Seven years had passed since Leia Skywalker had first been seated across the Emperor's chessboard.
Seven years since she had first tested herself against him, against the man who had shaped the very fabric of the galaxy.
And in all that time, she had never once won.
Their matches had become a tradition, something neither would explicitly acknowledge but both adhered to. Each time, she would study harder, learn more, sharpen her strategies, and each time, the Emperor would effortlessly counter.
It wasn't simply intelligence, nor experience, nor even his ability to read the board, he was simply reading her — he simply saw more.
As her own connection to the Force deepened, she had begun to perceive that depth more clearly.
She had always known her father was powerful—Darth Vader was a force of nature, the will of the Emperor made manifest—but the more she grew, the more she realized how vast the difference truly was.
Between herself and her father.
Between her father and the Emperor.
She was strong, perhaps the strongest of her generation, but she was beginning to understand that true power was something else entirely.
And yet, she thrived.
Unlike her timid brother, who preferred the more peaceful options, Leia relished the battlefield.
She had excelled beyond all expectations at the Imperial Academy, surpassing even the elite. Amongst the graduates, she was the finest.
Not all had survived the rigorous training. Only the best graduated.
Some were newcomers, eager and untested.
Some were younglings of a bygone era, Jedi who had cast aside the old order and embraced something greater.
But within the Imperial Academy, only ability mattered.
No lineage. No past allegiances. No favoritism.
And above all else?
One visit from the Emperor himself was enough to ensure the absolute loyalty of every single graduate.
The Imperial Academy of today was nothing like the outdated institutions of the past.
It was no longer merely a place to train younglings int the timid ways of the force—it was a forge, a crucible where only the worthy emerged, reshaped into weapons of the Empire.
The once-fractured traditions of the Clone Wars had been reforged into something far greater:
The tactical doctrine of the Grand Army of the Empire.
The brutal efficiency of Mandalorian combat training.
The sheer, unyielding discipline of the Imperial Legion, previously known as the Zero Legion.
The teachings of the Sith, purged of their self-destructive nature.
The teachings of the Jedi, purged of their restrictive nature.
Droid training adversaries, death row inmates who had only their life to fight for, forcing recruits to think beyond simple techniques and face harden criminals who would do anything to save themselves, as well as mechanical beings who cared naught for anything.
Cadets fought against overwhelming odds, against relentless situations, against each other.
The weak broke.
The strong survived.
The strongest excelled.
And amongst them, Leia Skywalker was the brightest of all.
She had earned her place through skill, through talent, and through absolute ruthlessness.
She had no illusions of mercy. The Emperor himself had made it clear—the only mercy here, was his alone to grant.
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Far from the halls of the Academy, in a place that no longer truly existed within this galaxy, the Emperor stood upon the throne of Mortis.
Or rather, what had once been Mortis.
Now, it was the Forge of Souls.
A place where power was unmade and remade, where the very essence of reality twisted and churned to serve a greater purpose.
And before him, kneeling in utter submission, was a monstrosity.
It was vast, a hulking mass of writhing flesh, its form shifting with an unnatural consistency, its surface etched with the most horrible of carvings—wounds that did not bleed but instead glowed with a sickly blue light.
Its mere presence was wrong.
Not simply in body, but in concept.
It was a being that defied the Force itself.
A soul once pure, devoted, now the greatest abomination this galaxy had ever seen.
And yet, it was necessary.
Lelouch vi Britannia, Emperor of the Galactic Empire, rose from his throne, his violet eyes piercing through the unfathomable wretchedness kneeling before him.
This being… this thing…
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A monstrosity of flesh and torment, twisted beyond recognition, warped and reshaped by something far worse than death.
Lelouch vi Britannia—Emperor of the Galactic Empire—stood before the being that had once been Dogma.
Once, he had been a man.
A soldier.
A clone.
And he had fallen as such... now, he was something else entirely.
His hulking form pulsed with energy, writhing flesh carved with intricate, glowing runes, sigils of corruption and rebirth.
His head was bowed, his malformed hands pressed into the ground, but even in his abominable state, Lelouch could see it.
Beneath the nightmare, the essence of Dogma's soul remained.
Absolute loyalty.
