It has been one year since he took over the planet Mandalore. Now from orbit, Mandalore no longer looked like a wound that refused to close. It now has seasonal weather fronts. Across former deserts, blue river channels cut through the planet. As Large lakes, their waters were dark and deep. Shorelines were being fortified and expanded into future population centers. Fishing operations had already begun, and new oceans are taking shape.
Jack stood in the command gallery of the orbital ring and watched a new inland sea take shape where once there had only been fused silica and ash.
"Hydrological recovery at nineteen percent planetary distribution," Cassandra reported. "Surface water retention exceeding projected thresholds."
Below, massive atmospheric processors still stood like iron gods in the wastelands, but vegetation had begun creeping outward from their perimeters. Engineered grasses stabilized the terrain. Hardy forest strains rooted deep, breaking apart the last of the vitrified crust.
The domed cities had begun partial retraction. Entire districts reopened to the open sky. Agricultural fields expanded outward, no longer confined to artificial biomes.
Children who had grown up beneath transparent ceilings were seeing real clouds for the first time.
A year ago, Mandalore had survived under domes; now it is showing new life.
The royal guard and throne chamber felt different, too.
Clan banners had been reorganized, not removed, but integrated. They are no longer competing; they are more structured.
Jack stood before the assembled leadership, helmet on.
Behind him stood thirty-six Spartans, his new royal guard, broad-shouldered, imposing, built for shock assault, with a new Mandalorian armor design.
Beskar plating reinforced key structural points over Mjolnir composite. Angular cheek plates hinted at Mandalorian helmets without fully adopting them. Shoulder pauldrons Madalors new symbol. Their visors burned a steady gold.
His gaze moved across the chamber.
"They are my Royal Guard."
A murmur rippled outward.
Spartans had led the assault. Broken resistance. Secured the throne.
Now they stood as a permanent fixture.
"Mand'alor does not hide behind ceremony," Jack continued. "He stands at the front."
He turned slightly, enough to indicate the figures behind him.
"And if you come for the throne, you go through them."
No one mistook the meaning.
This was not intimidation.
It was clarity without restraint. If the rain symbolized rebirth, then shipyards symbolized ambition.
In orbit, the reconstruction of Mandalore had triggered something else: exponential industrial growth.
Dxun's infrastructure had been dismantled within six months. Its orbital platforms have been relocated. Its resource pipelines are redirected.
Now Mandalore's orbital space was crowded.
Kilometer-long drydock frames rotated in synchronized grids. Automated construction arms moved with mechanical precision, welding, sealing, and plating.
Starships rolled off the lines in numbers that would have made Republic procurement committees panic if they had known.
"Current fleet output exceeds pre-consolidation projections by 240 percent," Cassandra said.
UNSC-inspired hulls adapted to Star Wars hyperdrive architecture were being produced at incredible speed. Long, armored capital ships built for sustained engagements. Carrier platforms optimized for the rapid deployment of Basilisk war droids. Frigates configured for system control and interdiction.
Mandalore was neutral and was using that advantage to rebuild.
Mandalore was not breaking any Republic laws.
Jack watched as another cruiser detached from its construction frame and ignited its drives.
"We will not rely on anyone's protection," he said quietly.
Clans began staking claims not for war, but for land reclamation projects. Competition shifted from raids to construction metrics.
Who could build the strongest seawall?
Who could reclaim the most territory?
Who could expand the furthest into the former wasteland?
Reports began spreading beyond the system, and traders whispered that Mandalore was changing.
It is raining there now. Some would say.
That its fleet was expanding at a rate that did not match its official posture.
The Republic was too consumed with its own fractures to act. The crisis on Naboo had reshaped the Senate. Political maneuvering had replaced strategic awareness.
The Jedi, stretched thin and wary of overreach, did not intervene in sovereign reconstruction.
Everything Jack had predicted.
Everything he had calculated.
Late that night, Jack stood alone on a high terrace overlooking one of the new lakes.
Moonlight reflected off dark water.
Wind carried the scent of wet soil instead of dust.
"A year ago," Cassandra said softly, "this region registered zero viable life signatures."
Now there were thousands.
Jack removed his helmet.
He did not smile.
But there was something steadier in his expression.
"They burned it," he said quietly.
Not with rage.
With memory.
"And they called it balance."
Rain began again, light and steady.
"We don't glass worlds to win wars," he continued. "We build them so no one can threaten them again."
Behind him, the Spartans stood watch at the terrace entrance, silent, unmoving, and absolute.