Morgan opened her eyes again. The irritation was gone. Replaced by something tighter. Sharper.
"…That," she said quietly, "is a problem."
She turned toward XoXaan. "Tell me something. You predate Sadow's era, don't you? How do you know so much about him?"
XoXaan folded her arms, the motion more habit than necessity for a spirit. "Because every Sith who dies gets recorded here. All of them. Even monsters like him. Korriban keeps every scar. Every failure. Every tyrant. We prepare for the day the Sith'ari finally arrives. None of us expected any of the ancients to rise again. We accepted our fate. That someone else—Jin-Woo—would inherit the prophecy."
Morgan processed that in silence. XoXaan already knows the gap I'm about to leave… good.
She exhaled once.
"Then let me offer something in return. XoXaan—how about I give you a body? A real one. So you don't rot in this wasteland or vanish in that Malachor shrine of yours."
XoXaan blinked, caught off guard. "I was about to suggest the same thing. I didn't expect you to offer it openly. Usually, we finish our tasks first, then earn the reward "
Morgan's eyes drifted across the other spirits—hundreds of ancient Sith lingering like faded echoes.
"And what about the rest of you? If I give you bodies now, will you stand against Naga Sadow? Or are you all going to tremble behind your rocks and whisper about him instead?"
A long silence followed.
Then one spirit raised a hand. "Pass."
Another drifted backward. "I give up."
A third trembled in open fear. "I don't want to get baked by a solar flare."
More voices followed, overlapping in panic.
"No body is worth fighting him."
"He'll break Korriban in half if he gets angry."
"I like existing. Existing is nice."
"No thank you, Sith'ari servant."
Morgan stared at them—brow twitching, a vein almost popping like a cartoon. "Pathetic," she muttered.
XoXaan rubbed her temple. "They're being realistic. Sadow could detonate a star. He nearly did, once."
She lowered her hand and faced Morgan directly. "So. What's the plan, Sith'ari servant?"
Morgan's vein twitched hard enough to show—a comical snap against the red sand. "Morgan. My name is Morgan. Queen of Britain. Monarch of Transfiguration. Jin-Woo's second wife. You do well to remember that."
XoXaan raised both hands in surrender. "Right, right—Morgan. You're even more prideful than Jin-Woo. Happy?"
Morgan didn't answer. Her gaze stayed sharp.
XoXaan continued, voice turning serious. "Back to the point. How exactly do you intend to give me a body? A clone body can only hold me temporarily. Essence Transfer corrupts flesh. If the vessel fails… I fall into Chaos and Void. Forever."
Morgan clicked her tongue. "Then multiple bodies. You can hop vessels, can't you?"
XoXaan gave an incredulous look. "For a few days. Maybe. But do you think you have enough clones for me? I've existed for millennia. My essence would burn most vessels in a very short time ."
Morgan finally fell silent. Her pink aura dimmed slightly as thought settled in—cold, tactical.
She wasn't thinking about XoXaan. She was thinking about herself.
I have a bad feeling about Yavin 4. If I go there alone with only my spectres and fairy army… I'll be outplayed. Not killed. But still—outplayed.
Morgan's jaw tightened. That is not acceptable.
A whisper slipped into her mind—precise, metallic, unmistakable.
Recommendation: Queen Morgan. Utilize Supreme Executor Jin-Woo's Composer asset for further mission parameters.
Morgan's brow twitched. Composer…? She answered back in thought. Isn't that thing already fused into the Mantle's Approach? Jin-Woo hasn't even bothered unlocking its full systems. And the Composer makes Prometheans—Didact's old toys. You're suggesting we use that?
Offensive Bias responded with absolute calm.
Correct. The Prometheans are incorruptible, even by the Flood. They provide guaranteed battlefield stability. Additionally, they allow controlled testing of whether Queen Morgan's dominion over her armies can be compromised by intruders such as Exar Kun. And I possess a specialized calibration protocol tailored for the Sith spirit designated XoXaan.
Morgan went silent for a moment—then slowly turned her head toward XoXaan with a small, sharp smile.
XoXaan stiffened. "Why are you looking at me like that? Don't tell me I'm about to become a bomb in one of your schemes."
Morgan snapped her fingers once. "Offensive Bias. Show them your miniature form. It's easier if you brief them directly."
A pulse of slipspace cracked the air.
A sentinel drone—sleek, silver, and marked with Offensive Bias' sigil—materialized beside her.
Offensive Bias spoke through it, voice smooth as glass. "Offensive Bias online. Initiating tactical briefing for the incoming confrontation."
XoXaan stared at the hovering drone, eyes widening. "It can teleport? By the void… I really am primitive. Our whole era was just rocks, ghosts, and swords."
Morgan's mouth curved upward, amused. "It's not the kind of droid you're used to seeing."
The drone's sigil pulsed once. Offensive Bias spoke with clean precision. "Incorrect classification. I am not a droid. I am the most advanced AI ever created. I defeated Mendicant Bias."
Morgan smiled lightly at the flex, then shifted her tone. "Good. Then let's get to work."
The drone rotated, scanning the tomb complex. XoXaan hovered behind Morgan, still rattled by how easily the construct slipped between space.
