They say the Dark Side consumes you from within. That it leaves your flesh twisted, your mind corroded, your spirit enslaved.
They were wrong about me.
I am not a Jedi, though I wield the Force. I am not a Sith, though I have walked in darkness.
I did not become a shriveled phantom cloaked in shadows. My skin did not crack like old parchment, nor did my eyes burn yellow with the hunger of ancient Sith Lords. No, my fate was far subtler—and in some ways, far crueler.
My pride became my hubris. My quest to master the Force—to wrench from it secrets that no Jedi or Sith had ever dared touch—became the imperfect vessel of my own undoing. In my desperation to overcome weakness, I forged a power without precedent. A discipline that could siphon life, knowledge, even identity itself from the living.
And when I succeeded, I thought I had freed myself.
And in my hubris, I created a monster.