Built from the shell of an ancient foundation, the Arx Colosseum has undergone renovations to allow multiple new configurations for battle. Its spectator setup remains largely the same, with high walls, tall enough for even the most savvy Jedi to find unscalable that lead up to spectator chairs which are divided into nearly organized sections to accommodate several thousand people. At the center, an elongated platform “box” contains a central throne of stone with various seats of smaller scale lined beside it in both directions. Two large holo-projection screens are set up on each side of the Colosseum, offering different angles of the match bia holocam drones.

Today’s setup is known as The Forge.

Inspired by the droid factories on Geonosis and the flowing lava rivers of Mustafar, the Forge is a collection of deadly heat and hard-slamming steel. In the center of the arena is a “peak” from which the lava flows downward through rivers and cliff-faces. Radiating outward is a series of tiered rings, each getting lower the further from the center you get.

Along the rivers of lava, various arteries suck out the super heated earth to melt metal. The loud clanking slamming of metal sheets heating and cooling, tempering and forging together ring clearly through the entire arena. Conveyor belts lead the metal sheets away from the arena to be used by ACE in the spaceship yards.

“No.”

The word escaped Declan Roark’s mouth in the form of a plea. The Mandalorian Grand Master shook his head back and forth to clear the fog from his mind. A familiar and persistent buzzing filled his ears as his vision tunneled from light to darkness.

“Not now.”

There were stories about Sith Lords in the Dark Brotherhood. They were titans that strode across the galaxy. They built Death Stars, they commanded legions, and they committed galaxy changing events on a whim. These stories were true, but they did not unmask the true nature of the Sith Lords. No, their true nature was something much worse. Something much more insidious.

A true Sith Lord was interested in one thing more than anything else. It was the process of delving into a soul, taking root, and then disintegrating all that remained of that being. A Sith Lord sought to fragment the soul, destroy its beliefs, and recreate the being in their own image. Sith Lords created weapons and tools in the forge of personality disintegration.

Declan Roark had been warned. Do not take contracts from the Sith, but credits and glory appealed to the Mandalorian more than caution. He was a braggadocious warrior that enjoyed luxury and the Sith offered limitless wealth. Roark succeeded in his early work with the Sith and before long he was brought before a man that would change his life. Darth Pravus.

The Sith Lord was charming, educated, and did not fit into Roark’s vision of a stereotypical conniving Sith. Within a year, Roark found himself working exclusively for Pravus and he began to take on missions that he would have never considered in the past. Murder and inconceivable acts of violence now found a place in Roark’s repertoire. Roark never thought twice about what he was asked to do.

Without even realizing it, Declan Roark had voluntarily reorganized his entire belief system in just over a year of work with Pravus. His values and priorities had changed and when Pravus ordered Roark to do something, it was done without question.

The will of a Grand Master of the Sith was paramount. When standing before it, you may think you have an option to deny a request, but there is no denying what is asked of you. You obey. The guileful part was that you believed your obeisance was your own decision.

“Kill him.”

It was not a suggestion; it was not a discussion. Darth Pravus was on Arx and he desired the death of Hector Von Ricmore. Roark did not know why and even if he did know why, it would not matter.

“Kill him.”

Roark let out an agonizing and guttural scream as his hands went to his helmet and attempted to shake the command out of his head. Not now, not a clanmate. It was no use.

The Mandalorian Grand Master’s hands dropped from his helmet, and he drew his two custom WESTAR-35 Blackhearts and opened fire on his opponent. Thirty meters away, standing on a stone path between two pools of magma, High Inquisitor Hector Von Ricmore appeared relaxed, his right hand centered on the hilt of his purple-bladed lightsaber. The Dark Jedi’s blade swept up from its non-threatening position and batted aside the torrent of Roark’s blaster fire. Hector’s second hand went to his hilt as he realized something was wrong. Roark felt wrong. He felt fragmented. His intentions were not those of a duelist in the ACC.

Roark screamed again as he stalked forward. The Blackhearts screamed with a steady staccato of fire in the direction of Von Ricmore. Roark’s ambidexterity teamed with years of training made the stream of blaster fire increasingly difficult for Hector to block. Blaster fire was now coming at his head and his legs simultaneously and at a pace that would soon be difficult to block.

