The datapad in Vader's hand displayed seventeen unread messages, each one representing a different variety of headache.
The first three were from Nala Se, detailing supply chain complications for the enhanced clone program. Apparently, the rare genetic compounds required for Force-resistance modifications were becoming increasingly difficult to source without attracting Imperial attention.
The next four were from Thrawn, providing exhaustive tactical analyses of rebel movements in the Lothal sector. Each report was brilliant, comprehensive, and approximately forty pages longer than Vader had the patience to read.
Messages five through nine were from various Shadow Legion commanders, requesting clarification on operational parameters, resource allocations, and—in one memorable case—permission to acquire "recreational livestock" for the Mustafar barracks.
Recreational livestock, Vader thought. I don't even want to know.
Message ten was from Mara Jade, informing him that she had completed her latest mission and would be returning to the Devastator "immediately" to resume her observation duties. The word "immediately" was underlined three times.
Messages eleven and twelve were from Admiral Daala, containing strategic recommendations that were ninety percent professional and ten percent suggestive in ways that made Vader's processors stutter.
Message thirteen was from the forge master, inviting him to Mandalore to "inspect the latest weapons developments" and "discuss future collaborations over a traditional Mandalorian meal."
She's asking me to dinner again, Vader realized. Through official military channels. This woman has no shame.
Messages fourteen through sixteen were from Mother Shelish, detailing ritual maintenance schedules, ward renewal requirements, and a "concerning development" regarding Sister Karis's attempts to create a Vader-themed meditation shrine.
A shrine. They're building a shrine to me. I am a Dark Lord of the Sith and my subordinates are creating religious iconography in my image.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Message seventeen was from Hera Syndulla, containing a detailed ethical analysis of his child extraction operations, complete with footnotes, citations, and a three-page addendum on the psychological impacts of displacement on Force-sensitive youth.
Vader stared at the datapad for a long moment.
Then he crushed it in his mechanical fist, feeling the satisfying crunch of circuitry and polymer.
I need to hit something, he decided with absolute certainty. I need to hit something so hard that it stops existing.
And I know exactly what to hit.
Imperial Intelligence Headquarters, Coruscant, three days later...
The intelligence briefing had been routine—a summary of rebel activity, Jedi survivor sightings, and potential threats to Imperial stability. Vader had attended in person, ostensibly to receive updates on ongoing operations, actually to access the classified database that tracked Force-sensitive individuals across the galaxy.
What he found was illuminating.
"There are seventeen confirmed Jedi survivors operating in the Arkanis sector," the intelligence officer reported, her voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone presenting information to a being who might kill her for delivering bad news. "They have established a network of safehouses, using abandoned mining facilities as cover for their activities."
"Seventeen," Vader repeated, the number echoing in his vocoder. "That is... substantial."
"Yes, my Lord. We believe they are coordinating with other survivor groups, attempting to rebuild some semblance of the Order. The Inquisitors have been dispatched, but the terrain is proving... challenging."
Seventeen Jedi, Vader thought. In one location. All gathered together, thinking they're safe, believing their numbers provide protection.
Perfect.
"Recall the Inquisitors," he commanded. "I will handle this matter personally."
The intelligence officer's face went pale. "Personally, my Lord? With respect, seventeen Jedi represents a significant—"
"Are you questioning my capabilities?"
"N-no, my Lord! I simply—"
"Then recall the Inquisitors. I leave within the hour."
Vader swept from the briefing room, leaving behind a collection of traumatized intelligence personnel who would spend the rest of the day debating whether to update their wills.
Seventeen Jedi, he thought, a dark anticipation building in his circuits. This is exactly what I need.
Time to practice.
The Arkanis Sector, abandoned mining complex, two days later...
The mine had been carved into the side of a mountain, its tunnels extending deep into the rock like the burrows of some massive creature. The Jedi had chosen it for its isolation, its defensibility, and its connection to a network of natural caves that provided multiple escape routes.
They thought they had considered every possible threat.
They had not considered Darth Vader arriving alone, without a lightsaber, with the explicit intention of using them as stress relief.
The entrance was guarded by two Knights—a Nautolan and a Kel Dor—who stood watch with the tired vigilance of beings who had been running for too long. They sensed Vader's approach through the Force approximately three seconds before he emerged from the shadows.
