REWRITE!!
Kodo Ringbey, a prodigy of the Imperial Naval Academy, rises from humble beginnings to become one of the greatest champions of the Empire. Driven by his unwavering belief in order and unity, Kodo's journey takes him from a brilliant strate...
"For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!"
George Gordon Byron, The Destruction of Sennacherib
(This is what happens if you have coffee and but ton of tabs open with all lore and research you need to make sure the writing is legit.)
The Annihilator cuts through the stars with silent precision as my modified Nu-class shuttle detaches from its docking bay. Sleek and angular, my shuttle is a fortress of technology, built for speed and subtlety, reflecting my own approach to power. As the ship descends towards the training facility, I take a moment to glance at the horizon, where the planet's twin suns cast an ominous red glow over the barren landscape below. It is a fitting stage for what is to come.
(A/N: When I first heard this theme, I was like, "Isn't this an imperial march?" So I just played them side by side, and I was surprised at how similar they were.)
I straighten my uniform—a meticulously tailored black and grey bodysuit beneath my hooded robe. The subtle sheen of my custom armour catches the dim light, a reminder of the power I wield and the precision I demand. The interior of the shuttle is silent, save for the steady hum of the engines. A quick glance at the reflective surface of the viewport reveals a determined visage—sharp, calculating, every detail in place. I know the importance of appearances; they are a weapon as potent as any blaster.
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As the shuttle lands with a soft hiss, the ramp lowers, revealing the facility's stark exterior. The training grounds stretch out before me, a hive of activity. Soldiers are already lining up, snapping to attention as I step forward. Flanking me are the Tyrant Troopers, their black and crimson armour exuding an air of lethal professionalism. Beside them, my Shadow Guards stand like sentinels of death, their presence a silent reminder of my reach.
General Heget and Captain Hark approach, each accompanied by their own squads. Heget, ever the strategist, stands tall and composed, his eyes cold and focused. Hark, by contrast, carries himself with a raw energy, the same that has fuelled his rise to command. Both men salute crisply, and I return the gesture with a nod.