Absolute obedience.
Absolute devotion.
And that was what made it horrifying.
Lelouch's fingers twitched at his side, an involuntary reaction, the very fabric of his being rejecting what stood before him.
It was unnatural.
It was wrong.
It was... necessary.
He had known this would happen.
And yet, it did not make it easier.
Because Dogma had been given the choice.
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(2 years ago – 12 P.C, Forge of Souls)
The cold halls of the Throne Room, the dim glow of the star-lit void beyond the massive windows.
Dogma standing before him—his posture rigid, unwavering, unbreakable, his armor pristine, not a single wrinkle in his uniform.
Even now, he had refused to allow himself the slightest imperfection in his service.
"Do you understand what I am asking of you?" Lelouch had said, voice quiet, measured.
"This is not battle. This is not war. What I am asking of you is more than your life, Dogma. It is your very soul."
Dogma had not hesitated.
Not even for a second.
His voice had been steady, resolute, absolute.
He had raised his head, and Lelouch had seen it then.
Not mindless obedience.
Not blind servitude.
But faith.
"My body. My mind. My soul… all are at the service of the Emperor. Whatever form my service requires—be it pure or corrupted, dead or alive."
"My orders are absolute."
It had been his belief from the very beginning.
That orders were everything.
That a soldier's duty was to obey without question.
Even when it meant this.
Even when it meant becoming something beyond human comprehension.
Even when it meant losing himself forever.
"This is not death. This is worse."
"I know."
"And still?"
"I serve."
========================
Every time he laid eyes upon it, his hand twitched, an instinctual rejection from something deep within his soul.
Destroy it.
But he did not.
Not yet.
The Geass command he had placed upon himself held firm, binding his own will, forcing him to tolerate what his very essence screamed against.
For now.
But he could feel it.
Slowly.
Inevitably.
The corrosion was setting in, the presence of the force, utilizing him as a conduit was increasing with every moment he stood unacting, and slowly, gnawing at his own order... soon it would shatter it and directly enter his mind to influence him... and the moment of truth would descend upon the galaxy. It would either become the greatest usurpation in the history of this galaxy, or just another failed attempt of a mortal who attempted too much.
In either case, Lelouch looked forward to the result, a smirk gracing his face despite the pressure on his mind.
'As expected of my chosen, truly insane, in both mind and aspirations!' A laugh echoed within his mind as Lelouch's smirk held.
"I am more than 40 years too late to my eternal rest. If death can hold me this time, it can have me." He said uncaringly and mockingly as he leaned back in his throne.
'HAHAHA, truly. And if I am to fall with you, then it would just be another step in my grand design.' Laughter echoed as another figure appeared in from of Lelouch's eyes, sitting in a throne much like his own, mirroring his stance as they both smiled with a crazy gleam in their eyes
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Memoirs of the Faithful
By High Priest Valtorius, Servant of the Divine Order
Written up to the Year 19 P.C., in the Holy Light of the God-Emperor.
(14 P.C. – The Final Days of the Separatists and the Submission of the Free Worlds)
The last remnants of the Confederacy of Independent Systems burned under the might of the Empire. For too long, these heretics clung to their misguided ideals, believing themselves righteous in defiance of the Emperor's will. But no defiance could stand against His vision. The droid legions—once the harbingers of chaos—were reforged into the backbone of His great war machine. The remaining Separatist leaders, hiding like vermin in their outer rim sanctuaries, were hunted down and silenced. Their execution was not mere retribution; it was a cleansing, an erasure of a failed ideology that dared oppose the Emperor's righteous rule.
Later that year, the Council of the Free Worlds, an alliance of neutral systems and former Republic loyalists, came before the Emperor in unconditional surrender. They had seen the truth: to stand against Lelouch vi Britannia was to stand against the tide of history itself. Many of these worlds, once hesitant and fearful, now embraced their place in the Empire, humbled before His wisdom. Their leaders were welcomed—not as prisoners, but as newly baptized believers in the divine order.
The Empire had, at last, consolidated the Core. Yet this was only the beginning.
