The Oblivion shipyard hovered in the shadow of a dead star, cloaked in gravity wells and sensor ghosts. There were no hyperspace lanes on any chart that led here. Only those with Serion's trust—and his encryption keys—could approach the forges that birthed monsters.
The vessel that descended now was unlike any standard Separatist cruiser. Its hull bore no insignia. But the man aboard walked with purpose: Count Dooku, once Jedi Master, now Dark Lord of the Sith.
He emerged into the core chamber, where heat shimmered in waves and engineers in sealed suits worked like priests at altars. Sparks burst from massive crucibles, feeding into the assembly frames. Silhouettes of exoskeletal warriors hung in half-completion—spines of beskar alloy, eyes that burned with quantum processors, limbs fitted for anti-Jedi warfare.
Dooku approached the figure at the far end.
Serion.
Clad in dark metallic robes streaked with circuitry, Serion turned without surprise. His crimson eyes shimmered beneath his hood.
"You came," Serion said.
Dooku surveyed the war machines around them. "You promised me a weapon. What I see is a plague."
Serion smiled faintly. "That distinction lies in the hand that wields it."
A pause.
Dooku stepped closer. "Grievous' upgrades… that wasn't Separatist design. The Republic is shaken. But I need more."
"You'll have it," Serion replied. "A full generation of warriors. Designed to counter Jedi reflexes. Faster, smarter, more adaptable. Your war will shift."
Dooku's gaze lingered on one of the suspended prototypes—its limbs laced with silver-black armor, its back rigged with hyper-reactive thrusters.
"What is it made from?" he asked.
"Parts of the past. And glimpses of the future," Serion said cryptically. "We've begun integrating Rakatan relics recovered from the Deep Core. Systems even Palpatine fears to touch."
Dooku narrowed his eyes. "I serve Sidious. Not you. This alliance is one of mutual need, not subservience."
Serion's voice was cool. "Then let us not waste each other's time. You need weapons. I need chaos. Your war spreads confusion. In the smoke, my designs flourish."
Dooku considered him for a long moment. "And what is your goal, Serion? Power? Dominion? You play a long game."
"No," Serion said quietly. "I play the final game."
From behind, a massive structure emerged—suspended by magnetic cranes. It was a hull, vast and partially constructed, layered in void-black plating. Its design evoked ancient Rakatan warships… but fused with Mandalorian core engineering, and something darker still.
Serion gestured.
"This will be my flagship. The Oblivion Ascendant. It will cut through hyperspace undetected. It will strike before sensors ever register its presence. Its weapon—"
"—is what?" Dooku interrupted.
Serion turned.
"A scream," he said. "One loud enough to silence worlds."
Dooku stared at him. "You're mad."
Serion inclined his head. "And yet you returned."
Silence settled between them.
Then Dooku gave the barest nod. "I'll deliver you the systems from Hypori. The droid minds. And in exchange, I want your newest prototypes on Jabiim within the month."
"You shall have them."
With that, the Count turned and vanished into the corridor—his cloak trailing like a shadow.
Serion watched him go.
Above, the engineers resumed their work. Sparks danced in the void. Codes older than the Republic fed into new shells. In the lowest vaults, weapons hummed that no Jedi had ever seen.
The war had begun.
But the real enemy had not yet arrived.
And Serion was building for them.