"Teleporting machines… I truly am living in the dark ages."
Morgan didn't deny it. She turned, cloak rippling as she prepared her portal—but the scene cut.
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Coruscant. Lower plaza streets. Jin-Woo walked casually through the evening foot traffic. Vendors yelled. Speeders rumbled. Civilians passed by him without a glance, their eyes sliding over him as if he were just another man heading home from work.
He watched them quietly. Good. They don't recognize me. The Senate and the Jedi kept the Rotunda incident quiet. His jaw moved once in mild approval. Clever. And convenient. I don't need to be a celebrity in this galaxy.
He crossed the last open walkway and looked up at the Jedi Temple—its towers dented, its outer walls cracked, smoke still fading from shattered stone. Damage was widespread but not catastrophic. Roughly a quarter of the structure was destroyed, but the frame still stood like a wounded titan.
Jin-Woo's eyes narrowed. Twenty-five percent. Better than I expected. They fought hard.
Jin-Woo stepped forward, hands in his pockets. Now… how should I approach this? He let out a quiet breath. Showing off felt wrong today. This was mourning, not intimidation. He turned from the temple gates, lifted a hand, and waved down an airspeeder like any civilian. The taxi drifted to a stop. Jin-Woo entered, settling into the seat as Coruscant's skyline slid past—quiet, reflective, almost detached.
Meanwhile, at the Jedi Temple . Rows of Jedi stood in silence around a long ceremonial platform where Dooku's coffin rested. The lid was carved with his accomplishments: duelist, scholar, mentor. His body and spirit were missing, but the Jedi honored the man he had been—not the monster that had stolen him.
Mace Windu stepped forward, his tone steady despite the exhaustion under it. "If anyone wishes to speak of Master Dooku's feats—his contributions, his triumphs—now is the time. He was a master duelist. A philosopher. A teacher. Someone shaped by the blade, but not ruled by it."
Qui-Gon inhaled, grief tightening his chest, and took a step forward—ready to speak, ready to try.
But Yoda placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I do," he said quietly. "Let me first, young Qui-Gon. I insist. Dooku… was my closest former padawan. Speak of him, I must."
Qui-Gon paused, jaw tense. Then he nodded, stepping back with quiet respect. "I understand, Master Yoda."
Yoda moved forward alone, cane tapping softly against the ruined stone. The courtyard remained silent—not just from grief, but from reverence. He stood before Dooku's coffin, head bowed slightly, ears lowered. The wound in his heart was visible, but so was the strength holding him upright.
Yoda stood before the coffin, his small frame still, his voice carrying softly through the quiet courtyard.
"Dooku… my student, and my friend. When he first came to the Temple, he was a young man of sharp mind and sharper questions. Proud, but honest. Certain of his purpose, yet never blind to the needs of others. Many in the Order struggled with his curiosity. I did not. His desire to learn was a strength, not a burden."
"To the blade he brought elegance. To the Force he brought thought. His insight shaped debates that lasted decades, and his fairness turned conflicts aside before they could ignite. Across the Republic, he carried peace into places that had forgotten what peace looked like. And he did so not with dominance, but with dignity."
"A teacher of rare gift, Dooku became. Qui-Gon he shaped. Younglings he guided. Knights he tempered. His lessons will echo through generations yet to come. Those he trained will carry pieces of him forward… and through them, he will endure."
Yoda lowered his head once. "We grieve him. But forget him, we must not. For the man Dooku was—the Jedi, the scholar, the servant of peace—is the man we honor today. Not the shadow that stole him. Not the end that found him."
"May the Force guide him home."
He stepped back, shoulders heavy with grief. "Your turn, Qui-Gon. No matter how heavy it is, better to release it here."
Qui-Gon exhaled slowly. "Yes, Master. That is what I intend to do."
He walked forward, each step deliberate, each breath held still in his chest. Yoda stood beside him, silent support as Qui-Gon took his place before the coffin. His fingers flexed once at his sides. No pressure. Though my grief is much… I must not cry.
When qui-gon spoke,. It carried honesty like he always do .
"Dooku… was my Master. He taught me to hold a lightsaber with precision, to let the blade answer intention instead of emotion. But more than technique, he taught me to think. To question. To look at the Force not as a rulebook or a chain of doctrines, but as something living—something that breathes."
"Many in the Order were cautious of his philosophy. Too sharp, too analytical, too bold in the way he challenged our traditions. But everything I am—everything I carried into the field, every peaceful negotiation I managed without drawing my blade—began with him."
"He took me to worlds most Jedi overlooked. Taught me how to read a village before I spoke to it. Taught me that people needed understanding more than authority. He said the Force reveals itself to those who listen… even when the Order does not."
Qui-Gon's hand tightened behind his back.
"He shaped the foundations of my path. Including the one that led me to the boy on Tatooine. The one we now believe may be the Chosen One. Without Dooku, I would never have learned to recognize destiny when it appeared."
His gaze lowered to the coffin.
"Master… your lessons were difficult. Uncomfortable. Challenging. But they were honest. And they were right. Whatever darkness stole your body, it was not you. I honor the man who taught me to stand on my own two feet… and to follow the Force wherever it led."