( 3000 . words )
Before he could act, the air split with a sharp, metallic cry. From the broken ground, shards of stone gathered in a spiral before Sadow's feet, compacting into a solid hilt. With a flick of his wrist, a red lightsaber roared to life—its blade burning brighter than blood, the hum distorted, ancient, wrong.
Dooku's eyes widened for an instant. He forged it… from the Force itself.
Sadow grinned, teeth sharp behind his regal sneer. "Surprised? Did you think I'd give you time to breathe, one-handed Jedi? Your situation is already fucked. This—" he swung the saber in a testing arc, its heat slicing through the rain, "—is mercy before annihilation."
The Sith lunged. Their sabers met in a crack of thunder—red against blue. Sparks burst in every direction as both combatants dug into the shattered stairway, the rain sizzling where plasma met water. Dooku's right arm strained against the pressure, his cloak whipping around him like a shadow caught in the storm.
Sadow pushed forward, laughing between strikes, every movement raw and violent. "One hand! One arm! What can you hope to do now, relic of the Order?"
Dooku met his fury with poise, the lines of Makashi refined even in desperation. His saber traced precise, economical motions—never wasted, always elegant. He parried, sidestepped, countered, his face calm amid the battle.
Then, between parries, he smiled faintly. "On the contrary," he said, voice low and confident, "this might open new possibilities for me."
Their blades locked once more, the Force screaming between them—blue and red light clashing against the storm as thunder rolled above, and the Temple shuddered beneath their feet. Dooku shifted into the perfect rhythm of Makashi, his one-handed form elegant and precise, a master's grace refined through years of study. He moved like water cutting through stone—measured, exact, lethal.
But Naga Sadow was not a duelist of his time. He was a warlord from an age before refinement mattered—an age of dominion. He drew back with a hiss, crimson eyes narrowing as he realized the strange disadvantage: millennia of Sith technique were outmaneuvered by a single man's discipline.
Snarling, Sadow broke the lock and leapt backward, sparks flaring under his boots. He lifted his saber—and then did something utterly unorthodox.
He caught the red blade with his bare hands.
Dooku's eyes widened. The sound that followed was not flesh burning, but forging. Lightning crawled across Sadow's arms, running into the saber itself. The red plasma began to distort, its edges lashing outward like serpents of light. The weapon pulsed, mutating under his alchemy until arcs of violet Force lightning danced along its length.
The Sith lord smiled, eyes wild with malice. "Do you think I need form to win? The Force itself bends to me."
Dooku raised his blade, the rain hissing against its glow. "And yet you still need a weapon."
Sadow lunged. The lightning-saber screamed through the air, colliding with Dooku's in a blinding flash that shook the ground. Sparks turned to electric rain, searing through Dooku's sleeve. He reacted instantly, weaving a Force barrier over his body as he countered, each motion a duel between elegance and brutality.
The lightning coiled tighter around Dooku, snapping and crawling across his guard like living serpents of red energy. Sadow pressed forward with renewed fury, his grin wide and cruel, the madness of millennia gleaming in his molten eyes. Each clash sent waves of electric heat through the air, the sound like metal tearing apart under pressure.
Dooku's Force barrier trembled, the static hissing around him as the ground beneath his boots began to fracture. He stepped back, his right arm trembling from the sheer force of the impact. The old Sith saw the weakness and pushed harder, his lightning-infused blade crashing down again and again in vicious arcs meant to overwhelm.
But Dooku adjusted. He shifted his stance—feet tighter, blade moving shorter, faster, his movements tightening like a shield around him. The wide sweeps of Makashi vanished, replaced by compact rotations, perfect parries, fluid defense.
Form II had given way to Form III: Soresu.
Each motion absorbed and redirected energy rather than contesting it head-on. Sparks flared and died against his blade, the rain evaporating before touching him as his focus narrowed into survival.