Three seconds was not enough time.
Vader moved with Force-enhanced speed, closing the distance before either Knight could ignite their weapons. His right fist connected with the Nautolan's temple, the impact enhanced by mechanical strength and Dark Side energy. The Knight's head snapped sideways, his body following a moment later as he crumpled to the ground.
The Kel Dor managed to get his lightsaber halfway raised before Vader's left hand closed around his throat. The grip tightened with hydraulic precision, crushing the antiox mask that the alien required to breathe, silencing any cry for help before it could form.
Two down, Vader counted, lowering the Kel Dor's twitching body to the ground. Fifteen to go.
He entered the mine.
The tunnels were dark, lit only by scattered glow panels and the occasional patch of bioluminescent fungus. Vader's suit sensors painted the environment in shades of red and orange, detecting heat signatures, air currents, and the telltale flickers of life that betrayed the Jedi's positions.
They've spread out, he observed. Small groups in different sections of the mine. Defensive positions, overlapping fields of fire. Standard Jedi contingency planning.
Clever. But insufficient.
He chose his first target: a group of three positioned in a chamber approximately fifty meters ahead. Their Force presence was bright, nervous, humming with the kind of anticipation that came from sensing danger without being able to identify it.
Vader didn't try to hide his approach. He walked openly through the tunnel, his mechanical breathing echoing off the stone walls, his footsteps deliberate and measured. Let them hear him coming. Let them prepare. Let them believe their preparations would matter.
The chamber opened before him, a natural cavern that the Jedi had converted into a meeting space. Three figures stood in defensive formation—a human male, a Mirialan female, and a Zabrak whose facial tattoos marked him as a former Temple Guardian.
"Vader," the human said, his voice steady despite the fear that Vader could taste through the Force. "We've been expecting you."
"Have you?" Vader stopped at the chamber's entrance, making no move to draw a weapon. "Then you know why I'm here."
"To kill us. To continue the Emperor's purge."
"To kill you, yes. But not for the Emperor." Vader cracked his knuckles, the sound amplified by his suit's audio systems. "This is personal."
"Personal?" The Mirialan's voice carried confusion. "What did we ever do to you?"
"Nothing. But I am having a very frustrating week, and you are convenient."
He attacked.
The Teräs Käsi forms flowed through him like water, muscle memory inherited from Anakin Skywalker blending with mechanical precision and Dark Side enhancement. He ducked under the human's opening strike, drove his elbow into the man's ribs with force enough to crack bone, and continued the motion into a spinning kick that caught the Mirialan in the chest.
The Zabrak attacked with the discipline of a Temple Guardian, his blade weaving defensive patterns that should have been impenetrable. Vader didn't try to penetrate them. He simply reached out with the Force and yanked the weapon from the Guardian's grip, sending it clattering into the darkness.
"Without your weapon," Vader said, catching the Zabrak's desperate punch and twisting until the wrist snapped, "you are nothing."
The Zabrak screamed. Vader silenced him with a chop to the throat, then turned to face the other two, who were struggling to rise despite their injuries.
"Stay down," he advised. "You will survive longer."
They didn't listen. The human charged again, weaponless and desperate, fists raised in a crude approximation of martial technique. Vader sighed—the sound emerging as a rumbling exhalation through his respirator—and met the attack with clinical efficiency.
Block. Counter. Strike.
The human's knee bent in a direction knees were not designed to bend. He collapsed, screaming, clutching at the ruined joint.
The Mirialan tried to flee. Vader reached out with the Force, caught her mid-stride, and slammed her into the stone wall with enough force to leave an impact crater.
Five down, he counted. Twelve to go.
Deeper in the mine...
The Jedi were coordinating now, their Force bonds carrying warnings and tactical information through the stone. They knew Vader was coming. They knew he wasn't using a lightsaber. They knew he was dismantling their defenses with his bare hands.
They were terrified.
Good, Vader thought, stalking through the tunnels with predatory patience. Fear is a teacher. Let them learn.
The next group was larger—five Knights and a Master, positioned in a chamber that had been reinforced with makeshift barricades. They stood in a circle, lightsabers ignited, the combined light casting a shifting pattern of shadows across the stone walls.
"Together!" the Master commanded—an elderly Rodian whose long antenna twitched with stress. "He cannot defeat us all if we stand together!"
