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ABOARD THE DESTROYER—CORELLIAN RUN ROUTE

21 B BY╘══════════════════╛

LIFE WAS PAIN.

GNAWING AT HIS EVERY FIBER AND festering like a malignant tumor at his core. Such a contagion infected the body and slowly twisted the inner chasms of his mind until the fragility of his sanity shattered.

{Flashback}

The beast that had long lay dormant broke it's chains. The phantom that had haunted his steps since childhood and as a predestined shadow of his youth—

Had finally come to claim.

As a young slave on the glaring sodium planes of Tatooine, the shadow seemed to breathe in his every step and settle within the weight of his chest. Despite loneliness and hardship that had come in his earlier years as a Padawan and his days with his mother pillaged, kept him ever determined to prove himself to the Jedi Order.

Still he'd been burning like a relentless flame. Even at the reservations of his peers, he fervently threw himself into the fold seeking purpose, justice and relevancy.

The Jedi Council had deemed him the Chosen One; the one to bring balance to the Force and end the reign of the Sith. It was a heavy burden to bear, yet Anakin took it on, down to the bonds of the molecular core of his being. He fought against the tides of doubt and uncertainty that threatened to engulf him.

Yet the challenges he'd come to face would fuel the embers stoked in his heart and the flint in his veins, with a fiery drive. Pushing him to defy the odds and exceed his own limitations. The very air crackled with his passion. The sheer intensity of his spirit seemingly forged an invisible shield around him during the Clone Wars.

In the midst of trials and adversity, he stood resolute, unyielding in his pursuit and honing the mastery of his craft in battle after battle. Each setback only served to ignite his soul until it blazed at it's white-hot core. No longer to be ignored by those who had placed their faith in him.

Still, the Jedi had fought to set their shackles upon him with a reserved arrogance, stoking the flames embroiled with anger and resentment. Their pride was a smokescreen that blinded them to the true potential of his power. The Chosen One meant to bring balance was held back at every turn even as he poured his very blood, sweat, and tears into the fight against the Separatists. Because of this, their misguided actions seized innocent lives in the bloodiest battles of the Clone Wars, leaving the Jedi scarred instruments of warfare rather than subservient peacekeepers to the Force.

Wholly consumed by the politics of the Republic slowly burned away the raw compassion imbued in his very being. He watched Jedi fall to darkness or fade into the abyss of obscurity. Deep rooted betrayals left their scars and he had not been immune to this.

The desire to seek revenge against the Jedi Council further consumed him, fueling his draw to the darkside. As it surged with profound intensity—the shackles once set upon him shattered.

Liberating him from under their thumb.

Free to rage against the injustices he'd suffered, slaking his thirst for power and control. The animalistic monster within was unleashed upon the galaxy with a ferocity that left entire planets scarred. He became the living embodiment of chaos; an unstoppable juggernaut of destruction. Even as he watched the Republic crumble around him. He reveled in its charred remains, further distancing himself from the renown war hero of: Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One of the Jedi and "Hero with No Fear".

He became order, the Iron Fist of might leaving the Jedi Temple a smoking husk after the carnage ensued upon it's sympathizers: Operation Knightfall, Order 66. Carried out by the 501st, fallen Jedi were left as desiccated skeletons and crushed into powdery ash later fused within the grandeur relics of the Imperial Palace.

Wherever he was bidded to serve under unwavering allegiance to his new Master, fear and intimidation followed in his wake. It invoked the hearts of millions across the galaxy. Once swallowed within his shrouded silhouette their screams were swiftly severed by the blood-red—bleeding—crystal that emanated from his blade.

Death became his signature; a walking Reaper that bore a metallic mask of impending doom. Drunk off the rage that consumed him as an omnipresent inferno, never was he fully sated. His thirst for blood left him akin to a ravenous demon from within the bowels of all nine Corellian hells.

  Until he preyed on his next kill.

