“We, Corellian, traders.
We, looking for, pelts, rare metals.
Please, let, us, go home,” a cylindrical translation droid stuttered, parsing the words one by one.
Beside the droid, the three captured smugglers slumped over the interrogation table, thoroughly exhausted and groaning as they forced out isolated syllables under duress.
Daemon Kane sat across from them, his legs crossed as he watched their labored performance with a detached gaze.
The T-850 stood directly behind his shoulder like an unmoving statue, his feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped firmly behind his back in a textbook military posture.
A full standard day had passed.
Over the last twenty-four hours, under the precise formatting demands of the Mainframe and the aggressive physical prodding of the security team, the three smugglers had been forced to speak continuously to build a linguistic profile.
It was highly likely that if they totaled every word they had spoken since the day they were born, it wouldn’t equal the volume squeezed out of them during this single day.
The Mainframe’s linguistic profile for Galactic Basic had now cleared forty percent, allowing for functional, baseline communication.
However, a complete breakdown of the alphabet, written text, and deeper grammar structures would still require time.
Completely oblivious to the bleak path stretching ahead of them, the three mercenaries continued to exaggerate their misery, hoping that the relatively young Administrator sitting across from them would show a shred of mercy and clear them for release.
Daemon ignored the theatrics entirely.
He turned his head toward the translation droid.
“Where is the capital of the Galactic Empire?”
The smugglers blinked in confusion as the translation filtered through.
One of them corrected immediately, “Galactic Republic, not Empire.
Coruscant is the capital.”
“Then who is the leader of the Jedi Order?” Daemon pressed.
The three individuals exchanged blank stares, shaking their heads to signal their ignorance.
It was a logical response.
During the golden age of the Republic, while the Jedi maintained an elevated status, they operated with deliberate discretion, quietly guarding the peace.
To the average denizen of the outer systems, the exact hierarchy of the Jedi Order was little more than a myth.
Daemon paused, shifting his angle of inquiry.
“Who holds the position of Supreme Chancellor in the Galactic Senate?”
The smugglers paused to think for a moment before the lead mercenary answered, “Finis Valorum.”
Daemon’s expression shifted.
He leaned forward to deliver one final question.
“Has a war broken out on the planet Naboo?”
The three men shook their heads in unison.
Without another word, Daemon stood up from his chair and exited the interrogation room, marching back toward the command deck.
The Administrator has departed.
Let us resume, the Mainframe’s synthesized voice echoed through the holding cell.
A group of burly security guards stepped forward, staring down at the prisoners with cold sneers. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Shortly after, a chorus of miserable wailing echoed down the detention corridor.
Returning to the bridge, Daemon settled into his central command chair, leaning his head against the headrest as he stared blankly at the ceiling.
He had managed to narrow down their chronological position to a twenty-year window, but the conclusion brought him absolutely zero comfort.
As a massive fan of the franchise in his past life, he possessed a comprehensive understanding of the lore.
The decade spanning Supreme Chancellor Finis Valorum’s administration was notoriously one of the most corrupt, gridlocked, and chaotic eras in the history of the Galactic Republic.
Within the next twenty years, the galaxy would descend into a terrifying maelstrom of total war and political upheaval, dragging virtually every civilized sector into the flames.
Through this coming storm, the ancient Galactic Republic would face its ultimate annihilation.
Daemon began systematically mapping out the narrative milestones of the timeline.
The facts were simple: Chancellor Valorum was still in office, and the Naboo crisis had not yet ignited.
That was their primary anchor point.
The Invasion of Naboo would serve as the ultimate catalyst, orchestrating the political collapse of Chancellor Valorum and clearing the path for Sheev Palpatine to seize the chancellorship.
From that seat of power, through a web of flawless manipulation, Palpatine would split the galaxy wide open exactly ten years later.