Vader emerged from the tunnel's darkness, his black armor drinking in the light of their blades.
"Together," he repeated, the word dripping with contempt. "Is that what the Order taught you? That numbers provide safety? That cooperation guarantees victory?"
"The Order taught us many things," the Master replied, his voice steady despite the fear radiating from his Force signature. "Including how to face darkness without despair."
"Then let me teach you something new."
Vader raised his hands—not to strike, but to channel. The Force lightning that erupted from his fingertips was not Palpatine's devastating storm, but something more focused, more controlled. Six separate arcs of energy, each targeting a different Jedi, each calibrated to incapacitate rather than kill.
The effect was instantaneous and spectacular.
Every lightsaber in the room deactivated as their wielders convulsed, muscles locked by the electrical assault. The Jedi collapsed in sequence—first the Knights, their younger bodies succumbing quickly to the neural overload, then the Master, who fought the effects longer but ultimately fell like the others.
Vader released the lightning, surveying the twitching bodies with something approaching satisfaction.
The Nightsisters' teaching proves effective, he noted. Targeted discharge, controlled intensity, minimal lethality. Mother Shelish would be pleased.
He moved among the fallen Jedi, checking their conditions with clinical precision. All alive. All incapacitated. All utterly helpless.
Eleven down. Six to go.
The deepest chamber...
The remaining Jedi had retreated to the mine's central hub, a massive natural cavern that served as their primary living space. Sleeping quarters, storage areas, and a makeshift training ground surrounded a central fire pit that cast flickering shadows across the stone.
Six survivors stood in a final defensive formation—four Knights, a Padawan, and a Master whose Force presence burned brighter than all the others combined. This was their leader, Vader recognized. The being who had gathered these scattered refugees and given them hope.
Time to extinguish that hope.
He entered the chamber through the main passage, making no attempt at stealth. The Jedi tensed, their weapons igniting, their fear barely contained behind walls of discipline and determination.
"Darth Vader," the Master said. She was human, middle-aged, with gray streaking her brown hair and scars tracing patterns across her weathered face. "I am Master Ven Zallow's daughter, Anya. I was on Ossus when you massacred the younglings. I survived because I was too young to fight, too weak to be worth killing."
"And now you believe you are strong enough to face me?"
"I believe I have no choice." Anya raised her blade—a brilliant gold, the color of a Temple Guardian's honor. "My people will not run anymore. If we must die, we will die fighting."
"Noble sentiments. Useless, but noble." Vader rolled his shoulders, his mechanical joints humming with anticipation. "I give you one chance. Surrender. Accept that your Order is finished. And perhaps I will let some of you live to carry the story of this day."
"We are Jedi," Anya replied. "We do not surrender to darkness."
"Then you die standing." Vader raised his fists in the Echani ready stance. "Attack when ready."
They attacked.
All six of them, in perfect coordination, their lightsabers weaving a pattern of death that should have been inescapable. They had trained for this moment, practiced this scenario, prepared for the day they would face the Empire's greatest weapon.
Their preparation was insufficient.
Vader moved through their formation like a shadow through sunlight, present one moment and elsewhere the next. His fists and feet struck with mechanical precision, each blow enhanced by the Force, each impact designed to incapacitate without killing.
A Knight fell with a shattered collarbone.
Another dropped with cracked ribs.
A third screamed as her ankle bent backward.
The Padawan—a young Twi'lek barely into her teenage years—managed to land a glancing blow on Vader's shoulder plate. The plasma scored the beskar but failed to penetrate, leaving only a glowing mark on the black armor.
Vader caught her follow-up strike between his palms, the blade hissing against metal that refused to yield. He twisted the weapon from her grip, deactivated it, and sent her flying with a Force push that was almost gentle.
Almost.
The remaining Knight attacked from behind, his blade driving toward the gap between Vader's helmet and chest plate. Vader spun, caught the blade on his forearm guard, and delivered an uppercut that lifted the Knight off his feet and deposited him in an unconscious heap against the far wall.
Only Anya remained.
She stood in the center of the chamber, her golden blade raised, her face a mask of determination that couldn't quite hide the fear beneath. Around her, her companions lay broken and groaning, their hopes for resistance shattered along with their bodies.