=====
(15 P.C. – The Formation of the Inquisition and the Imperial Knights)
It was in this year that the Inquisition rose from the shadows and was given official form. Their sacred duty? To uproot heresy, to root out corruption, to ensure that the will of the God-Emperor was followed without question.
At the head of this order was Lady Inquisitor Saria Vel, a woman of unshakable faith. She was one of the few who had survived the Senate Massacre, spared only by the divine will of the Emperor Himself. But in that tragedy, she had lost her only child, buried beneath the rubble of that old, failed world. This suffering tempered her resolve, and she proved herself as the most ruthless and devoted agent of His will. It was she who led the first great purges of dissidents within the Empire, those who whispered rebellion in dark corners, who clung to outdated faiths that held no power in the new age.
In this time of conquest, a new order arose: the Imperial Knights.
They were neither Jedi nor Sith. Those old ways had failed, and the God-Emperor would not permit failure in His Empire. These warriors were forged in the halls of the Imperial Academy, trained in the ways of the Force—but unlike the weak Jedi, they did not shackle themselves in the name of pacifism. Nor did they fall into the mindless lust for power of the Sith.
They were something greater.
Their first trials were in the Hutt wars, where they proved themselves as the ultimate expression of the Emperor's will in the field of battle. They cut through the enemies of mankind with a precision unmatched, their blades of crimson and gold striking down all who opposed order. Some had once been Jedi younglings—survivors of the old world. Others had been raised entirely within the Empire. It did not matter. Only ability mattered. Only loyalty mattered.
And so, they became his Chosen.
It was also in this year that the Hutt Cartels met their long-overdue end. Their bloated empires of vice and degradation were torn apart by the righteous fury of the Imperial Legions. Planets that had once been dens of crime and filth were purified. Those who groveled at the Emperor's feet were spared, permitted to serve in whatever capacity the Empire deemed fit. But the great Hutt Lords—the slavers, the traffickers, the warlords—were wiped from existence. Nal Hutta itself was razed, its surface rendered barren, a monument to the Emperor's wrath upon the unclean.
With the Hutts removed, entire sectors were opened to Imperial settlement. More worlds for the faithful. More lands for the chosen.
And thus, the first great migrations began.
=====
(16–18 P.C. – The Reshaping of the Galaxy and the Fall of the Chiss Ascendancy)
As the Empire solidified its rule, a quiet but undeniable shift took place across its vast expanse. People moved—not by decree, not by force, but by a natural realignment of cultures and communities. With the rise of the faith in the God-Emperor, humanity sought to rebuild in places that resonated with their traditions, beliefs, and way of life. Worlds once shared between species saw a gradual migration, as human populations gathered in like-minded colonies, creating worlds that felt truly their own.
For non-humans, the shift was just as profound. Many found themselves drawn to places where their own kind were the majority, where they could govern themselves without interference, their customs intact. The Empire, pragmatic in its administration, did not oppose this movement. Instead, it facilitated it—ensuring stability, guiding populations toward settlements where they would flourish rather than struggle. Xeno-dominated worlds came under heavy scrutiny, remaining under the watchful eye of Imperial overseers. Trade continued, diplomacy endured, but the day-to-day lives of most citizens became increasingly homogenous.
This was not a policy enforced by law, nor was it a decree of segregation. It was a "natural" division. As each sought those who would welcome them.
By the latter half of 18 P.C., the Empire turned its gaze upon the Chiss Ascendancy. Once a mighty power, the Chiss had kept themselves hidden (or so they thought), playing their games in the Unknown Regions. But they had made the mistake of resisting the Empire's will. Their fleets burned in the void, their worlds fell one by one. But it was Grand Admiral Thrawn—a man of xeno birth, yet devoted beyond question—who delivered the Chiss Ascendancy to the Emperor in a platter.
He presented their conquered domain to the Emperor purified. Their worlds were stripped of treachery, cleansed.
Thus, despite his impure origins, Thrawn was permitted to serve. He had proven himself above his nature as a xeno, and for that, he was honored. An example, that for the truly devoted, even their nature was no obstacle to bathe in the eternal grace of the God-Emperor.
The stars themselves trembled, for the Empire had now spread across all it had rightfully claimed since its inception.
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(Early 20 P.C.)
