Hyperspace had a way of blurring days into abstraction.
Within the blue-white corridor, time ceased to feel linear. There were no suns rising or setting, no planetary horizons to mark the passage of hours — only the steady hum of the hyperdrive and the unending river of stretched starlight pouring past the canopy.
Several days had passed.
Nothing dramatic had occurred.
And yet, much had changed.
Kael stood once more in the cockpit, hands resting lightly along the edge of the console as R2-X9 emitted a soft stream of diagnostic tones. The hyperspace corridor shimmered ahead, unchanged since departure, though the navigation display now indicated diminishing distance to their destination.
"We'll be arriving in a few hours," Kael said quietly, not turning from the viewport.
Behind him, in the main hold, Yoda shifted slightly on his meditation cushion.
"Good," the Grand Master replied. "Time, not on our side, it is."
The words carried weight without urgency.
Kael glanced back over his shoulder briefly.
"In what sense?" he asked.
Yoda's gaze met his calmly.
"War spreads quickly," he said. "Decisions made without full understanding, many will be."
Kael considered that as he stepped down from the cockpit and into the hold.
The past few days had not been idle.
Yoda had spoken more than Kael had expected.
Not lectures.
Not formal instruction.
Conversations.
History, recounted not as grand narrative but as caution — the fall of ancient Orders that mistook certainty for wisdom, the early Hyperspace conflicts where Jedi had intervened too forcefully and nearly lost themselves in the process. Discussions of the Living Force versus the Cosmic Force, of balance not as stillness but as continual adjustment.
And combat.
Even within the spacious interior of the T-6, there had been room enough for demonstration. The retractable table had risen once, projecting a holographic training grid. Kael had ignited a single blade — his own — at Yoda's quiet insistence.
"One is enough," Yoda had said. "Mastery in restraint, found it is."
Kael had complied, though not without habitual instinct tugging toward the second hilt at his waist.
Juyo — Vaapad — was not a style easily softened. It thrived in proximity to chaos, in channeling aggression without surrendering to it. Yoda had not criticized the form itself.
But he had asked questions.
"Channeling darkness," he had murmured as Kael moved through measured sequences. "Control it, you must. Feed it, you must not."
Now, standing within the steady hum of hyperspace, Kael felt those lessons lingering beneath his skin like an echo.
He crossed slowly to the durasteel chest.
It had remained sealed since departure.
A deliberate choice.
Yoda watched him approach but did not interrupt.
"I've been thinking," Kael said quietly.
"Dangerous, that can be," Yoda replied lightly.
Kael allowed the faintest hint of a smile.
"You're not wrong."
He rested a hand on the top of the chest, fingers tracing its seam once more.
"I hope the Order can adapt," he continued, voice lower now. "Because if it can't…"
His gaze lifted briefly to meet Yoda's.
"…I don't see us surviving this war."
The admission hung heavily in the cabin.
Not accusatory.
Not despairing.
Practical.
Yoda's eyes narrowed slightly, not in disagreement, but in contemplation.
"Survival," he said slowly, "not always measured in existence alone."
Kael did not respond immediately.
Instead, he shifted his hand downward and placed his thumb against the biometric scanner embedded discreetly along the chest's edge.
There was a soft mechanical hum.
A subtle click.
Internal locks disengaged in precise sequence.
The seam along the lid split faintly, a thin line of shadow appearing where metal had once been flush.
The chest was unsealed.
But it did not open.
Kael's hand remained resting upon it, fingers curled lightly against the metal.
Blue hyperspace light flickered across the durasteel surface, catching along its edges like the glint of something long dormant.
Behind him, the hyperdrive hummed steadily as the shuttle continued its final approach.
The blue corridor of hyperspace thinned.
Stars reasserted themselves in sharp pinpoints as the T-6 dropped cleanly back into realspace. The transition was smoother than departure — a silent unfolding from stretched light into vast, black stillness.
For a moment, there was nothing ahead.
Then the planet resolved.
Kamino did not gleam like Coruscant.
It brooded.
A sphere of endless gray-blue ocean churned beneath thick, roiling cloud cover. Lightning spidered across the atmosphere in violent, branching arcs, illuminating layers of storm with brief, ghostly brilliance. There were no continents. No visible landmasses. Only water — dark and heaving — stretching unbroken to the horizon in every direction.
