A better class of Sith- Chapter 8

Reaching the planet itself was not particularly difficult.

Sure, Tython had long since vanished from modern star charts, its location lost, so the databanks of my newly acquired ship were predictably useless. But I had been here before. More than that—I had invaded the place before. I still carried a collection of rather fond memories involving collapsing halls, dying Jedi, and Lana’s witty commentary.

As such, a brief meditation session was more than sufficient for the planet’s exact location to resurface from the depths of my mind. Light Side techniques were, of course, inferior in nearly every measurable respect to their Dark ones—but I would concede they had their niche applications, this being one of them.

Tython emerged from hyperspace as a deceptively unassuming sphere—blue oceans broken by green landmasses, white cloud systems curling lazily around the planet. Hardly the sort of place one would expect to spawn multiple galaxy-spanning religious wars.

Once, this world had birthed the Je’daii Order—the philosophical ancestors of both Jedi and Sith. In short, for the Sith, Tython was the embarrassing grandmother world Korriban preferred not to talk about at family gatherings.

When I reached out through the Force, I felt it immediately. Tython was no longer purely aligned with the Light, as it had been during my previous visit. Nor was it steeped in the Dark—though it clearly had been, at some point between then and now. Instead, the planet hovered in an uneasy grey equilibrium, as though it had been violently shoved off balance and was now sluggishly drifting back toward Light.

Given Tython’s absurdly long history, I had no doubt the planet was riddled with treasures—forgotten vaults, sealed relics, Force-saturated curiosities that collectors would sacrifice fortunes to possess. Unfortunately, the planet was enormous, and I was but one exceptionally handsome Sith Lord.

Still, I wasn’t completely without direction. I knew exactly where the old Jedi Temple stood. After all—I had sacked it once already.

As I descended through the atmosphere, a familiar twinge of nostalgia settled in my chest. When the structure finally came into view—framed by cliffs and forests reclaiming what civilization had abandoned—it was still there.

Or rather… what remained of it.

Time and nature had collaborated with impressive dedication. Vines and moss crawled across vast stone terraces. Trees had taken root in what were once courtyards. The grand circular halls—once pristine, austere monuments—now stood cracked and weathered, their domed roofs dulled by millennia of exposure.

The architecture itself remained unmistakable. Massive, rounded structures rose from wide stone bases, layered and symmetrical. Wide staircases led up to an arched entrances that had once welcomed their owners and now yawned open like a broken jaw. A landing platform nearby lay cracked and uneven, partially overtaken by grass and small trees, its markings barely visible.

It was all in ruins. Some of that destruction, I noted fondly, had been my doing. Other scars bore the unmistakable hallmarks of the Eternal Empire’s later assault. The combination was… aesthetically pleasing.

What surprised me most, however, was not what I saw—but what I didn’t.

There were no signs of reconstruction. No preservation efforts. The Temple had simply been abandoned, left to rot beneath the creeping advance of nature.

I knew the Jedi of my era had chosen not to resettle Tython, preferring Ossus instead—claiming something about wanting to be “closer to the people”. Still, I had assumed that eventually, someone would have the sense to preserve their so-called birthplace.

Apparently not.

As always, the Jedi proved themselves profoundly stupid.

Anyway, I set the ship down in what had once been the Temple’s main courtyard, the landing thrusters startling wildlife in every direction, with small, furred creatures scattering and winged ones taking to the air with a shriek.

I disembarked, boots crunching softly against gravel and broken tile, and let the Force unfurl around me, demanding to guide me toward anything that might be worth my time.

I started small, with outbuildings and smaller halls, but the results were rather underwhelming- a handful of trinkets and ceremonial items that had more sentimental value than actual power. A few religious texts, weathered but still legible, clearly deemed unimportant enough that no one bothered to recover them when the Jedi fled. All of it was still sellable, but it wasn’t why I’d come all this way.

So I turned my attention to the main Temple.

Even in ruin, it dominated the landscape. The structure loomed over the surrounding debris like a fallen titan, vast circular halls interlocked by long, arched corridors, entire wings collapsed inward under their own weight. Nature had done its best to devour it—roots split stone, moss carpeted once-polished floors—but the building still radiated a stubborn defiance.