Leia stood upon the bridge of her command ship, a looming behemoth of durasteel and firepower, its viewports gazing down upon the doomed planet below. She was clad in sleek, midnight-black battle armor, its polished surface reflecting the cold, sterile lights of the command deck. A flowing cape trailed behind her as she stood with an air of absolute confidence, her very presence commanding obedience from those around her.
To her right stood Sors Bandeam, his golden hair slicked back in an almost regal fashion. He was an Imperial Knight like her—one of the most gifted to have ever graduated from the Imperial Academy. Unlike her, however, his demeanor was more openly cruel, his smile ever sharp, his words always laced with biting amusement at the fates of their so-called enemies. To her left stood another of their order, silent and watchful, their presence a quiet but undeniable reminder of the discipline that bound them all to their sworn duty, though the young man had never opted to announce his name.
Below them, the surface of the planet glowed with flickering fires, the aftermath of orbital bombardments designed to crush any serious resistance before their forces ever set foot upon the ground. The so-called "rebellions" were nothing more than carefully engineered exterminations. The Inquisition had chosen its targets wisely, ensuring that no resistance could ever truly coalesce into something threatening. It was all a matter of time—weakening the xenos until they could barely lift their heads, and then sweeping them from existence with the cold efficiency only the Empire could muster.
Leia turned to Sors, her golden eyes gleaming in the dim bridge lighting. "These rebellions are appearing with increasing frequency." Her tone was amused, and the meaning was clear.
Sors smirked, resting a hand on the hilt of his lightsaber. "Yes… though I doubt we should call them 'rebellions.' A rebellion implies an actual resistance." He chuckled, the sound dark and dry. "They are nothing more than embers being snuffed out before they can spark anything of substance."
Leia nodded, understanding perfectly. Every battle, every planet that burned, was another step forward. The Empire was not merely crushing defiance—it was ensuring that no future defiance could ever exist.
Sors' smirk grew as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Tell me, Leia, how long do you think an empire could last if it allowed its enemies to fester within its own borders? It is difficult enough to maintain unity with just humanity… add even a single xeno race into the mix, and the difficulty multiplies exponentially."
Leia understood the meaning behind his words. Even now, despite the faith in the God-Emperor sweeping through human worlds, the very presence of alien races within the Empire remained a source of potential discord. For now, the xenos were complacent, battered into obedience by superior firepower and the sheer force of the Empire's will. But in time? Given even a sliver of weakness? They would turn against their human overlords. That was their nature.
Leia's lips curled into a cold smile. "Then it is fortunate we are not giving them that chance."
Sors let out an approving laugh. "Indeed. We are merely accelerating the inevitable conflict by a few decades—perhaps a century at most. Instead of allowing it to fester, we are making it quick… painless, even."
At that, the silent Knight to Leia's left finally spoke, their voice neutral but firm. "Painless? The virus will not afford them such a mercy."
Sors gave an exaggerated shrug. "True, but the alternative is prolonged war. The Blue Shadow Virus is the most efficient solution available to us." His gaze drifted toward the viewport, as if imagining the suffering about to unfold. "A single deployment, and an entire planet is pacified without the need for drawn-out campaigns or unnecessary losses."
Leia exhaled, glancing down at the envelope that had been handed to her not long ago—her next set of deployment orders. The Empire moved swiftly, and she would be at the tip of the spear once more. There was no hesitation in her heart, no doubt in her mind. This was the will of the Empire. The will of the Emperor.
As their meeting concluded, Sors turned with an almost theatrical bow. "Well, I suppose I should see to my duties." He took a step toward the exit, then paused, glancing back at Leia with that ever-present smirk. "Shall I have the warheads launched now, or would you prefer to watch?"
Leia's smile did not fade. "Proceed."
Sors gave a sharp nod, then strode away, his steps light, as if he were merely walking to a casual meeting rather than authorizing the death of an entire species.
Leia turned back toward the viewport, watching as the skies over the planet darkened with the streaks of descending payloads. This was not a war. This was not a battle. This was a cleansing. And as the last vestiges of xeno resistance were erased from the stars, she knew, with absolute certainty, that the Empire was marching ever closer to its perfect future.
One world at a time.