Rain streaked visibly through the atmosphere even from orbit, dense bands of precipitation wrapping the planet in shifting veils.
"Well," Kael murmured quietly from the cockpit, hands steady on the controls, "that's encouraging."
R2-X9 emitted a cautious, questioning series of beeps.
"Yeah," Kael translated absently. "I'm sure it's perfectly hospitable."
He guided the T-6 downward, breaking through the upper cloud layer. The shuttle's hull shuddered slightly as it entered the storm system, rain hammering against the canopy in relentless sheets. Lightning flared close enough to cast sharp white shadows across the cockpit interior before vanishing into thunder that rolled through the atmosphere like distant artillery.
Then he saw it.
Tipoca City.
It rose from the ocean like a mirage — sleek, white spires thrusting upward from enormous stilted platforms anchored deep beneath the waves. The structures were curvaceous and streamlined, designed not to fight the storm but to endure it. Long, narrow landing platforms extended outward from central towers, each illuminated by pale guidance lights that flickered through the rain.
Against the dark sea and darker sky, the architecture was almost blindingly white.
Other platforms loomed in the distance, half-shrouded by sheets of rainfall and mist. The ocean below churned violently, waves crashing against the immense supports of the city with constant, thunderous force.
Yoda had moved to stand behind the cockpit threshold, hands folded within his sleeves as he observed the world unfolding below.
"Isolated," he said softly.
"Yeah," Kael replied. "That's one word for it."
He angled the shuttle toward a designated landing platform as automated signals pinged against the T-6's systems. The ship's repulsors adjusted smoothly, countering crosswinds that sought to buffet them sideways.
The platform's surface was slick with rain.
The T-6 descended through sheets of water and settled gently onto the landing deck with a muted, stabilizing hum.
Outside, the storm raged without pause.
Kael powered down primary thrust systems and began cycling the post-flight protocols.
"R2," he said, glancing toward the astromech, "stay with the ship. Run continuous scans. If something goes wrong, I'll contact you."
The droid chirped affirmatively, dome rotating once before retracting slightly into its housing as rain lashed against the canopy above.
Kael rose from the cockpit and stepped down into the hold.
The ramp had not yet lowered, but even through sealed bulkheads the sound of the storm was unmistakable — rain drumming against metal, distant thunder reverberating through the platform's structure.
Yoda moved toward the ramp controls with measured steps.
"Come," he said. "Time to meet this army Master Kenobi spoke of."
There was no excitement in his tone.
Only gravity.
Kael gave a short nod.
"Yeah," he muttered, crossing to the durasteel chest. "There better be some army."
He placed his hand against the lid.
For a second, he hesitated.
Then he lifted it.
Inside lay polished black beskar plates, contoured and deliberate. A helmet rested at the top — T-shaped visor, matte black surface accented subtly with deep violet markings along the brow and cheek lines. Even under the shuttle's sterile lighting, the metal seemed to absorb rather than reflect light.
Armor built for rain and war alike.
He lifted the helmet first.
Water pounded against the hull above as he turned it slowly in his hands, studying the familiar lines of its design. This was not ceremonial. Not decorative.
It was identity.
Without comment, he stepped toward the ramp and keyed the release.
The platform beyond revealed itself as the ramp lowered — a storm-lashed expanse of slick white metal stretching outward toward the towering entrance of Tipoca City. Rain struck immediately, splattering across the threshold and pooling in thin rivulets that raced toward drainage channels.
Wind whipped through the open hatch, cold and sharp.
Kael fitted the helmet over his head.
The interior sealed with a soft pressurization hiss. The world outside narrowed into the visor's angular frame, rain distorting slightly across the enhanced display as internal HUD systems flickered to life.
Behind him, Yoda remained uncovered, rain already misting against his small frame as the storm encroached.
"Ready, you are?" Yoda asked quietly.
Kael adjusted his gloves, the durasteel plates of his armor catching the faint interior light.
"Let's see this army," he replied.
He stepped forward onto the platform.
Rain struck his armor immediately, drumming against beskar in relentless cadence. Lightning flared overhead, illuminating the endless ocean below in violent flashes.
Kamino did not welcome them.
It endured them.
And somewhere within those towering white structures, an army waited.
Rain struck the platform in relentless sheets as Kael and Yoda advanced toward the towering entrance of Tipoca City.
The walkway curved gently upward from the landing pad, its surface gleaming white beneath the storm. Water streamed along its edges in controlled channels, disappearing into hidden drains with mechanical precision. Lightning cracked across the sky overhead, illuminating the endless ocean below in violent bursts of silver-blue. Each thunderclap reverberated through the stilts anchoring the city to the planet's depths, a constant reminder that Kamino was not conquered by its inhabitants — merely endured.
Kael moved steadily through the downpour, rain sliding off the angled planes of his beskar helmet. The T-shaped visor filtered the storm's distortion into clean lines, his HUD compensating for visibility loss with subtle adjustments. Water beaded and ran along the black plating of his armor, violet accents glinting briefly when lightning flashed.
Beside him, Yoda walked without hesitation, cane tapping lightly against the wet surface, robes plastered against his small frame by the wind. The Grand Master appeared entirely unbothered by the elements, as though the storm itself were merely another current within the Force.
The entrance doors loomed ahead — tall, seamless panels of pristine white integrated into the curving facade of the structure. No ornamentation. No visible mechanism. Only smooth, sterile design built to resist nature's fury.
They were nearly upon it when the doors parted.
The movement was silent despite the storm's roar, panels sliding back to reveal a corridor of pure white light beyond. Rain lashed against the threshold but did not cross it; some unseen barrier diverted the worst of the elements away from the interior.
A tall figure stepped forward.
Lama Su.
He towered even in stillness — a full head taller than Kael and nearly twice the height of Yoda. His elongated frame seemed almost fragile at first glance, but there was nothing uncertain about his posture. White skin gleamed faintly under the interior lighting, smooth and unblemished. Black eyes with striking white pupils regarded them without blinking. A unique crest rose elegantly from his head, tapering backward in refined curvature. His nostrils connected to his upper lip by a thin, U-shaped slit that flexed slightly as he spoke.
White armor covered his chest and shoulders in sleek contours, a long protective collar framing his narrow neck and the back of his head. Black fabric wrapped his arms and torso, disappearing beneath metallic cuffs at his wrists. A purple belt with an orange buckle circled his waist, and long strips of black fabric with silver lining and red interior fell to obscure his thin legs, ending just above small, hoof-like feet.
Even amid the storm, he appeared immaculate.
"Welcome," Lama Su said smoothly, voice calm and cultured, unaffected by the chaos beyond the doorway. "We are pleased the Jedi have made their way to Kamino."
His gaze lingered briefly on Yoda before drifting to Kael — and settling there.
"Master Kenobi informed us that representatives of your Order would arrive to inspect the army."
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as they traced the silhouette of Kael's armor.
"I did not anticipate," he added with measured curiosity, "that a Mandalorian would accompany you."
Rain continued to strike Kael's helmet in steady percussion.
Inside the visor, his expression did not change.
"That would be because it isn't your concern," he replied evenly.
There was no aggression in his tone.
Only finality.
A faint silence followed — not tense, merely recalibrating.
Yoda stepped forward slightly, his small form dwarfed by both men yet commanding attention nonetheless.
"Here we are," he said, voice calm as ever. "To see this army Master Kenobi spoke of. Ready, I hope they are."
"Needed, they are."
The implication hung in the air like the storm itself.
Lama Su's thin mouth curved almost imperceptibly — not quite a smile, but something akin to satisfaction.
"Of course," he replied. "The army is prepared precisely as commissioned."
He inclined his head gracefully, extending one long, three-fingered hand toward the illuminated corridor beyond.
"Please," he said. "Follow me."
Behind them, thunder rolled across the endless ocean.
Ahead, the sterile white halls of Kamino awaited — immaculate, controlled, and concealing something that would alter the fate of the Republic forever.
Kael stepped across the threshold, rain giving way instantly to pristine dryness.
The doors sealed behind them with silent precision, cutting off the storm as though it had never existed at all.