The heat of the Geonosian arena pressed down like a living thing.
Anakin Skywalker tasted dust and blood as the chains around his wrists rattled, the crowd's roar vibrating through the stone beneath his feet. Padmé stood close beside him, her presence a fragile anchor amid the chaos, while Obi-Wan watched from across the arena with the calm of a man already resigned to battle.
The gates opened.
Monsters surged forward, claws tearing furrows into the sand, their roars drowning out the screams of the spectators. Anakin moved on instinct alone rage, fear, and raw survival driving him as he tore free, leaping onto the beast with reckless strength. Obi-Wan's blade flashed in tight arcs, clean and precise. Padmé fired when she could, each shot measured, her courage refusing to bend.
Then the Force shifted.
It was not subtle. It was not gentle.
It was as though the air itself recoiled.
The stands exploded inward as figures dropped from above, cloaks snapping, boots striking stone and sand alike. Blue and green lights ignited across the arena in a wave of humming energy, drowning out the crowd in a single, unified sound.
The Jedi had arrived.
Mace Windu stepped forward, purple blade burning like a wound in reality itself. His gaze swept the arena, cold and absolute.
"This party's over."
For a heartbeat, hope ignited.
The Jedi surged as one leaping, spinning, cutting through droids and Geonosians with practiced grace. Blaster bolts vanished against spinning blades. Bodies fell. The arena floor became a chaos of severed metal and shattered stone.
Anakin felt it felt the power of the Order unleashed in full.
But something was wrong.
The Force did not surge with victory.
It resisted.
As if the battle itself had been anticipated.
Beneath the arena, far from the reach of lightsabers and screams, dormant protocols awakened.
The droids changed.
Battle formations snapped into place with mechanical precision. Units repositioned without hesitation, flanking movements unfolding in perfect synchronization. Destroyer droids rolled forward in layered shield walls, their overlapping fields forcing Jedi to retreat step by step.
Heavy units emerged—spider droids rising from concealed hatches, artillery platforms locking onto Force signatures rather than visual targets. The droid army did not panic.
It adapted.
Jedi fell.
Not in dramatic flurries—but suddenly. Brutally. A missed deflection. A shield corridor closing too fast. A barrage too precise to evade.
Anakin saw a Jedi Knight vanish beneath a storm of fire. Another crushed under a collapsing pillar brought down by coordinated demolitions.
This was not a rabble.
These were machines of war.
The arena became a killing ground.
Mace Windu roared commands, forcing cohesion, rallying survivors as they broke toward the factory complexes beyond the stands. Obi-Wan grabbed Anakin by the arm, dragging him clear as blaster fire chewed through the air where he had stood a second earlier.
They ran.
Not from fear—but from annihilation.
Above the planet, hyperspace tore open.
Gunships descended in burning arcs through the red sky, doors sliding open as clone troopers poured out in disciplined ranks. Their armor gleamed white against the crimson dust, blaster fire cutting clean lines through the droid formations.
And at their head
A small green figure stepped onto the battlefield.
Master Yoda closed his eyes as the clones advanced, feeling the clash ripple through the Force like thunder.
"Begun," he murmured, "the war has."
The clones moved with flawless coordination, pushing back the droid lines, extracting Jedi under fire, establishing forward positions with ruthless efficiency. For a brief, shining moment, it seemed as though the tide might turn.
Then the Separatists escalated.
Orbital cannons opened fire.
Droid carriers emerged from concealed hangars, deploying fresh waves faster than clones could eliminate them. Factories shifted production mid-battle, birthing new variants already tuned to counter Jedi combat patterns.
The clones advanced.
The droids absorbed.
The ground became a slaughterhouse.
Yoda felt it every death, every severed thread in the Force. This was not the clean war the Republic had imagined. This was a grinder, designed not to win quickly, but to consume.
Mace Windu ordered the withdrawal.
Gunships screamed skyward under heavy fire, leaving burning wreckage scattered across the desert. Jedi leapt aboard as clones laid down suppressive fire, dragging wounded brothers behind them.
Anakin watched the planet fall away beneath the cockpit glass, fists clenched, heart pounding.
They had not won.
They had survived.
Geonosis burned below them, factories still active, droid armies still marching.
The Clone Wars had begun not with triumph but with retreat.
And far away, hidden behind veils of darkness and foresight, the architects of the conflict smiled.