"You fight well," Vader acknowledged, circling her slowly. "Better than most. Your mother would be proud."
"My mother died in the Temple Massacre," Anya spat. "Killed by Anakin Skywalker. Killed by you."
"I am not Anakin Skywalker."
"No. You're what's left after he died. A monster wearing his corpse."
The words struck deeper than Vader expected, stirring something in the depths of his consciousness—not Marcus Chen's detached amusement, but something older, rawer, more painful.
She's not wrong, he thought. That's exactly what I am.
"Perhaps," he said aloud. "But monsters have their uses."
He attacked—not with the slow, deliberate violence he had used against the others, but with the full speed and power that his mechanical body could generate. Anya met him strike for strike, her golden blade weaving desperately, her Force-enhanced reflexes pushing her body beyond its natural limits.
It wasn't enough.
Vader caught her blade in a lock, their faces inches apart, his mask reflecting the golden light of her weapon.
"You have skill," he said. "You have courage. You have everything the Jedi Order valued."
"Then why—"
"Because the Jedi Order is dead. And nothing you do will bring it back."
He released the lock, stepped inside her guard, and drove his fist into her solar plexus with Force-enhanced precision. The impact folded her like paper, her weapon clattering from nerveless fingers, her body crumpling to the stone floor.
Seventeen down, Vader counted, surveying the devastation around him. Stress levels significantly reduced.
He stood in the center of the chamber, surrounded by the broken remnants of a Jedi enclave, his mechanical breathing the only sound in the sudden silence.
This is what I needed, he thought. Not the clean death of a lightsaber, but the visceral satisfaction of direct impact. The feeling of bone yielding beneath my fists. The screams of enemies who believed they were prepared.
I should do this more often.
The aftermath...
Vader did not kill them all.
The decision was not mercy—not in the traditional sense. It was calculation, strategy, an understanding that living witnesses served purposes that corpses could not.
He gathered the fallen Jedi in the central chamber, arranging them in neat rows, ensuring that their injuries were survivable if treated promptly. He left their lightsabers in a pile at the chamber's entrance, a silent message that their weapons meant nothing against him.
And then he spoke.
"Listen carefully," he said, his vocoder carrying his words to every conscious ear. "You will survive this day. You will recover from your injuries. And you will spread a message throughout the galaxy."
The Jedi who could hear him—perhaps half of the original seventeen—stared with eyes that held equal parts fear and confusion.
"The message is simple: Darth Vader came alone, without a lightsaber, and broke the Jedi with his bare hands. He used Force lightning. He moved through your defenses like they didn't exist. He could have killed you all and chose not to."
Vader turned toward the exit, his cape swirling.
"Tell everyone. Tell other survivors. Tell the rebels who shelter you. Tell them what I am and what I can do."
He paused at the threshold.
"And tell them this: the next time I come, I will not be practicing. The next time, I will be serious."
He walked into the darkness, leaving behind a chamber full of traumatized Jedi who would spend the rest of their lives having nightmares about this day.
On the Devastator, one week later...
Captain Screed had developed a twitch.
It happened whenever reports about Lord Vader crossed his desk, and lately, there had been many such reports. The Arkanis incident had generated more intelligence chatter than any single event in years, with rebel networks and Imperial agencies alike trying to understand what had happened.
"He attacked seventeen Jedi," Screed muttered, reviewing the latest summary. "With his fists. And Force lightning. And some kind of... martial arts technique that nobody has ever seen him use before."
"The reports are consistent, Captain," his aide offered. "Multiple survivors, all describing the same events. Lord Vader did not draw his lightsaber at any point during the engagement."
"Why? Why would he do that?"
"Perhaps he was... training?"
"Training." Screed's eye twitched again. "He was training. On Jedi. With his bare hands."
"It would explain why he left survivors. To spread word of his new capabilities."
Screed stared at the report for a long moment, trying to process the implications. Darth Vader was not just a lightsaber-wielding enforcer anymore. He was developing new abilities, expanding his combat repertoire, becoming something even more dangerous than the legend suggested.
"I need a drink," Screed announced. "Several drinks. And then I need to update my will."
"Sir?"
"Nothing. Just... make sure Lord Vader receives the finest accommodations when he returns. And keep the crew away from him. Far, far away."
"Understood, sir."