As I stepped inside, memories crept in uninvited.

I had run these halls before—boots striking pristine floors, lightsabers cutting through ranks of terrified initiates who had never known real combat. I remembered laughing as I went, Lana’s voice drifting beside me—dry commentary punctuated by sharp wit and the occasional complaint.

Good memories.

Perhaps an hour or two into my search, I felt a movement in the Force—several presences slipping onto the Temple grounds. They were restless, agitated, their emotions sharp and unfocused. None of them felt particularly strong, and only one brushed against the Dark Side enough for me to notice, a thin connection that barely registered. They hid themselves, too—poorly, but with genuine effort—using the surviving architecture to mask their approach.

Something to deal with later.

I continued on, unbothered. Eventually, my senses drew me westward, toward a section of the Temple that had almost entirely collapsed. This one wasn’t my fault—disappointing, really—and it had been reduced to a massive tangle of stone blocks, durasteel supports, and shattered arches. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than an irrecoverable ruin.

The Force, however, disagreed.

I extended a hand, fingers curling slightly, and began to peel the rubble away. Stone rose as if weightless, slabs sliding aside like loose cards. What must have been an entire wing’s worth of collapse shifted and parted under my will, revealing what lay beneath—a chamber just intact enough to have survived the destruction above.

Jedi would call it the will of the Force. I called it sensible engineering designed to protect something valuable.

It was a vault.

Not one of the really important ones—Jedi would have stripped those clean long ago—but a secondary vault, overlooked in the chaos. Inside, I found texts preserved in near-mint condition, their bindings untouched by time. Relics of Jedi culture sat neatly arranged. And, most satisfying of all, several holocrons lay there, waiting for someone like me to find them.

I picked one up casually and activated casually by using Light Side, a translucent figure shimmering into existence.

“Greetings. I am Master Ven Zallow. I am—” it began, then froze mid-sentence. Its eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Wait! You are a Sith—!”

“Score,” I said aloud, grinning.

I deactivated the holocron before it could finish its outrage and tossed it into my sack along with the others. I’d review them later—see if any familiar faces surfaced, old acquaintances whose memories might be entertaining to keep.

With the vault emptied, I resumed my exploration, gathering anything else that felt worthwhile. By the time I was done, my haul was respectable—certainly enough to fetch a solid profit, but it wasn’t enough.

If I truly wanted to get rich—properly rich—I would need far more than this.

Unfortunately, I lacked precise locations for other temples and shrines scattered across Tython’s surface. Fortunately, I suspected my would-be ambushers outside were about to become very helpful in solving that particular problem.

***

As I made my way toward the temple’s main entrance, I let the Force stretch outward in a lazy, exploratory sweep. Creatures waiting for me were not animals- that much was immediately obvious. Their presences in the Force were too intentional and tinged with crude hostility for them to be mere beasts.

I felt five ambushers, all of them rather underwhelming.

Their signatures in the Force flickered like guttering candles rather than burning flames, with none possessing any real depth. Only one among them carried even a faint trace of the Dark Side, and even that was weak—an unfocused smudge rather than a cultivated connection. Still, something about the shape of their presence tugged at my memory.

More interesting, however, was that they were here at all.

Tython was supposed to be lost, which meant these creatures were most likely locals, a native population that had remained on this abandoned world—and that meant they might know where other ruins lay.

I stepped out of the temple proper and deliberately pretended not to notice them. I adjusted my grip on the sack of Jedi relics slung over my shoulder, letting it settle comfortably against my back, and continued forward at an unhurried pace, boots crunching softly over broken stone and creeping roots.

Predictably, they attacked.

With guttural screams that were closer to animal roars than language, they burst from cover in a clumsy rush. Their ambush lacked finesse but not enthusiasm. Weapons swung wildly as they charged—an ugly assortment of jagged blades hammered from scrap, crude clubs, and a couple of durasteel weapons that had once been military-grade before decades of neglect reduced them to barely functional.

“KILL!” one of them bellowed, the word mangled and distorted through broken Galactic Basic.

