Meanwhile—across the ruined entrance of the Jedi Temple, blanketed by creeping layers of frost and ice—Yaddle stood still.
Her breath clouded in the cold, eyes lifted to the sky as a shadow consumed the stars. From above, the great fortress descended—an impossible mass of dark architecture, mythic and vast.
Gate of Skye… she thought quietly.
Before her stood Skadi—spear held loosely at her side, robes drifting with unnatural wind. Her voice was calm, sharp, tinged with immortal pride.
"Master Jedi," she said, her tone almost gentle, "you are millennia younger than I am."
Yaddle simply smiled. Perhaps…
If I were older… I could've been that beautiful too.
The silence was shattered.
"Demonic blade, complete.
Show me your pride.
This is the dawn of destruction…
Bölverkr Gram!"
Sigurd's voice cut through the cold, and in the blink of an eye, he was in motion.
Multiple green, spectral blades of Gram erupted from his fists—sharp, fast, relentless. He closed the distance in a blink, launching a barrage of phantom slashes like forged lightning.
Yaddle's saber ignited.
She danced. Her body moved with Ataru precision—graceful, acrobatic, unpredictable. One blade deflected, two more redirected mid-air. Three others she spun through, twisting between their trails of light like a falling leaf in wind. But then—
The real Gram struck. A massive, two-times-human-sized blade—dense, radiant, real—punched toward her like a meteor.
Yaddle's body flipped mid-air, narrowly evading the full brunt of the blow. It struck behind her. BOOM. The shockwave burst outward, hurling debris, flame, and frost across the ruined courtyard. Stone cracked. Ice shattered.
Yaddle landed in a crouch.
Her eyes rose—and then narrowed.
Beyond the smoke, she saw them.
The Valkyrie Trio—Ortlinde, Hildr, and Thrúd—once paralyzed by her rare technique Morichro, now stood tall once more. Their wounds gone . Their presence—brimming with restored vigor.
Yaddle's gaze shifted slightly.
She summoned a fortress… not just for support, but to revive her warriors?
This isn't like standard battle meditation. This… is something that rare like force healing .
Skadi traced another rune in the air.
It flashed. Suddenly—beneath Yaddle's feet, glowing marks appeared. Instinct kicked in—Yaddle leapt, narrowly avoiding the trap. But even in the air—she was flanked.
CLINK. A light spear touched her neck.
Thrúd, her white armor glinting, stood with her spear at the exact point between Yaddle's carotid and shoulder. Ortlinde and Hildr hovered behind, ready to strike at a moment's command.
Skadi stepped forward, gaze composed. "I won't kill you," she said, soft but unyielding. "But stand down… until Ophelia's wish is fulfilled."
The Valkyrie's sword never lowered.
But Yaddle did. With a quiet exhale, she gently lowered her body, folded her legs, and sat.
She meditated. If the enemy wouldn't strike… she would not provoke. She would wait.
Still. Centered. A Jedi, even in surrender.
—Meanwhile, nearby—
Atop a shattered building not far from the Jedi Temple, fire crackled across the duracrete walls. Chunks of rubble smoldered, and the wind carried ash through the sky. In the midst of the destruction, two figures stood amidst the embers.
Mace Windu. Ashwatthama. Both warriors scorched, bruised, but unyielding.
Ashwatthama popped open a plastic bottle he'd found half-buried beneath rubble. Took a long swig. Then, with a grunt, tossed it sideways.
Windu snatched it out of the air without a word.
He looked down at the half-filled container for a moment—then drank. All of it..
Windu let the bottle fall to the ground, empty. "Shame," he said
"If you joined the Republic… without that massive temper of yours… a lot fewer innocents would die."
Ashwatthama cracked his neck with a wide grin. "You monks… always talking about peace like it's a food group."
He pointed a finger, circling the air. "You all shave your heads—except you. You're already bald. So, what's your excuse?"
Windu didn't flinch.
Ashwatthama's smile dropped as he looked downward—toward the streets below. "Look. Look at them. All the ones you ignored. All the ones below your temple walls. You think this galaxy still deserves your silence?"
Windu said nothing—but his purple lightsaber snapped to life with a deep hum,
Ashwatthama stepped back, raising his massive golden chakram—the human-sized ring now spinning slowly behind him like the halo of a war god.
Then— BOOM.
Windu raised his hand, calling upon the Force—Force Wave. A concentrated, omnidirectional blast of pressure twisted into a focused arc aimed directly at Ashwatthama.
But before it could land—
"WAAAAITTTTTT!!"
Peperoncino lunged in from the side.
"MY BOYYYYY!!!"
In a blur of silk and madness, Pepe tackled Ashwatthama mid-stride—just as the wave of Force struck.
The detonation was brutal.
Ashwatthama rolled through the impact, barely touched. But Pepe?
