Chapter 97

Ali and Drogath stepped into their shared accommodation, a modest room furnished with practicality rather than luxury. Against one wall were two large beds stacked on top of each other, designed to accommodate even someone of Drogath's immense size.

On the opposite side of the room, a sturdy desk was neatly built into the wall, positioned beside a cabinet that blended seamlessly into the metal surface.

A window overlooked the desert wastelands of Korriban, its red sands stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

Ali's eyes immediately went to the upper bed. "I'm taking the top," he announced, moving toward the cabinet. He pressed a button on the side, causing the cabinet's doors to slide open with a soft hiss.

Inside hung four sets of black acolyte uniforms—two tailored to Ali's size and two noticeably larger, clearly meant for Drogath. The uniforms were identical aside from size: plain black with sharp lines and reinforced seams, a standard look for Sith trainees.

Ali glanced over his shoulder at the sound of a heavy thud. His eyes landed on Drogath, who was now undressing without hesitation. The hulking alien had stripped down to his barbaric loincloth, leaving little to the imagination.

The garment barely held together under the strain of his immense physique, and his purple skin, marred with countless scars, glistened faintly under the room's dim lights. Drogath's massive muscles rippled as he bent to pick up his discarded clothing, his sheer size dominating the small space.

Ali pinched the bridge of his nose. "Big guy, you can't just strip down behind someone like that without warning."

"Why not?" Drogath asked, his deep voice genuinely confused.

Ali raised an eyebrow. "Because it could lead to… misunderstandings," he said flatly. "Like, I could've taken this the wrong way and thrown you out that window just now."

"I still don't understand what you mean, human," Drogath replied with a shrug, his tone innocent. "This is common back home."

Ali sighed, shaking his head. "First of all, don't call me 'human.' Call me by my name—Ali. Second, this isn't home, Drogath. You'd better remember that. This place is the farthest thing from a home you'll ever see."

Drogath huffed, his massive shoulders rising and falling. "You are right, Ali. This place… it feels wrong."

"I'm going to the toilet. Get dressed—and don't leave the room."

Drogath stepped aside to let him pass, nodding once in acknowledgment.

Ali walked down the long corridor, following the signs until he found one marked with a humanoid male figure. Pushing open the door, he stepped into a large, surprisingly modern bathroom.

Each stall was self-contained, equipped with a toilet, a shower, a sink, and a small mirror. The design was practical, but the individual units added an uncommon sense of privacy.

Ali entered one of the stalls and turned on the sink, the water activating automatically as his hand passed beneath the faucet.

He cupped his hands and splashed the cool water over his face, the sensation washing away some of the tension that clung to him.

Standing straight, he stared into the mirror. His reflection stared back—midnight black eyes filled with a sharp, calculating intensity.

He pushed his damp hair back from his forehead, the dark strands slicked neatly, highlighting his angular features. His sharp cheekbones and cold gaze giving him a devilishly handsome aura. But his moment of calm was interrupted when the interface appeared in his vision.

"World Mission: Participate in the battle on Kaelthar."

"Personal Mission: Kill a Jedi (0/1)"

"Personal Mission: Become a Sith Warrior."

Ali's eyes widened slightly. 'Two personal missions… That's never happened before. And one of them is to kill a Jedi?' His brow furrowed as he considered the implications.

'Jedi… they're Malgrith's level or higher. This is a whole new challenge.' His gaze darkened as he considered the second mission.

'Sith Warrior—I need to figure out what rank that even is. If it's another barrier to cross, I'll deal with it, but Paradise never gives me anything straightforward.'

Ali's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a deep, menacing voice.

"SHOW THEM."

Ali's head snapped up, his reflection staring back at him—but it wasn't the same. The face in the mirror smirked darkly, its black eyes devoid of irises, while dark veins snaked up its face like cracks in porcelain.

"This is nothing to you," the reflection said, its voice laced with venom. "This is child's play. They are beneath you. Show them WHO YOU ARE."

Ali's jaw tightened, his breathing slowing. He closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the vision. When he opened them again, his reflection had returned to normal.

He stood there for a moment, his mind steadying itself, before a small, cold smile crossed his lips.

He turned and left the bathroom.

Back in the room, Drogath lay sprawled on the lower bed, his massive frame nearly taking up the entire mattress.

Above him, Ali sat cross-legged on the upper bed, staring out the window. The beds were sturdy, built to handle their occupants' considerable weight, and the room's ceiling was high enough that Ali could sit comfortably without ducking.

Through the window, Ali watched as a massive sandstorm swept across the desert in the distance. The storm was enormous, dwarfing anything he had seen before.

Waves of red sand churned violently, consuming the horizon in a chaotic display of nature's raw power.

"Drogath," Ali said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Do you feel any resentment toward me for hurting you earlier?"

"No," Drogath replied immediately. His deep voice was calm, yet resolute. "You beat me and left me alive. That is something we respect back home. I respect you."

"I see," Ali said. After a pause, he added, "Tell me about it—your home."

"It is warm and free," Drogath said simply, though his voice carried an unmistakable weight.

Ali leaned back against the wall. "And how did you end up here?"

Drogath let out a heavy sigh, his massive chest rising and falling. "I was a farmer," he began, speaking slowly as he searched for the right words. "I cared for my father, mother, and little sister with what I grew. But I did not want to farm. I wanted to fight, to hunt. My father forbade it. He was once a hunter himself, but he was injured fighting a great beast and could no longer provide for us."

Ali listened silently, giving Drogath the space to continue.

"But I kept asking," Drogath said, his tone quieter now. "And finally, my father taught me to fight. He showed me how to use my strength, my size. At night, I would sneak out and hunt beasts. I sold their bodies to provide extra for my family. It worked—for a time."

"What happened?" Ali asked.

"A drought," Drogath rumbled. "The crops died. The beasts left. We had nothing. My father grew sicker, and I could not afford his medicine. A merchant from outside the village told me the Empire paid well for service. I sold myself into slavery so they would move my family to a better village, one where they could survive. The Empire gave them credits to live on."

Ali exhaled quietly, his expression unreadable. "You did what you had to," he said.

"My father did not think so," Drogath said, his deep voice tinged with regret. "He would not look at me or speak to me. To him, I was a coward for leaving."

Ali remained silent, his gaze fixed on the distant sandstorm. After a moment, he said, "You made a choice most wouldn't have the courage to make. Do not regret sacrificing for your family as it is an honourable thing to do."

Drogath huffed in acknowledgment, his massive frame sinking deeper into the mattress. The storm outside continued to rage.

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