I stepped aside smoothly as the first blow passed harmlessly through the space my head had occupied a moment earlier, the motion barely interrupting my stride. Even while dodging, I kept my balance precise, ensuring the sack of stolen relics didn’t shift or spill.

That moment gave me time to study them properly.

They were enormous—nearly three meters tall each, thickly muscled, their bodies dense with raw strength. Their skin was a deep, mottled red, stretched tight over sinew and bone, marked by old scars and irregular streaks of crude paint.

Their heads were broad and flattened, dominated by a wide, lipless mouth packed with rows of sharp, uneven teeth. Above the mouth ran eight vertical olfactory slits that flared and twitched as they scented the air, reacting to my presence. Two thick eye-stalks rose from either side of each head, granting them a wide field of vision.

Their clothing was primitive and sparse—rough leather harnesses crossing their torsos, reinforced in places with scavenged scrap. Bent armor plates, jagged durasteel fragments, and repurposed wreckage had been riveted into crude protection.

Despite the obvious degeneration, recognition quickly clicked into place.

“…Rakata?” I said aloud, genuine surprise slipping into my voice.

The ancient conquerors of the galaxy. Masters of the Infinite Empire. On Tython of all places—and reduced to this.

Rakata were supposed to be extinct. Their empire had collapsed when they lost their connection to the Force, their civilization torn apart by rebellion and a devastating plague. I had encountered a few survivors in the past—isolated stragglers clinging to remnants of their former glory—but none had survived those meetings for long.

These, however, were different.

Cut off from the wider galaxy. Isolated for millennia. Twisted by time, environment, and genetic decay. Whatever brilliance and technological mastery their ancestors had once possessed was long gone, replaced by feral aggression and superstition.

Another three reached me in a clumsy rush, their massive forms barreling forward with wild, uncoordinated swings. Scrap-blades whistled through the air, edges chipped and uneven, weapons powered more by raw muscle than any understanding of technique. Each step they took made the ground tremble, ancient stone cracking beneath their weight as rubble protested the abuse.

The fifth one—the one carrying that faint, sour tang of the Dark Side—did not join them. He lingered behind, watching. His presence in the Force was tense but restrained, coiled tight like a predator deciding whether to commit. He wasn’t afraid—not exactly—but he was cautious.

As I stepped and pivoted between incoming strikes, letting blows pass within inches of my face and torso, my thoughts raced ahead of the fight. I had hoped to use them as guides, perhaps even informants, but judging by their behavior, they didn’t strike me as the sort inclined to listen to reason—or even recognize it when presented.

Ah well. When faced with unknown savages, it was best to rely on traditional, time-tested Sith methods.

With a flick of my wrist, I hurled the sack of Jedi loot away using the Force. Despite its considerable weight, it sailed gracefully through the air and landed atop a slab of fallen stone, settling perfectly into place without so much as a clatter. The relics inside remained unharmed, patiently waiting for me to finish the business at hand.

The reaction was immediate. The Rakata shouted in alarm, their olfactory slits flaring wide as they gestured wildly toward the displaced sack. Their agitation spiked sharply in the Force.

“JEDA! JEDA! BAD!” they roared, voices overlapping and breaking into harsh, guttural noise.

Ah, so Jedi still existed in their cultural memory—if not as individuals, then as an inherited terror. Interesting how hatred endured even when time eroded everything else.

“Not a Jedi,” I said mildly, sidestepping another clumsy swing. “I’m a Sith, thank you very much.”

I let the words hang in the air for exactly half a second. Then my lightsabers ignited.

Twin crimson blades snapped to life with a sharp hiss, flooding the ruins with red light. The nearest two Rakata didn’t even have time to scream, as my blades carved through their massive torsos with surgical ease, slicing flesh, bone, and scavenged armor as though they were mist. Their bodies separated cleanly, halves collapsing in steaming heaps that struck the ground with thunderous noise.

Before the remaining attackers could even process what had happened, I extended my will outward.

One Rakata was hurled bodily across the courtyard, his enormous frame slamming hard into the Dark-aligned one. Projectile and target crashed together in a mess of limbs and roars, both tumbling across the stone in pain and confusion.

At the same time, I seized the last one in the Force.