He was launched like a cannonball. His body crashed through one building. Then another. Then another. A streak of red, gold, and sheer chaos cutting through the skyline like a flamboyant comet. His voice echoed in the distance:
"YOU GOT THIS, MY SERVANT—ASHWATTHAMAAAA!!"
Ashwatthama blinked. Then sighed.
"…That's my Master. That crazy bastard just reversed positions with a Servant and used himself as a meatshield."
He stood up, brushing himself off as embers swirled around him. Then his gaze locked on Windu—dead serious now.
"This one's for you, you beautiful bastard."
He raised his arm. His voice roared across the battlefield:
"NOW PISS OFF!
SUDARSHANA CHAKRA YAMARĀJA!!!"
The massive golden ring ignited—runic symbols flaring across its surface as it spun violently. Then Ashwatthama kicked it—full power, straight at Windu.
Windu gritted his teeth, feet bracing against the rooftop as the chakram tore through the air . He brought his saber up—and the moment it struck—
A shockwave exploded out across the ruined building. Glass shattered for blocks. Concrete split. The two forces clashed—Sudarshana's destructive magic versus Windu's raw mastery of the Force.
Windu's lightsaber screamed as it held the golden edge. He poured everything into it—Tutaminis activated at full capacity, draining the magical heat, dispersing the impact energy, redirecting what he could.
But Ashwatthama didn't stop.
He pushed, channeling , more of himself into the spinning ring.
Then— A final burst.
BOOOOOOM.
The rooftop cracked—half the building detonated outright in a surge of golden light. The blast blew outward, flattening the nearby tower spires. The wave struck like a quake.
When the dust settled…
Windu lay on his back—unconscious. Burn marks scorched across his robes. His ribs clearly broken, blood trailing from the side of his mouth. His saber was gone, deactivated, somewhere lost in the wreckage.
Ashwatthama stood beside him, chest heaving, armor singed, but grinning ear to ear.
He threw his arms up and roared to the broken skyline:
"I'VE WONNN!!! AGAINST THE JEDI!!!"
A voice called out dryly from a few levels below, unimpressed.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Now can you keep it quiet down?"
Ashwatthama blinked and looked down.
There sat Qin Shi Huang, completely untouched, seated across from Yarael Poof at a floating stone table—playing Chinese chess amidst the battlefield debris. Pieces calmly clacked as they moved, completely undisturbed by the smoke and craters around them.
Ashwatthama's expression twitched. Then his eyes spotted someone nearby—Hinako Akuta, standing beside Xiang Yu. Both were watching from the shadows of a broken support pillar.
"Hey," Ashwatthama called out, pointing. "Crypter of the Chinese Lostbelt! Why didn't you join the fight , where is your warrior spirit ?"
Hinako stiffened. She glanced to the side, face turning red with embarrassment. Xiang Yu, beside her, said nothing—his towering figure as quiet as a guilty statue.
They didn't answer.
Because deep down… They both knew their Lostbelt King was just a little too eccentric.
Suddenly, a slipspace portal cracked open beside Ashwatthama, folding into reality with a hum of Forerunner tech. The air shimmered—and from it emerged Ophelia Phamrsolone, one arm slung under the shoulder of a limping, battered Peperoncino.
Pepe's flamboyant robes were scorched. His hair was a tangled mess. Bandages half-hung from his arms, and his boots were mismatched .
Ophelia let out a sigh. "What an idiot… trades places with a Servant mid-fight like that."
Pepe gave a weak grin, blood still dried at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I needed to look cool, didn't I?"
Ophelia gave him a flat stare. "You still have multiple broken bones. If Offensive Bias didn't administer first aid when you hit that last wall, you'd be gone by now."
Pepe just kept smiling. "But I looked good doing it."
Ashwatthama watched them for a second, then let out a quiet laugh.
"At least my Master's a warrior," he said proudly, arms crossed. "And I kinda like it."
Then— It hit.
A ripple. A pulse.
The effect of Battle Meditation—but not from any known ally.
This one was different . Crippling. Overwhelming.
It washed over the battlefield like a tide of despair.
Ophelia's eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat. "W-What is this…? Is it… fear?" she stammered, trembling. "It's making me—afraid…?"
Ashwatthama stumbled slightly, grabbing his head with both hands. "Aghhhhh—what is this?! This pressure… this immense fear…!"
—Elsewhere—
At Skadi's side of the ruined Jedi Temple, the wind suddenly died. The air turned thick with invisible weight.
Skadi's wand slipped from her hand.
She clutched her ears with both hands, a soft, choked gasp escaping her lips. Her knees buckled slightly as her body trembled.
"My Queen!" Thrúd shouted, rushing to her side. "Are you all right?!"
Skadi didn't answer—her eyes wide, hands still shaking.
Across from them, seated on the ice-coated battlefield, Yaddle's eyes opened.