Sadow snarled, slamming his saber down in a brutal crosscut. Dooku caught it, the impact sending a tremor through his entire frame.
He was forced backward, yet his defense held. His breathing slowed, his stance tightened further—he was biding time, waiting for the opening that always came .
Sadow's fury peaked. The Sith swung low, the lightning-saber shrieking toward Dooku's knee—only to meet the seamless barrier of Soresu. CLANG! The blue blade caught it in a tight parry, redirecting the attack to the side, sparks spraying like falling embers.
Dooku prepared to riposte—but hesitation struck.
The lingering electricity crawling along Sadow's saber flared outward, twisting the air into shimmering waves that distorted sight and sound. The aftershock rippled through the Force itself, slowing Dooku's every motion, robbing his strikes of their perfect precision. His grip trembled slightly, and Sadow's laughter came low and cruel, savoring the rare sight of a master faltering.
"Even a master bleeds," Sadow mocked, his grin spreading as he leaned in. "And when your guard falters, old man, you'll—"
Before the Sith could finish, Dooku lunged. His counterattack was sudden, fluid, switching seamlessly back into Form II: Makashi—sharp thrusts, clean parries, movements of grace honed by decades of perfection.
Sadow sneered. Desperation, he thought. He's burning his last embers.
With a vicious snarl, Sadow poured even more power into his weapon. Lightning surged through the red blade until it flared white-hot, its length stretching slightly, blue arcs crawling along its edge like veins of living thunder. The ground hissed where he swung, each motion leaving molten scars across the stone.
Dooku advanced to meet him. Their blades clashed again—then, in a precise, controlled motion, Dooku redirected his strike downward, angling toward the tip of Sadow's saber. The two blades touched—blue meeting red—and for a heartbeat, the world blinked white.
A small explosion erupted. Sparks scattered like shrapnel, the red plasma flickering unstable. Sadow staggered back a step, eyes narrowing.
"This feeling…" he hissed. It's the same energy that absorbs.Tutaminis—?"
His gaze snapped downward—then widened.
Dooku's thumb rested directly against his own blue blade, the plasma crawling around the digit like molten glass. The old Jedi's expression was calm, distant, the aura around him tightening like a coiled storm.
"Crazy old man," Sadow spat. "You'll lose your thumb if you keep that up."
Dooku didn't respond. He only breathed, shallow and controlled, his body trembling under the strain. The Force coiled tighter around his burned hand, condensed into his thumb like molten pressure held by sheer will. The lightning bleeding from Sadow's saber crawled into his veins, glowing faintly beneath blackened skin. Each pulse felt like a hammer against bone.
I can feel it… my thumb burning… melting away. But if mastery demands pain, then let this be my final lesson.
He drew his saber back, ready to strike, intent to end both Sadow and the cursed crystal anchoring his spirit.
But Sadow's laughter came first—. "It's your loss now, old man," the Sith hissed. "You misread my movement. I've finished my preparation."
Dooku froze, the edge of instinct warning too late. Above them, the storm broke. The black clouds that had loomed for hours vanished in an instant, the rain turning to steam under a sudden surge of light. The skies over Coruscant cleared—but the sunlight wasn't right.
It grew brighter. Hotter. Too bright. The air shimmered, the horizon glowing gold until the whole cityscape reflected like molten glass.
Sadow raised his arms toward the heavens, his eyes blazing with ecstasy. "The Sith Empire will burn brightly, like a supernova, dwarfing the complacent Republic! We shall hold the entire galaxy in our grasp once more!"
Dooku shielded his face as the blinding radiance swelled across the horizon, every nerve screaming with instinctive terror. Ancient Sith… maniacs to the end. If they cannot rule, they will burn the world instead.
High above, the sun convulsed—its surface rippling like molten metal. The light sharpened into a single, focused spear aimed directly at Coruscant's heart. A wave of solar fire gathered, its edge bright enough to erase shadow itself.