He lifted off the ground abruptly, suspended like an insect trapped in amber. He thrashed violently, powerful limbs flailing, jaws snapping uselessly at empty air. His strength was impressive—by normal standards—but against my grip it meant absolutely nothing.

I waited.

The Rakata I had knocked aside staggered upright, roaring in fury and confusion, eye-stalks swiveling wildly between me and the helpless warrior hovering in the air. The Dark-aligned one rose more slowly, watching with intense focus.

Having their attention, I closed my fist.

The lifted Rakata’s neck snapped with a cracking sound. His body went limp instantly, dropping to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

It was a clean execution of a very old Sith lesson: annihilate the majority swiftly, demonstrate overwhelming power, and let fear do the rest. Crude—but remarkably reliable in a clutch.

“Now then,” I began, turning toward the remaining two, intending to turn them into my guides. “Since there are only two of you—”

Before I finished speaking, the Dark-aligned Rakata moved.

Without hesitation, he lunged forward and drove his blade straight through the back of his remaining companion. The victim let out a strangled cry, claws scraping uselessly at the air as the Dark Sider twisted the weapon, carving viciously until the massive body collapsed lifeless at his feet.

I blinked.

“…Okay?” I said, genuinely taken aback.

The Dark Rakata then immediately dropped his weapon and fell to his knees before me. His massive form hit the ground hard, forehead striking stone as he prostrated himself fully, body trembling with fervor rather than fear.

“SID STRONG!” he growled, voice thick with reverence. “RAKSH SERVES!”

Ah. That explained everything. He hadn’t killed the other out of panic or madness. He had done it deliberately—as an offering. A declaration of loyalty and a convenient removal of competition, all in one decisive act.

Not what I’d had in mind, but I appreciated initiative.

I approached him slowly, boots crunching over rubble and cooling blood, and stopped just before his bowed head.

“I accept your gift, Raksh,” I said, smiling faintly. “Now then… would you be a good servant and take me to your home?”

He rose instantly, eagerness radiating off him in raw, unfiltered waves. Without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and began to lead the way, gesturing for me to follow.

***

After perhaps an hour of a rather uneventful walk—my new companion proving to be a poor conversationalist, but a good listener—Raksh finally brought me to something that could generously be described as a settlement.

The “village” was a chaotic assemblage of crude structures stitched together from whatever materials the Rakata could scavenge. Wooden frames leaned at odd angles, lashed together with rope. Slabs of rusted durasteel—once parts of starships or installations—were hammered into walls or roofs, their surfaces pitted and flaking. Bones were everywhere: bleached ribs used as supports, skulls nailed into posts, some clearly not belonging to beasts. Faded leathers and tattered hides hung from beams, stirring slightly in the breeze like the molted skin. Smoke curled lazily into the air from several fire pits, carrying with it the thick, unpleasant blend of burned fat, old blood and unwashed bodies.

The moment we crossed into the settlement proper, movement rippled through it.

Rakata emerged from doorways, crawled out from behind scrap walls, and rose from crouched positions near the fires, weapons in their hands. They snarled and hissed at my presence, eye stalks swiveling in sharp, nervous motions while their olfactory slits flared wide, tasting the air.

Raksh reacted instantly. He straightened to his full height and puffed himself up like a predator asserting dominance. Raising his weapon skyward, he let out a thunderous roar that echoed off the surrounding cliffs.

“SID ADA!” he bellowed, mangling the syllables with wholehearted enthusiasm.
“SID ADA STRONG! SID ADA KILL MANY! SID ADA RULE!”

“That’s… not my name,” I corrected mildly, raising my voice just enough to be heard. “My name is Adas Kallig. Sith is my… affiliation, I suppose. They are used separately.”

Raksh paused mid-gesture and turned his head slightly toward me. His eye stalks twitched as though processing the information. After a moment, he nodded once, decisively.

“SID ADA!” he roared again, louder than before. He gestured wildly at me, pounding his chest with a massive fist before launching into an enthusiastic reenactment of our earlier encounter—sweeping motions mimicking lightsaber strikes, snapping gestures meant to represent broken necks, and exaggerated roars of victory.

…whatever.