Hector’s hand dropped from his saber and flashed towards the pool of magma on his left. A stone, somehow not yet melted, rose from the pool, and launched towards Roark. The Mandalorian Grand Master’s steady fire stopped instantly as he narrowly dodged the super-heated stone.

Roark let out a low growl as the singular mantra of “kill him” repeated over and over in his mind. The WESTARs went to their holsters and Roark reached to the weapon mounted on his back. The Dantes Spear twirled in the Grand Master’s hands. The spear was a gift from his Sith Master, and it was a one of kind object in the galaxy. It was a weapon that Roark had mastered, but never used in actual combat. Hector Von Ricmore would be the first to experience its wrath.

Hector stumbled back as his foe fell upon him with the force of a typhoon. The Dantes Spear lashed out again and again, probing for any holes in the Dark Jedi’s defense. Hector was forced to be entirely defensive to survive the barrage of strikes, both hands firmly gripping his lightsaber.

Even in his clearly addled state Declan Roark was a superior duelist. His movements were unpredictable, shifting from textbook efficiency to unorthodox maneuvers within moments.

Hector reached out into the Force, probing his foe, with senses beyond those found and most biological beings. He could feel an unnatural aggression from his opponent, the origin of which appeared to come from elsewhere. Some external influence perhaps.

Sympathy roiled through him. The Kiffar was familiar with how awful it could feel to be under the control of another being. He had sensed similar emotions when Sofila had found herself under the thrall of Darth Scimitar. It was just as unpleasant to sense then as it was now.

A shroud of darkness emanated from the spear; an ethereal, sickly sweet sensation, which clashed against his senses. It was likely that weapon was the source of the Mandalorian’s bizarre actions and frame of mind. Such a realization meant little to the Dark Jedi currently as he was unable to try the weapon from his foe.

Hector had often found himself outmatched by an enemy. But rarely was the gulf between them as wide as it currently felt. He was no slouch with a lightsaber, and yet he could not find a single opening to launch a proper offensive. Time and time again his attempts were rebuffed, and he once again was forced onto the defensive.

If he could not win in the realm of the physical, perhaps he could achieve victory through the power of the ethereal. With a flex of his will he connected his mind to Declan. He was perturbed as he felt another presence. Something that should not have been there. Projected an immense power; power that he had only felt once before. When he stood before the Grand Master Muz. This was not a being to be trifled with. With a small amount of effort the being threw the Kiffar out of the mindscape.

While the attempt had failed it had not been fruitless. Manipulating someone from a long distance with the force was not an easy endeavor. He did not need to overpower the being controlling Declan, he merely had to disrupt the connection enough for the man to free himself. He needed more power to accomplish such a goal. For now he needed to stay alive long enough to gather his strength for such an attempt.

The risky mental foray had left him open to attack and Declan Roark took advantage. The edge of the Dantes Spear scraped away Hector’s energy shield and its shaft slammed into his stomach, sending him to the ground. His lightsaber flew from his grasp, tumbling to the ground and deactivating.

His left hand shoved forward, gripping his enemy with an invisible Force, then hurled him away. The Mandalorian arrested his momentum with a burst of his jetpack. Then activated it again and dove towards his opponent.

Hector gestured with both hands, shoving his palms towards the flying Mandalorian. Globs of lava lifted into the air and flung towards the airborne figure.

Declan weaved to the right of the first glob, rose above the second, and dove under the third. But the globs continued to fly towards him. Lava landed on his left arm, burning beskar but leaving the flesh beneath untouched. A second glob landed on the jetpack, short circuiting it and sending Declan crashing to the ground.

The Mandalorian rose to his feet with a growl. He could still feel the urge demanding he bathe in the blood of his foe.

“Kill him. Kill him. Kill Him. KILL HIM.”

Gripping his spear he flung it towards his foe. Hector deflected the blade and gave his opponent an incredulous look.

He would throw away his weapon just like that?

Declan held out his hand and called the spear back. Hector’s eyes widened as the shaft of the spear slammed into him once again, shoving him into the rock below.

Sweat dripped down the Kiffar’s face. Exertions during the battle and the heat of the arena were starting to get to him. His shield was completely gone. But his armor remained intact. For now.

Pushing a button on his lightsaber, Ascalon, he transformed the single blade into a pike by extending the hilt. Placing the pommel onto the ground he used the polearm as leverage to help himself to his feet.

He watched his enemy march towards him at a relentless pace and prepared to defend himself once again.