The doors of the old temple creak open, defeated by years of rust and neglect. The bluish light of the two suns bathes your body, covered in mud, sweat, and dust. You've walked for days, crossed dark swamps, breathed toxic air, and slept among ruins abandoned by the Force. The mud has dried on your skin, cracking like a second armor. You smell of damp earth, of misery, of desperation.

But you’re here.

In front of you, sitting cross-legged on a stone slab, you see him.

Thom Yorke.

Not the master you imagined. His robe is as old as he is, his gray eyes seem to have witnessed too many wars, too many betrayals. His hair falls in disarray, and his hands tremble slightly, as if the past still whispers to him from the shadows.

"I thought you wouldn’t make it," he says without looking at you. "Or that you’d arrive dead. I haven’t decided yet which would be better."