All across the city, life froze. The endless airlanes halted mid-flight; ships drifted, powerless. People dropped to their knees on the durasteel streets, faces bathed in the coming dawn of annihilation. Some clasped hands, others held children or strangers, all drawn to the same quiet acceptance. The roar of the city dimmed to a collective silence, as if the entire world paused to savor its last heartbeat.
Sadow smiled wide, voice echoing through the shaking air. "Isn't this what mortals call despair? A fitting requiem for their age of weakness. Behold, Dooku of Serenno—the dawn of a supernova that will cleanse the inner rim!"
But Dooku did not yield. He sank to one knee, his breath steadying as the light pressed harder against his senses. He closed his eyes—not to escape, but to remember.
Sifo-Dyas' laughter echoing across the training grounds.
Master Yoda's quiet words of patience.
The long duels and bitter arguments with Mace Windu that forged respect through fire.
Even the small moments—the tea shared in silence, the missions that ended in triumph or failure, the faces of those who still believed in him.
He gathered them all. Each memory became an anchor, each emotion a tether pulling him back from the brink. The Force stirred around him—subtle at first, then roaring in response.
The air vibrated. Dooku rose to both knees, raising his remaining arm toward the burning sky. The ground split beneath him, yet he stood unshaken. Around his form, a shimmering veil began to form—a translucent sphere that distorted light and space.
The Force barrier thickened, its edges visible even to mortal eyes, bending the sunlight around it. The air filled with the deep hum of power made manifest.
It wasn't rage, nor vengeance that guided him—only conviction. And in that instant, the Force itself seemed to stir and lean toward him, as though the ancient current whispered directly into his soul: Rise, Dooku of Serenno. Stand. Defend.
He felt it—the living breath of the Force, not as light or dark, but as one endless flow. For the first time in his life, he was not divided between restraint and temptation. He was whole. Balanced.
The sensation was overwhelming. Time itself seemed to slow. The chaos of Coruscant faded, replaced by a clarity beyond anything the Jedi had taught him. Is this… what the Force truly is?
Dooku's eyes opened. They no longer burned with defiance or sorrow—only understanding. His body, battered and burned, began to move on instinct alone. He rose slowly from his knees, the stormlight wrapping around his form like the robes of an unseen master.
He raised his right arm high, channeling everything—the years of discipline, the fury of loss, the serenity of knowledge. His empty left sleeve lifted too, as if he still commanded that hand, and in a way… he did.
The air trembled. From his right palm burst a surge of power—Force lightning, but not like the Sith's. It wasn't purple, nor red—it was pure white, threaded with faint gold. Controlled. Balanced.
From where his left arm should have been, light bent inward, forming waves of translucent energy that shimmered like glass. Tutaminis and barrier merged, twisting into a vast dome of protection that arced outward from him like a radiant tide.
Across the skyline of Coruscant, the citizens who had been kneeling saw it—an enormous, shimmering shield rising to meet the blazing wave of solar fire.
Sadow's triumph turned to fury as the flare crashed against the barrier, scattering into burning fragments that dissipated harmlessly across the atmosphere.
Dooku stood unmoving at the center, the nexus of light and dark woven as one.
Inside, his thoughts dimmed to a whisper. I hope this works… like the Force said… I've managed to touch both light and dark.
But Sadow was not finished. The ancient Sith's voice boomed across the broken temple grounds, deep and venomous. "You think that was all, old man? The sun's wrath does not come once—it devours until nothing remains. Despair! The flare will return, and it will not stop until your world burns to glass!"
Above them, the sunlight blazed again. The air warped with heat; the clouds split apart as another eruption gathered—a second solar storm, far greater than the first.
Dooku's gaze lifted toward it, unflinching. His voice came calm, resonant, echoing through the Force itself.
"My companions are still here," he said. "My former apprentice still stands. And even if the Senate has failed, even if our Order falters… the light endures. Not the light of dogma—but of conscience, of justice, of fairness. That will prevail."