In his private quarters, Screed poured himself a generous measure of Corellian whiskey and contemplated the reality of serving under an officer who used Jedi as punching bags.
I should have stayed in the merchant fleet, he thought. The pay was worse, but at least no one could kill me with their mind.
On Mustafar, the fortress...
Vader emerged from his shuttle feeling genuinely refreshed.
The stress of the previous weeks had melted away, replaced by the calm satisfaction that came from effective violence. His muscles—what remained of them—felt loose. His processors hummed with contentment. His overall mood could be described as almost... pleasant.
"Lord Vader," Mother Shelish greeted him at the hangar entrance. "You seem... different."
"I feel different. The Arkanis operation was productive."
"We heard the reports. Seventeen Jedi, defeated without a weapon. Force lightning displayed publicly for the first time." The Nightsister's pale lips curved into a knowing smile. "You were practicing."
"I was relieving stress. The practice was incidental."
"Of course." Mother Shelish fell into step beside him as he walked toward the fortress interior. "The galaxy is already buzzing with stories. The legend of Darth Vader grows by the hour."
"Good. Fear is a useful tool."
"Indeed. Though some fear you for different reasons now." She glanced at him sidelong. "The forge master has sent another message. She wishes to congratulate you on your victory and discuss 'matters of mutual interest' at your earliest convenience."
Vader.exe has detected an incoming romantic overture. Recommend evasive action.
"I am occupied with other matters," Vader said quickly. "Inform her that I will respond when my schedule permits."
"Of course, my Lord." Mother Shelish's smile widened. "Though I should mention—she indicated that she would be willing to visit Mustafar directly if your schedule does not permit travel."
She's coming here. Again. With her assets and her smiles and her complete disregard for my personal space.
"I will... address the situation appropriately," Vader managed.
"I'm sure you will." Mother Shelish's tone suggested she found the entire situation deeply entertaining. "In the meantime, Hera Syndulla has requested an audience. She wishes to discuss the Arkanis operation—specifically, why you left survivors."
From romantic complications to moral debates. My life is a succession of uncomfortable conversations.
"Tell her I will meet with her in the meditation chamber. One hour."
"Yes, my Lord."
Vader continued to his quarters, trying to recapture the peaceful feeling that the Arkanis operation had provided. It was already fading, replaced by the familiar weight of responsibilities and complications.
Still, he thought, removing his cape and settling into his meditation position, it was worth it. The feeling of bone yielding beneath my fists. The screams. The terror.
Therapeutic.
I should schedule regular sessions. Perhaps once a month. Find a group of Jedi survivors, use them for stress relief, leave them alive to spread the legend.
Sustainable violence, he decided. That's the key. Sustainable, renewable violence that serves multiple purposes.
Marcus Chen would have been horrified by this line of thinking. But Marcus Chen is dead, and I am very much alive.
And occasionally, being alive means beating people to a pulp with your bare hands.
Such is the Sith way.
The Dark Side hummed around him, vast and satisfied and completely approving.
Some stress relief methods were universal.
In the guest quarters...
Hera Syndulla watched the holographic replay of the Arkanis operation for the third time, her expression cycling through horror, fascination, and something she couldn't quite name.
The footage was fragmentary—recovered from the survivors' personal recording devices, pieced together by rebel intelligence—but it was enough to convey the essential truth of what had happened.
Vader had walked into a fortified position containing seventeen Jedi and had beaten them into submission without drawing a weapon.
Force lightning, she noted, watching as six separate arcs of electricity struck the second group simultaneously. He never displayed that capability before. It's always been the Emperor's signature technique.
He's learning new abilities. Developing new powers. Becoming something more than what the Empire created.
The implications were staggering. Vader was not just maintaining his abilities—he was actively improving, expanding his repertoire, pushing the boundaries of what he could achieve. If this continued...
If this continues, she thought, he might eventually rival the Emperor himself. And then...
And then what? Would Vader challenge Palpatine directly? Would he try to seize control of the Empire? Or was he building toward something else entirely—something that no one, including Hera herself, could anticipate?
Why did he leave them alive? she wondered, watching the final moments of the recording—Vader speaking to the fallen Jedi, delivering a message, walking away into the darkness. He could have killed them all. It would have been easier, cleaner, more efficient. But he chose to let them live.
