The dawn mist hung low over the treetops of Yavin IV, casting the Great Temple in shades of gold and green. It was a quiet morning—fitting, Kai thought, for a departure that felt less like leaving and more like shedding skin.
He crouched beside the X-wing, sleeves rolled up and hands caked in grime. Over the last few days, he'd scavenged soot from the temple's old power cells, darkened oils from rusted equipment, and jungle dirt from the forest floor. With methodical strokes, he smeared the mixture over the hull, dulling the bright white plating, staining the Rebel insignia into obscurity. What had once stood for defiance and hope now looked like rusted scrap, forgotten and unwanted.
R6-T3 chirped nervously from beside him, its dome twitching as it scanned the skies.
"I know," Kai said quietly. "This isn't easy for me either."
The droid beeped again—something between a warning and a farewell.
Kai stood, wiped his hands on a rag, and glanced back at the temple. For a moment, he thought he felt Obi-Wan's holocron pulse faintly in his satchel. A reminder. Or maybe a warning.
Then he climbed into the cockpit.
The X-wing's engines groaned at first, unused to being stirred from rest, but they came alive, and soon the fighter was cutting through the morning clouds, vanishing into the stars.
The junker station floated in the far edge of a forgotten system, orbiting a pale, dying star. It had no name, just a registry tag long since erased and a reputation whispered in the darker corners of the galaxy. Half of its frame was exposed scaffolding and jerry-rigged metal; the rest was a patchwork of old Republic modules, Mandalorian scrap, and black market welds.
Kai brought the X-wing in slow, slinging it into one of the less-regulated hangar bays where the docking controller didn't ask for identification, just credits.
The landing gear screeched against the rusted deck as he settled. He powered down the engines and opened the canopy.
Warm air hit him—thick with fumes, oil, and the scent of iron. The hangar was cluttered with ships in various states of disrepair. A disassembled A-wing lay stripped to the ribs in one corner; in another, a Trandoshan dealer barked at a group of Jawas over a faulty hyperdrive coil.
Kai pulled his hood up, keeping his face half-shrouded in shadow. The dark scarf wrapped around his lower face added to the anonymity. R6 descended behind him, already scanning and logging potential vendors.
The holocron and crystal remained hidden, secure in a nested pouch beneath his tunic. But Kai could still feel the hum of them both—one cold and ancient, the other warm and pulsing. The crystal had grown brighter on the journey, its violet hue deepening with each hour. Like it, he too felt something shifting—subtle but certain.
As they moved through the chaotic corridors of the station, he kept to the edges, eyes scanning not just for saber parts but for signs—clues about Gar Saxon, or Mandalorian armour, or anything that might tie the vision to real history.
The deeper into the station they went, the more Kai realized: this place wasn't just a pit stop.
It was a crossroads.
And the past, it seemed, had followed him into the present.
Kai moved like a shadow through the marketplace levels of the station—hood low, steps measured, eyes constantly flicking toward security cams and loitering thugs. The junker station wasn't a haven, just a place where questions were currency and silence was cheaper.
He knew drawing attention would be dangerous. Jedi were myths, but whispers of lightsabers still stirred curiosity—and often the wrong kind. So he never asked for a "lightsaber crystal chamber" or "focusing lens." Instead, he played the part of a salvager, someone piecing together an old energy weapon for a private collector or backwater warlord.
His first stop was a narrow stall with scorched durasteel shutters and stacks of weapon chassis hanging from the ceiling. A grizzled Aqualish greeted him with a grunt.
Kai held up a sketched diagram on a datapad—modified, imprecise, non-descript. "Looking for something that can handle high-frequency plasma cycling."
The Aqualish blinked both sets of eyes, then rummaged through a crate and pulled out a battered cylindrical emitter. "Old. Pre-Clone Wars tech. Still works. Not cheap."
Kai nodded, bartered calmly, and paid in credits—nothing traceable.
Next came the focusing crystal mount, which he found three decks lower from a vendor specializing in "exotic mining and arcane salvage." The Mirialan who ran it looked half-stoned, but sharp beneath her lazy grin.
"You sure this isn't for a saber?" she asked, turning the component over in her fingers.
Kai forced a chuckle. "Collector's piece. Something from old Mandalorian dueling gear."
She arched an eyebrow, but didn't press. "Fifteen credits and a thermal shunt."
He slid the creds and a spare part from the X-wing across the counter and moved on.
The energy modulation circuit was the hardest—hidden inside a black market droid brain vendor's booth, beneath piles of cracked power couplers and fried processors. Kai had to wait out a dispute between a Nikto and a Sullustan over a bricked assassination droid before he could slip into conversation with the Rodian shopkeeper.
The part he wanted was buried in a bin of fried weapon cores. Burnt, but salvageable. He pointed it out casually. "For a thermal lance conversion."
The Rodian squinted at him, whistled doubtfully, but handed it over with a shrug and an upcharge.
By the end of the day, Kai's satchel was heavier. Every part nestled in foam-wrapped cloth, separated by thin layers of metal to hide their readings. The core still missing was the power cell—one of specific voltage and regulation, quiet and efficient.
That would be trickier.
And more dangerous.
But for now, Kai ducked back into a rented maintenance corridor—an abandoned shaft sealed off with a cracked bulkhead—and laid the parts out beneath flickering emergency lights.
He exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from his brow.
Piece by piece, the weapon was coming together.
Now, he just had to stay alive long enough to finish it.