The surrounding Rakata hesitated, their earlier aggression faltering into confusion. Growls and hisses gave way to low murmurs as they watched Raksh’s display and then looked back at me. The Force rippled with uncertainty—fear, awe, disbelief—all tangled together. Whatever this was, it was clearly outside the scope of their normal understanding.

Then the ground began to shake, as heavy footsteps approached from deeper within the settlement. The crowd parted instinctively as a Rakata larger than the rest forced his way forward.

He towered over his kin, a true behemoth even by Rakata standards. His body was a dense mass of muscle and scar tissue, thick cords of sinew shifting beneath crimson skin. His armor was heavier than the others’—layer upon layer of scrap metal, bone plates, and scavenged durasteel strapped across his torso. Each piece bore marks of long use, dents and gouges that spoke of countless battles survived. His movements were slower, carrying the weight of authority. When he stopped a short distance from me, the entire village fell into an uneasy silence.

I was no expert in Rakata political structures—my experience in the field amounted to approximately one minute—but even I could make an educated guess that the Rakata in front of me was their leader.

He stared down at Raksh first, his massive bulk radiating fury, then shifted his attention to me. His lipless mouth peeled back slowly, exposing rows of jagged, uneven teeth slick with saliva. The eye stalks atop his head swiveled independently, fixing on me with predatory focus.

“RAKSH!” he growled, his voice deep and resonant, vibrating through his thick chest. “OUTSIDER NO RULE! KRAKTSH RULE!”

Raksh bristled instantly. He puffed himself up again, gesturing wildly at me with renewed fervor, nearly bouncing on his feet.

“SID ADA STRONG!” he snarled back. “KILL MANY! SID ADA RULE!”

The chief’s gaze slid back to me. His posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. He planted his feet more firmly, shoulders squaring, muscles tightening beneath his patchwork armor. It was a challenge- a refusal to submit.

Suspecting exactly where this was heading, I tilted my head slightly and glanced down at Raksh, lowering my voice.

“So,” I asked conversationally, “are there any local customs for changing leadership? Or just the usual one?”

Raksh stared at me and then shrugged, conveying utter incomprehension.

Ah. Of course.

“Well…” I murmured, turning my attention back to the chief as I raised one hand. “Let’s make it quick, I suppose.”

I did not shout, posture or threaten. I simply decided and the Force answered immediately.

Invisible pressure snapped shut around the chief’s massive body like a closing fist. At first, he snarled and strained, muscles bulging grotesquely as he attempted to fight it through raw strength alone. His feet dug furrows into the dirt as he roared in defiance.

Then I tightened my grip.

Bone cracked. Not once, but repeatedly—sharp, percussive sounds echoing across the village as ribs folded inward and joints collapsed under impossible force. His roar broke, warping into a wet, choking gargle as his lungs compressed. Armor buckled with metallic shrieks. Blood erupted from ruptured vessels, spraying outward in violent arcs, painting the ground beneath him a dark, glistening red.

The pressure did not stop.

His massive form crumpled in on itself, folding like soft clay under relentless hands. What remained was barely recognizable—a grotesque, misshapen mass of meat that collapsed to the dirt with a heavy thud.

Silence swallowed the village. No one moved. No one breathed loudly enough to be heard. For several long heartbeats, the only sound was the sickening wet hiss of blood forcing its way from the ruined body as pressure equalized.

Then—

One Rakata fell to his knees.

Then another.

Then another.

Soon, dozens followed, massive bodies dropping in unison, weapons clattering uselessly to the ground. Foreheads struck dirt as voices rose into a reverent, awe-struck chorus.

“SID ADA!”
“SID ADA STRONG!”
“SID ADA RULE!”

The chant echoed through the valley, raw and fervent, vibrating with fear, worship, and unquestioning submission. I stood among them, hands clasped calmly behind my back, surveying the kneeling masses at my feet. The scene stirred warm nostalgia in my chest.

Subjugating a tribe of savage monsters through sheer, overwhelming force…I almost felt like a Sith Acolyte again.

***

As it turned out, the devolved Rakata were surprisingly useful.

The moment it became firmly established that SID ADA now ruled, the village’s collective attitude toward me shifted with remarkable speed. Where there had been snarling hostility, there was now something closer to eager devotion. Fear, reverence, and a primitive desire to please blended together into a single, convenient obedience.