Executing battles and strategies as Head Commander, he cut down those who resisted the Emperor and basked in their agony, ever on the hunt of finding that equilibrium to sate. Thus, he was left a frenetic, immoral man lost in the darkness of his own making. Ever on a constant warpath from the dawn of the New Order, to the rise of the Galactic Empire.

  Emboldened with a new identity, Anakin Skywalker was swallowed into the black shadow of his true ipseity.

The Dark Lord of the Sith: Darth Vader...

Incessantly hunted were those who dare evade their regime such as the Jedi. Even now, the lust for blood remained tangent in his pacing on the overbridge of his own Imperial I-class Star Destroyer: the Devastator.

Like a feral predator lying in wait, his black cloak billowed out from behind thick, leather boots that thundered across the durasteel floors. The anger simmering beneath his skin further fueled the ochre of his eyes blazing behind a blood-red visor. Encapsulated by the metallic glare of his mask, it refracted all he'd built and accomplished in less than a year's time.

The hum of machinery vibrating beneath his feet resonated with the raw power and purpose that surged through the stardestroyer.The hull composed of durasteel plates reflected cold starlight and showcased the industrial prowess of the sleek, angular vessel. It's behemoth size alone exuded the austere aura of an iron fist.

With the command bridge situated atop the vessel, the wide, panoramic viewport stretched across the expanse of the bridge revealing the "Shipyard of the Galaxy", the planet Corellia. From his vantage point was a cerulean mass of oceans and landmasses. Verdant archipelagos surrounded by a wisp of clouds remained in a constant rotation. An interconnected web unveiled a thousand pinpricks of golden light reflecting the industrial cities that spanned the surface. A hub of galactic innovation, it was known for skilled pilots and shipbuilders with a ceaseless ambition that drove the spacefaring civilizations.

It was rumored there were surviving Corellian Jedi within the industrial capital, Coronet City. Fliry Vorru whom the Emperor had elected as the Grand Moff of the Corellian sector, was about to get a severe reality check. Due to his inane incompetence and lazy reform, the planet had become a rampant haven for smugglers, Jedi, and pirates. With the combined power of the governor, Dupas Thomree, the arrogant fool believed himself above the Emperor. Now his Master viewed him as a rival to be terminated, immediately.

Surrounded by a retinue of loyal Imperial officers, their gazes fixed on him with unwavering loyalty and commitment to succeed in their mission—his extended arm of dominion. He was the embodiment of rule, and rarely were his commands questioned.

Gloved hands folded behind him, he assumed an erect posture with a commandeering, wide-legged stance in preparation for entering orbit. "Initiate atmospheric ingress protocol." His voice forged in steel, resonated with the beast that growled for order.

"Yes my Lord," Newly appointed Admiral Kendal Ozzel bowed. The crisp tailored uniform conveyed his strict adherence to protocol. Awards donned his broad chest flickering in the soft light of panels with an air of prestige. It was no secret he'd overcompensated, thus resulting in tactical missteps on their last mission. He appeared determined to rectify his self-assured ego after suffering at the hands of the Supreme Commander.

With a sharp-eyed gaze weathered by the rigors of service, his voice raised an octave as he shouted, "All hands, prepare for planetary descent!"

The steady crest of readouts was relayed by pug-faced puce, naval Officer Conan Antonio Motti. As a younger officer quickly transitioning into the Imperial Navy's decorated, his razor-sharp wit and biting sarcasm particularly prickled the Sith's foul moods. Only because of his leadership on the battlefield and skilled tactical acumen, had Vader not resorted to force choking the man.

The bridge hummed with the bank of consoles and control panels by whispered meticulous hand placements. Eyes scanned across a myriad of screens monitoring the ship's vitals, relaying crucial readings to the dark Sith at the helm—just as they began the plunge through the planet's atmosphere. The intensity of his anger churned like a tempest, driven by retribution as they breached the planet's threshold. The ship became engulfed in a maelstrom of turbulence, while the void of space transcended to tumultuous sea of clouds...