in another. This soul, forged in a world where power existed only in stories, now breathed into a world where those stories became truth.
I was not just different.
I was inevitable.
I closed my eyes. I breathed slow.
The fire dimmed.
When I opened them, violet eyes stared back.
But I wanted to be sure.
I summoned the anger. My pain. My hate. The dark side rose. My expression did not change.
My eyes flared once more. Fire returned.
Vaapad, I thought.
And smiled.
Above me, faint and distant, Azantyos roared. A long, low sound. He knew.
My muscles ached. My blood still hummed. The Force had changed me.
And it was not done yet.
Not nearly.
I slowly placed the training blade back in its resting place, its dull edge catching the light from the distant torches. My legs felt heavy, grounded by exhaustion and something else, something deeper. As if the very stone of this ancient fortress was weighing me down, testing me, resisting the change.
I looked once more at my reflection, this time in the polished obsidian wall near the armory. Violet eyes now, calm and quiet. But behind them, power still burned, waiting.
Tomorrow, I would begin again. First, I would study, experiment, analyze. I would dive deeper into the layers of knowledge hidden in the Holocron, draw up plans, draft blueprints, and build the foundation of something far greater. One does not rush such things. Not when the work is meant to last.