She sensed it instantly.
Yaddle inhaled softly, voice calm, unshaken.
"A third party is doing this…"
She lowered her hands to her knees. "Now let me help."
With a breath—Yaddle closed her eyes again.
And the shift began.
Her own Battle Meditation flared outward—not intrusive, not offensive. Supportive.
A wave of peace, clarity, and resilience began radiating from her small form like ripples on a still lake. The tide of fear began to lessen.
Skadi's breathing eased. Her trembling slowed.
Sigurd stood between them, hand hovering over his blade, watching Yaddle with narrow eyes.
The fear hadn't disappeared, but it was being held back—disrupted.
Sigurd slowly unsheathed Gram with a slow, scraping hiss.
"One wrong move…" he muttered, "and I'll sever your hand, Jedi."
Yaddle didn't respond.
She simply sat still, eyes closed, the Force swirling gently around her.
—Meanwhile—
Near the ruined Jedi Temple entrance, isolated by Skadi's prior frost barriers, the battlefield had turned into a frozen sector. This was Anastasia's domain.
Moments ago, she stood tall with frost trailing her fingers, preparing to unleash her Noble Phantasm.
"Viy… Viy… Viy…" she chanted softly, eyes glowing.
The cursed spirit behind her surged forward, skeletal arms of Viy beginning to swirl into formation. The temperature plummeted—minus ten degrees and falling.
Her intent was clear—encase Jedi Master Depa Billaba in a frozen coffin.
But then— It struck her. The wave.
A suffocating pressure—the Battle Meditation's foreign fear. It cracked through the air and pierced her concentration.
Anastasia gasped. Her breath caught. Her spell collapsed mid-cast.
Her fingers trembled. The cursed frost dissolved into mist.
And Depa was free.
The Jedi's blue saber ignited in a flash, her gaze fierce, expression hard.
She's powerful… just like a Sith, Depa thought grimly. But not wise enough to wield it.
Depa launched forward.
A blur of motion and righteous fury—she slaughtered her way through the Chyornyj Oprichniki, the dark-clad magical enforcers granted to Anastasia by Ivan the Terrible. The guards tried to shield their mage—but Depa moved like a storm. Her blade cut through enchanted armor, her strikes precise, elegant, unrelenting.
Anastasia reeled back, defenseless. Her magic disrupted. Her support collapsing.
Depa's blade surged toward her—a killing strike.
And then— A desperate voice shouted from the side:
"AS YOUR MASTER—ANASTASIA! I ORDER YOU!"
"COME TO MY SIDE—NOW!!"
Kadoc. From a narrow alley behind a ruined transport, he held out his glowing Command Seal—one of three spells engraved in red fire across his hand.
It activated in a flash of light. Anastasia vanished in an instant—teleported out, right before the blade struck.
Depa blinked, her saber slicing through only air.
Then—the ground trembled.
A massive slipspace portal tore open with an animalistic bellow and a gust of ancient frost.
Out emerged Ivan the Terrible. Not in human form. Not in disguise.
But in his full, monstrous mammoth-like majesty—fur laced with runes, limbs fused with primordial armor, and a great metallic trunk wielding a massive ceremonial spear.
"YOU DARE HARM MY ANASTASIA?!
YOU WILL PAY… WITH DEATH!!"
Kadoc stumbled forward, waving his arms. "Tsar!! Don't kill the Jedi!"
He hesitated—his voice lowering, worried. "Or Jin—"
Ivan's massive foot slammed the ground. "I will deal with the Shadow Monarch myself."
He snorted, steam blasting from his trunk like a warhorn. "For now… Take Anastasia. Get out of here."
Kadoc didn't argue. He grabbed Anastasia—still shaken—and backed away as Ivan's enormous form took position, towering over the battlefield.
Then— His eyes narrowed. Energy surged through his monstrous limbs. Frost rippled across the broken ground, arcing like tendrils toward the clouds.
His voice was a low growl as he chanted:
"My march will continue for eternity…
The beast crushes all underfoot…"
His trunk raised high—divine lightning gathering into the spear's tip.
"Zveri Krestnyi Khod!!"
The skies darkened. Lightning danced.
His titanic body lurched forward, ready to release everything—
But then it came.
A high-pitched whine tore through the air. The clouds ripped open above Coruscant's atmosphere—followed by the deafening crack of something exiting hyperspace.
Many pirate warships dropped into low orbit—scars across its hull, weapons primed.
It immediately opened fire.
BOOOOOM!
Orbital bombardment began—random, chaotic, and brutal. Plasma bolts rained down on the outskirts of the Jedi Temple, slamming into ancient walls, crashing into nearby structures, engulfing everything in explosions and flame.
Ivan's charge was interrupted mid-step. He staggered slightly, his spear lowering as he instinctively shielded himself from the sudden strike.