The heavily exploited systems of the Outer Rim would fracture from the Core, establishing the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
The resulting three-year conflict would consume entire sectors—a war fought on the Republic’s side by a massive, synthetic army of clones, earning its place in history as the Clone Wars.
Sheev Palpatine, arguably the most brilliant and ruthless strategist to ever exist, engineered every single step of the chess match.
He weaponized the war to dismantle the Republic from within, purge the Jedi Order down to the roots, and systematically crush the independent factions of the Outer Rim.
Then, upon the smoldering ash of the old world, he would crown himself Emperor, transforming the democratic Republic into the first Galactic Empire.
Daemon let out a slow, heavy sigh, his temples throbbing from the sheer weight of the realization.
Of all the eras to land in, it had to be the absolute darkest transition, he thought.
Palpatine was a master of political theater and shadow manipulation.
In terms of leverage, raw personal power, and galactic influence, the dark lord was light-years ahead of anything Daemon currently possessed.
How was he supposed to survive the coming storm?
Should I just submit?
Fall in line with the Empire and become another pawn on the Emperor’s board?
Daemon considered the option objectively before dismissing it with a sharp shake of his head.
No.
The moment Palpatine discovers this mothership, he will seize it immediately.
The entire technology archive would fall right into his hands.
He looked out over the command deck, watching the crew handle the consoles.
He muttered to himself, “I need a hand.
I need someone who can go toe-to-toe with Palpatine…
a politician. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Yes, a real politician.”
He understood the rules of the Star Wars universe.
At this point on the timeline, the Galactic Senate still held absolute sway over the systems.
What did that mean?
It meant that personal combat prowess mattered very little.
No matter how powerful an individual was, they could not fight off a Star Destroyer or a Death Star alone.
Yet, a skilled politician, with a few well-placed words and a sharp signature, could command an entire armada of Star Destroyers to do their bidding.
The Galactic Republic was a democracy pushed to its absolute bureaucratic extreme.
Under those parameters, even if their baseline industrial strength was severely lacking, an exceptional political operator could navigate the Senate floor to secure immense wealth and territory for their faction.
Daemon looked at the silhouettes of Chief Jenson and Director Clement, letting out a quiet sigh.
They aren’t cut out for that level of play.
Clement’s expertise lay strictly in civil infrastructure and crisis management; throwing her into the senatorial viper pit would be a waste of her talents.
Jenson was a dedicated tactical analyst, but he belonged to the standard-tier catalog; his experience was simply too narrow for the grand stage.
Daemon had also noticed a distinct pattern in the directories.
The standard-tier individuals were predominantly young and unrefined, the elites carried a bit more age and field experience, while the master-tier archives were populated by seasoned veterans in their late fifties and sixties.
This indicated that the tier system was merely a reflection of an individual’s current lifetime achievements.
Given sufficient time, resources, and operational field training, a standard-tier crew member could easily develop into a master-tier asset.
But training a green recruit from scratch was a luxury he didn’t have.
To go toe-to-toe with Palpatine—or rather, to simply secure a seat at the table before Palpatine flipped it—he needed an expert from day one.
He had to establish a foothold in the core of galactic politics while their industrial base expanded on the fringes.
He needed a master-tier political operator.
Daemon pulled up the personnel directory once more, scrolling through the locked files.
Suddenly, his eyes narrowed as he noticed a fundamental shift in the layout.
Beneath the standard, elite, and master tiers, one of the three mystery slots had officially unlocked.
The designation read: Legendary Tiers.
A Legendary asset.
“Mainframe!” Daemon said, his voice cutting through the quiet of the deck.
“When did the Legendary directories become accessible?”
The tier unlocked precisely upon your baseline cognitive alignment, Administrator.
If your own capacity remained unrefined, an asset of Legendary caliber would possess zero systemic alignment to your authority.
Attempting to force their revival under those conditions would inevitably trigger a systemic collapse or localized insubordination.
Individuals of this tier hold immense personal leverage, making absolute authority an absolute requirement.