The Rakata, it quickly became clear, possessed an intimate—if unsophisticated—knowledge of the surrounding lands. Over the following days, Raksh and several others accompanied me through the wilderness, lumbering guides through forests and valleys. They pointed out forgotten ruins swallowed whole by vegetation, broken stone circles and ancient structures eroded so thoroughly that only someone actively listening to the Force would ever notice them.

Most of these sites had been looted long ago—sometimes by Rakata themselves—a lot of objects still remained, as Rakata had very particular ideas about what was worth keeping. Statues were just rocks. Holocrons were strange pieces of metal they couldn’t really repurpose. Scrolls and data-slates were less than useless if someone didn’t know how to read.

To me, however, they were treasures. So I looted with enthusiasm.

Every excursion yielded something. Nothing world-shaking, perhaps, but enough to make the trip more than worthwhile. The Rakata watched with visible fascination as I claimed items they had ignored for generations, tilting their massive heads and chuffing softly to one another, clearly trying to understand why a SID would want what they considered garbage.

Eventually, however, we reached a limit—beyond the lands controlled by Raksh’s tribe lay neighboring territories ruled by other Rakata clans. There was no trade or shared information between those villages and mine, because apparently Rakata clans were hostile to outsiders and even more hostile to one another. Knowledge, such as it was, simply… stopped at tribal borders.

That was unacceptable, so I solved the problem the Sith way.

One tribe at a time, I appeared—Raksh serving as a… translator—and claimed leadership. Within days, neighboring tribes fell in rapid succession, with former leaders crushed, challengers dismembered, and survivors bending the knee with familiar speed. Entire clans merged with my original settlement, swelling it into a single, ever-growing Rakata power under my rule.

I will admit—it was fun.

There was a certain simplistic charm to it all. Not to mention, as potential shock troops for a future faction, the devolved Rakata had promise: enormous, resilient, utterly uncomplicated in their bloodlust and loyalty.

Still, they were not particularly stimulating company and their idea of entertainment involved throwing rocks at each other and screaming. The latter got boring after a while, so while I enjoyed the process, I had no intention of playing god-king to savages indefinitely.

I had better things to do, so I set things up to run without me.

From the hold of my ship, I began distributing some modern weaponry I had acquired before leaving Coruscant—blasters, crates of explosives and some other useful tools. Using locally available ingredients, I brewed them some crude alchemical concoctions. The mixtures would flood the chosen warriors’ bodies with borrowed strength and ferocity, pushing their already impressive physiques into something truly monstrous. Sure, the side effects were horrific: shortened lifespans, unstable mutations, occasional spontaneous organ failure, but the Rakata didn’t seem to care, so it was fine.

Once they were armed and empowered, I gave them instructions—simple ones, phrased in terms they could understand. They were to conquer neighboring tribes and merge survivors into their growing horde. They would then use those survivors to find more books and artifacts— well, BUKS and ARFAKTS, as they called them—and deposit them in the original village. Once I had proper subordinates, I would arrange for regular collection.

To make sure motivation never waned, I sealed the arrangement with a promise.

Someday, I told them, I would return.

I would descend from the sky in great metal birds and carry the strongest among them into the heavens. There, they would fight gods at my side, their blood spilled in battles worthy of legend.

They loved it. They loved it a lot.

I also took Raksh with me. Partly because his eagerness to serve bordered on adorable, and partly because he made for an exceptionally intimidating guard. But mostly… because I missed having a giant, bloodthirsty monster looming at my side. He wasn’t Khem Val—no one could replace Khem—but Raksh had enthusiasm and a refreshingly uncomplicated appreciation for violence.

That would suffice.

And so, with my ship heavy with stolen Jedi relics and a freshly minted army of savage devotees left behind to expand my influence, Raksh and I departed Tython.

Our destination was obvious.

If you wanted to sell stolen merchandise, exotic artifacts, or objects of immense religious significance without being asked too many inconvenient questions, there was only one place in the galaxy that truly mattered.

Nar Shaddaa—the galaxy’s beating heart of crime, gambling, and excess.