He spread both arms, one real, one phantom, summoning every reserve left in his being. The Force roared in answer. The winds howled through the temple, lifting dust, debris, and rain into a spiraling storm around him.
He drew in everything—the sorrow, the memory, the defiance, the hope—and forged it into purpose.
Then he released it. A tidal wave of Force energy erupted upward from Coruscant's heart, meeting the oncoming solar flare head-on. Blue and gold collided with white fire, blinding brilliance swallowing the sky. The impact rippled across the planet's atmosphere, bending clouds, shaking towers, and shaking the heavens themselves.
The flare screamed against the barrier of will, the clash of celestial fire and living Force turning the world into daylight unending.
At the center of it all, Dooku stood tall, every line of his body trembling, every breath a battle—but he did not fall.
Above, the sun raged—a spear of solar fire stretching down toward Coruscant, intent on reducing the capital of the Republic to ash. The light devoured the horizon, swallowing the towers and sky in one merciless glare.
Still, Dooku held his ground.
His legs shook, his breath broke, his burned hand barely gripped the hilt of his saber, but he refused to move. The solar flare bore down, thunderous and roaring, yet the barrier of will did not falter.
Then, through the pain, he felt it—the pressure cresting, the energy reaching its peak. He knew what was coming.
And he screamed it into the heavens. "We will prevail—huahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
The words tore from his chest, carried by the Force itself. The sky erupted. The flare's light twisted, split, and died in a surge of wind and collapsing plasma. The golden storm fractured like glass shattering across the void.
Dooku dropped to one knee, his saber flickering out, his arm falling limp to his side. Smoke rose from his burned cloak, each breath shallow but alive. He lifted his gaze slowly, vision blurred, and saw the world around him.
Coruscant still stood. Across the city, cheers broke out like a wave. People who moments ago had accepted death now screamed with joy. Strangers embraced; soldiers cried; even the ships above reignited their thrusters as if life itself had been restored.
They looked toward the temple—the man standing at its broken steps. To them, . He was the one who had stopped the sun.
Dooku's chest rose and fell with labored breaths as his gaze turned from the sky to the ruin before him. Amid the wreckage, Naga Sadow knelt, his crimson form dimming as the crystal anchoring him pulsed erratically, its glow weakening to dull embers.
Dooku raised his saber once more, voice hoarse but steady. "You will return to the void, Sith—and never again crawl back into this galaxy."
Sadow looked up, a strange smile curling across his face—a look not of defeat, but of cruel expectation. "Return?" he rasped, laughter echoing hollow. "No, old man. According to my second plan, this is where I remain."
The ground split. From the cracks, a massive stone arm erupted—humanoid, ancient,. It seized the ground beside Dooku and began to rise.
Dooku's eyes widened. No…
The figure of Sadow before him shimmered, breaking apart like smoke in the wind. Illusion. Projection. The true presence had never left. Even with his mastery, Dooku hadn't sensed the deception.
The voice came again, now surrounding him from every direction. "Truthfully, I gambled, Dooku of Serenno. I wanted to see if you had room to grow . And you did… beautifully."
Sadow's form reconstituted within the rising stone figure, his essence merging with the construct until its chest burned with the same fading red crystal.
"I have been preparing you as second plan ," Sadow said, his tone almost admiring. "Only one with strength enough to withstand the heat of the sun—one who wields both light and dark—can serve as my vessel. You were the key all along. My new flesh."
The ground convulsed as slabs of stone rose in unison, folding around them both. A cocoon of ancient power sealed shut, trapping them inside a prison of heat and shadow. The runes along the walls pulsed in rhythm with Sadow's chant, the ritual of Essence Transfer beginning.
Dooku clenched his teeth, the pressure unbearable as the energy pressed against his very soul. Master Yoda… , Qui-Gon ,,,,,,,,, everyone… hurry. His vision blurred, the last of his strength fading. This thing must be stopped here.