He wanted them to spread the story. He wanted the galaxy to know what he did.
But why?
The door chimed, interrupting her contemplation.
"Enter," she called.
Mother Shelish appeared in the doorway, her pale form illuminated by the corridor lights.
"Lord Vader will see you now. He awaits in the meditation chamber."
Hera nodded, saving the recording and rising from her chair. "Thank you."
"A word of advice," Mother Shelish said as Hera passed. "He is in a good mood. The Arkanis operation pleased him. If you wish to discuss difficult topics, now would be an opportune time."
"A good mood?" Hera couldn't hide her disbelief. "He just beat seventeen people to a pulp."
"Yes." Mother Shelish's smile was knowing. "That's what put him in a good mood."
Hera stared at the Nightsister for a long moment, then shook her head and continued toward the meditation chamber.
I am living in the fortress of a Sith Lord who relieves stress by punching Jedi, she thought. And I'm about to have a conversation with him about the ethics of violence.
My life has become very strange.
The meditation chamber...
Vader was seated in his usual position when Hera entered—floating slightly above the floor, surrounded by swirling currents of Dark Side energy, his breathing steady and rhythmic.
"You wished to speak with me," he said without opening his eyes. "About Arkanis."
"I wanted to understand why you left them alive."
"Strategic value. Living witnesses spread legends more effectively than corpses."
"That's the only reason?"
Vader was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to the floor and turned to face her.
"What other reason would there be?"
"I don't know." Hera moved closer, her lekku twitching with nervous energy. "But you've done this before. With my crew. With other Jedi. You have opportunities to kill and you choose not to take them. There has to be more to it than strategic calculation."
"You believe I have a conscience?"
"I believe you have something. Some part of you that holds back, even when holding back is harder than letting go."
Vader was very still, his mask betraying nothing of whatever thoughts might be occurring behind it.
"You are perceptive," he said finally. "Too perceptive for your own safety."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Take it as a warning." Vader rose to his full height, looming over her in a way that should have been threatening but somehow wasn't. "I am not what you believe me to be, Hera Syndulla. I am not a good man wearing a monster's mask. I am a monster who occasionally chooses restraint. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
"The difference is purpose. A good man restrains himself because violence is wrong. A monster restrains himself because mercy serves his goals better than murder." Vader's vocoder dropped to something almost gentle. "I left those Jedi alive because their survival benefits me. Nothing more. Nothing noble."
"And the children you're extracting from Project Harvester? Is that just calculation too?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications.
"The children are... complicated," Vader admitted. "They serve no strategic purpose. Their extraction provides no tactical advantage. By every measure of Sith philosophy, I should ignore them or eliminate them as potential threats."
"But you're saving them instead."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Vader turned away, facing the meditation chamber's viewport, staring out at the volcanic landscape beyond.
"Because I remember what it was like to be a child with abilities I did not choose. Because I remember being taken from my mother, thrust into a world that did not understand me, shaped by forces I could not control." His voice carried something that might have been pain. "Because when I look at those children's faces, I see possibilities that should not be destroyed. Futures that deserve the chance to unfold."
"That sounds like conscience to me."
"It sounds like weakness. Palpatine would say so. Any true Sith would say so."
"And what do you say?"
Vader was silent for a long moment.
"I say that some weaknesses are worth preserving," he said finally. "Even for monsters."
Hera didn't respond immediately. She simply stood there, watching the black-armored figure silhouetted against the red glow of Mustafar's lava fields, trying to reconcile the violence she had witnessed with the vulnerability she was hearing now.
He's not what he seems, she thought. He's not what anyone believes him to be. He's something new, something complicated, something that defies easy categorization.
And somehow, despite everything, I find myself wanting to understand him better.
"Thank you," she said. "For being honest with me."
"I have not been entirely honest. I have simply been... less dishonest than usual."
"That's a start."
Vader turned to face her, his mask catching the light in a way that made it seem almost like a face—almost like the face of a man who had forgotten how to smile but remembered that smiling was possible.
"Yes," he agreed. "It is a start."
They stood in silence for a moment, two beings from opposite sides of a galactic conflict, finding common ground in the strangest of places.
This is insane, Hera thought. This whole situation is absolutely insane.
But somehow, it also feels right.
[END OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN]