StoryMasterKick
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The Stranger (Part 1)
🕑 Added 2025-02-10 21:56:48 +0000 UTC“So, what are you going to teach me?” I asked, my voice echoing softly in the gloom of the room. I was in a meditative position, legs crossed, palms resting on my knees. In front of me, suspended in mid-air, the holocron glowed with a dim, spectral light. As it opened, a reddish flash illuminated the room, and from its core emerged the silhouette of a hooded woman.
The hologram had an imposing presence despite its ethereal nature. Her posture was rigid, the robes she wore reminiscent of Jedi robes, but her aura was far from that of a simple master of the Order. She did not convey serenity, but sharp, ruthless wisdom.
“To be truly strong, you must first unlearn everything you think you know about power and relearn it.”
I frowned, confused. How could I unlearn what was already etched in my mind? How could I erase what had defined me so far? But, despite my bewilderment, I nodded.
“What do you mean, teacher?”
There was a pause, as if the hologram measured the weight of its response. Then her voice, gruff but solemn, filled the space again.
“Let me give you an example. Tell me, do you know the story of Darth Sion, the Lord of Pain?”
The name was vaguely familiar, but I had no real knowledge of it.
“I can't say I've heard it, no.”
“I guessed as much,” she mused. “To understand the history of Sion, we must first go back thousands of years, to the Great Sith War. During this time, Sion swore allegiance to Exar Kun, who set out to bring the galaxy under the rule of a new Sith Empire...”
Her tone took on a more narrative tinge, as if she were telling me a story impregnated in her memory.
“Perhaps he was once a Jedi, one of many who, under Kun's orders, rose up and slaughtered their masters. Maybe not. What is certain is that, from the beginning, Sion hated the Jedi and longed for battle. He chose to become a Sith Marauder for one reason only: he sought death. Any other detail is unimportant, what matters is that, each time he met his end, he survived. His wounds healed, his body endured. Over time, he developed such resilience that he began to believe he was immortal, a force of nature that no Jedi could stop.”
I felt a shiver run down my spine. A being that refused to fall no matter how destroyed he was? I found it hard to conceive that such a thing could have existed.
“He became so convinced of his own immortality that he rejected the possibility of dying,” the teacher continued. “He discovered that, through the sheer force of hatred and anger, he could hold his body together, even when his wounds should have been fatal. But there was a price: eternal suffering. Every moment of his existence was marked by unbearable pain. 'A small price for immortality,' he would say. But tell me, what do I want to teach you with this?”
The question was rhetorical, but I remained expectant.
“The mind bestows strength or weakens, makes powerful or makes powerless. In Zion's case, he walked, but he was dead in life. Not because his body was broken, but because his spirit was no longer free. He was not ready to let go of his bonds, to surrender. In the same way as the Jedi who blindly cling to their Code.”
Hearing this, the image of Kanan and other Jedi, some who had fallen before me like Oppo Rancisis or Quinlan Vos fleetingly appeared in my mind.
“Sion gave into his hatred until it became his only reason for existing,” my master continued. “He ate, he breathed, he fought...all for the sole purpose of hunting Jedi. But tell me, when there were no more Jedi left to hunt, what was left for Sion?”
The thought disturbed me.
“It would be like a blaster without an owner,” I muttered, slowly realizing. “A weapon without purpose.”
“Exactly,” she asserted. “A void where before there was only rage. Without its hatred to define it, it would have ceased to exist. Not in body, but in meaning, in purpose. For all his power, Sion was never really alive. He just existed. He persisted. He clung to his pain like a shield and a chain at the same time. But tell me, when the last Jedi fell, when his war lost all meaning... what was he left with? Did he find another enemy, another cause to continue? Or, at the last instant, did he understand that he had never been free, never been strong... only a slave to fear, terrified of the silence that would follow the absence of his anger?”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked, frowning. I didn't understand why Kreia insisted on telling me about Sion, about his hatred, about his misery.
“It is important that you understand this,” she replied in her serene, almost didactic tone, but with a tinge of harshness in her voice. Her eyes, hidden behind her hood, seemed to pierce me.
“Because you too walk on the edge of a choice, even if you don't yet understand it. Sion was strong, his body resisted death itself, but his will was chained. His pain, his hatred, gave him purpose, yes... but they also robbed him of the possibility of being something more than a shadow hungry for vengeance. Tell me, what drives you on? Your cause? Your duty? Or is it something else? If what you pursue consumes you completely, how will you differ from it?”
There was silence. I could feel the weight of his words, the judgment implicit in them. It was not a simple warning. It was a test.
“And how can I keep from falling into that? How can I keep my motivation from consuming me?” I asked, feeling the weight of doubt settle in my chest.
“That's the right question, but don't expect an answer that will bring you comfort,” she said, with a slight nod, as if she had been waiting for me to question her.
“It is not passion that destroys, but the blindness that often accompanies it. It is not conviction that fetters, but the unwillingness to question it. Zion clung to his hatred because it was the only thing he understood, and because of it, he became a prisoner of himself. But you... you still have a choice. Don't reject what drives you, but don't let it possess you either. Keep your reason sharp as a blade, ever ready to cut the chains that others, or yourself, try to impose on you.”
She paused, letting her words sink in.
“Remember this, disciple: a weapon is dangerous not only because of who wields it, but because of the reason with which it is wielded. If you become a slave to your own purpose, then it will matter little whether you think you fight for good or for vengeance... for in either case, you will have lost.”
“In other words, is it important to have a motive, a goal, something to guide me and motivate me to be stronger... but is it equally important not to let this override everything?” I asked, trying to summarize my teacher's words.
“In simple terms, yes,” the hooded figure replied with a tone of approval. “But that is not the only lesson you must learn. However... I think that will have to wait for another time.”
Her voice deepened, and her silhouette in the holocron seemed to turn slightly, as if sensing something beyond our conversation.
“I sense you have company.”
Hearing that, my muscles immediately tensed. My instincts sharpened, and a sense of alertness coursed through my body like an electric shock. My teacher was right: someone else was here. I didn't know how, but somehow he had managed to conceal his presence long enough to slip away unnoticed until now.
Wasting no time, I took the holocron and stowed it in one of the pockets of my protective suit. My thoughts began to race at full speed.
'Who is skilled enough to hide his presence from me? Only Vader and the Emperor should be capable of something like this... and one of them is dead. Unless...'
The thought chilled my blood. I couldn't afford to assume the worst without proof, but there was no room for complacency. In a single motion, I unsheathed my lightsaber from my belt and ignited it. The crimson blade illuminated the darkness with an ominous glow.
“Come out of there,” I demanded in a firm voice, not taking my eyes off the shadows around me. “I already know you're here. Show yourself.”
The silence was broken by a soft sound, the scuffling of cloth as it moved. Then, a figure emerged from the shadows, walking slowly and leaning on a cane.
“Please put down your weapon. I'm not here to hurt you.”
The voice was rough and worn, with an almost pleading tone. But I didn't let my guard down.
“That's for me to decide,” I replied without giving an inch. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
The figure hesitated for a moment before answering, as if his voice was rusty from lack of use.
“Forgive me...it's just...I've been lonely for so long. It's been years since I've spoken to anyone.”
Despite his words, my lightsaber remained steady, its reddish glow casting shadows on the hooded face.
“Do you live on this planet?” I asked, but before I could answer, a realization struck my mind like a bolt of lightning. “Wait... you're the presence I felt when I was on the surface - you felt me, didn't you?”
The stranger was silent for a few seconds, as if gauging his response. Finally, in a cryptic tone, he spoke again.
“Yes... that was me,” he admitted. “I sensed the presence of your ship, so I ran and hid. You see, when I noticed your arrival, I thought you were coming to kill me. I'm someone... quite wanted by a lot of people.”
His words were shrouded in an air of mystery, but what captured my attention most was what he said next.
“But... the real reason I approached you is because you managed to open it. The holocron.”
Instinctively, my hand brushed the pocket where I had kept it.
“When I came here many years ago, I spoke to the voice inside that holocron,” he continued. “But she would not allow me access to her knowledge. She did not deem me worthy.” Her eyes bore into me with a gleam of intense curiosity. “If you made it...it means you're someone special.”
My thoughts swirled in my mind. Had this man also tried to learn from her? Who was he really?
“Regarding your other question,” he added, ”yes, I live here...though not by choice. My ship crashed years ago, and I've been stuck ever since. Shipwrecked. I've had to scavenge and struggle to survive.”
I watched him silently, analyzing every word, every gesture. His voice denoted weariness, but there was something else beneath the surface. Something calculating.
“That I understand,” I conceded, ”but you still haven't answered my main question. Who are you?”
The stranger exhaled slowly and, after a moment's hesitation, his hands rose to the edge of his hood. With a deliberate movement, he pulled it back, revealing his face.
My eyes widened.
It was impossible.
The man's skin was reddish and furrowed with black marks that drew a sinister pattern. His amber eyes glowed with feverish intensity. And though time had left its mark on him, there was no mistaking his identity.
“I once had a name,” he said in a deep, almost melancholy voice. “So long ago, I don't remember.”
His gaze bore into mine, watching my reaction before he uttered the words that made my grip on the lightsaber tighten.
“Now, I am called... Maul.”
