The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning durasteel. Flickers of flame danced across the wreckage of the Mandalorian stronghold, painting the stone walls with hellish light. Echoes of blaster fire rang like thunder through the corridors, mingled with the metallic shriek of vibroblades clashing. Outside, the stars blinked coldly, silent, distant spectators to the chaos below.
Kaelen Vizsla crouched behind the shattered remains of a pillar, his small hands wrapped tightly around a blaster pistol nearly twice his size. The weapon buzzed softly in his grasp, its charge fully active. But his finger, trembling, sweaty, refused to pull the trigger.
Around him, Death Watch warriors fought ferociously, their war cries swallowed by the roar of destruction. Bodies littered the corridor—both loyal Mandalorians and Death Watch alike—twisted, broken, lifeless. Blood pooled on the durasteel floors, already darkening as soot settled over it like ash from a funeral pyre.
Kaelen's armour was scorched, cracked at the shoulder and chest. It hung too loosely on his slight frame—a child's imitation of a warrior's garb. The scent of smoke and burnt flesh clogged his lungs. His heart pounded like a drumbeat of fear. His mind reeled.
They told me I was weak. Over and over. Not ready. Not worthy.
And now… they're right.
Ahead, beyond the smoke, two figures moved like wind through fire. Jedi.
A tall man with a green sabre—elegant, powerful—locked blades with a roaring Death Watch commander. Beside him, a younger Jedi, lean and focused, fought with graceful precision. They moved like water around their enemies. Fluid. Unstoppable. They were not like the others. These weren't thugs or troopers or bounty hunters.
These were Jedi.
Kaelen's courage fractured.
"Why aren't you fighting?"
The voice cut through the noise like a vibroblade through flesh. It wasn't loud, but it struck Kaelen harder than any explosion.
He turned—and there he stood.
Pre Vizsla.
Tall. Imposing. Cloaked in beskar black and cold silence. His helmet gleamed dully under the firelight. The man who called himself Kaelen's fatherwas only in shadows. The man who whispered promises in the quiet: You will be more than a soldier. You will be my legacy.
Kaelen's blaster lowered slightly. "They're Jedi. They're… not like the others. I—I hesitated."
Vizsla's glare seared through the helmet's visor. "Hesitation is weakness." His voice was ice and iron. "And weakness is death."
Kaelen's throat tightened. "I'm sorry."
Pre Vizsla said nothing. The silence was worse than shouting.
Then, his vambrace lit up with a sharp ping. A message scrolled across his HUD. With a low growl, he snapped, "We're pulling out. We've lost the element of surprise. All squads—fall back to extraction."
The remaining Death Watch began a chaotic retreat into the cliffs, disappearing into shadows and smoke.
Kaelen scrambled to follow.
"Not you."
Vizsla didn't raise his voice, but it cracked like a whip.
Kaelen froze. "What—?"
"You stay here."
Vizsla turned his back, walking toward the ledge overlooking the drop to the rocks below.
Kaelen's breath caught in his throat. "You said I was strong! That I was your blood!"
Pre Vizsla paused at the edge of the platform.
"You were a mistake," he said, almost too quietly. "And mistakes don't deserve Mandalore."
Then he vanished into the smoke.
Kaelen didn't remember falling to his knees. Only the sudden emptiness, the crushing weight—not of the beskar on his shoulders, but of the shattering inside his chest.
He was gone.
Pre Vizsla—the name both feared and revered—had abandoned him. Not in battle, but in shame.
Left me… like I was nothing.
The words echoed louder than blaster fire.
Anger curled inside Kaelen's chest, coiling tight like a predator. He clenched his fists. Around him, the stronghold groaned under the damage. Dust fell like ash.
I'll prove him wrong. I'll show them all. I will become more than this.
And then—footsteps.
Soft. Calm. Out of place amid the ruin.
Two Jedi emerged through the smoke.
The older one walked with serene confidence, green saber deactivated at his side. His robes were scorched, his silver-streaked beard flecked with dust—but his gaze was clear, deep with quiet understanding.
Qui-Gon Jinn.
Beside him, a younger man moved with cautious discipline—blue eyes sharp, brow furrowed, braid swaying gently at his shoulder.
Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Obi-Wan's steps slowed as he took in the scene—a lone child amidst ruin, clutching a blaster, covered in soot and blood.
"What happened here…" he murmured. "A child in the middle of a Death Watch ambush?"
Qui-Gon said nothing, but his eyes were on the boy, reading him, not just his body, but his soul.
He felt it instantly.
The pain. The rage. The storm inside this boy is not ordinary.
He stepped forward slowly. His voice, low and warm. "Easy, young one. You don't need to fight anymore."
Kaelen raised the blaster instinctively, hands trembling. "Stay back. I'll fight you if I have to."
Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "He's terrified."
Qui-Gon crouched a few paces away. "We're not your enemies," he said gently. "You've lost something—someone."
Kaelen didn't respond. His visor cracked, revealing one dark, defiant eye.
"He left me," Kaelen rasped. "He said I was weak. Said I'd die."
The Force shifted—subtly, then violently.
A ripple surged outward from the boy, like a breath before a scream. And then it erupted.
A wave of raw, uncontrolled Force blasted outward. Dust and stone exploded from the ground. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan were thrown back like rag dolls, skidding across the floor.
Obi-Wan groaned, pushing himself upright, brushing debris from his robes. "That wasn't trained. That was… instinct."
Qui-Gon stood slowly, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
"So much darkness. So much pain." He whispered. "The Force clings to him like wildfire."
Kaelen dropped the blaster. His fists shook at his sides, his breathing ragged. His eyes, now visible, glowed with fury and grief. Power radiated from him like heat from a forge.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "I don't even know what I did!"
Obi-Wan's voice softened. "He's just a boy."
"No," Qui-Gon said, eyes still locked on Kaelen. "He's more than that."
He stepped forward again, this time slower, more carefully.
"The power you have—it comes from the pain. But it can become something greater."
Kaelen's voice cracked. "I don't want to be weak anymore."
Qui-Gon knelt before him. "You don't have to be. Let us show you another path."
Kaelen stared at the Jedi's hand, outstretched, calm, unwavering. Something inside him recoiled. Jedi. Peacekeepers. Warriors of restraint.
But I am Mandalorian. Born of fire. Bred for war.
And yet…
No one else had reached out.
He could still hear Vizsla's voice: You were a mistake.
Kaelen looked up, eyes burning. "My name is Kaelen Vizsla."
Obi-Wan's expression shifted. "Vizsla?"
Qui-Gon murmured, "A descendant of Tarre Vizsla… That explains the storm in him."
"My father left me," Kaelen said. "He said I'd die. Said I wasn't worthy of his name."
Obi-Wan was quiet. Then: "Do you want to prove him right?"
Kaelen didn't answer. He looked down at his hands. The same hands that trembled just moments ago—now humming with power.
Finally, he looked up.
"I'll get stronger," he said, voice barely a whisper. "Strong enough to make them regret it."
Qui-Gon didn't flinch. "Then come with us. Not for vengeance. Not for war. To become something more."
Smoke curled around the boy like ghosts of the fallen. His choice hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop.
Kaelen reached out.
He didn't take the Jedi's hand to be saved. He took it to rise