( 4500 words , preview included )
Timetable: One hour earlier
Naga Sadow's eyes snapped open.
He lay half-buried in the blistering sand of Tatooine's wasteland, heat shimmering off cracked dunes. His breath rasped through a throat that no longer matched his body.
His form was mutilated—half his original shape missing, his perfect Sith transformation broken . What was left had stabilized into a shape eerily close to Dooku's.
Naga Sadow pushed himself upright. I should be on Korriban … he thought. Why am I on this barren wasteland? What planet… is this?
Small shadows gathered around him. A cluster of Jawas, hoods up, chattering rapidly.
"Utinni… utinni! Eh-totah! Utinni!"
Their little hands poked at his collapsed tail, his shell-skin, his boots that were no longer boots.
Naga Sadow didn't speak. He simply raised one mutilated hand.
Sith sorcery bled from his fingers like smoke, coiling around the Jawas. Their shrieks were brief—cut off as their bodies twisted, reshaped, unraveled. Flesh became material. Cloth became fabric. Life became fuel.
When the power settled, the Jawa corpses were gone.
In their place, Naga Sadow stood renewed.
His lower body restored from stolen flesh, his form re-stabilized. His skin shifted from corpse-grey to reddish pink, closer to the shade he once bore. Jawa cloth reformed into regal wrappings—Egyptian, ancient, ceremonial. A mantle flowed behind him, stitched from scavenged brown cloaks now dyed crimson by sorcery.
He exhaled, tasting air properly for the first time since his resurrection.
"Yes…" he murmured, voice a mixture of Dooku's timbre and his own ancient resonance. "I have missed this. Air. Sun. And soon… people kneeling before me once again."
But then—another thought, sharp and cold, not born from arrogance but memory.
From Dooku's mind… there is one I must not face head-on.
Jin-Woo. The man whose power did not follow the rules of the Force. Whose midichlorian count was meaningless next to what truly fueled him. Whose army did not die. Whose presence warped destiny.
Naga Sadow narrowed what remained of his eyes. That one… I will avoid. Until I am whole again.
He lifted his head, sensing the nearest settlement. Civilization. Resources. Minds to corrupt. Bodies to mold. A way to rebuild.
Timetable: Mos Eisley
Chalmun's Spaceport Cantina
The place hummed with rough laughter, metal mugs slamming, and the low rumble of Mandalorian helmets stacked on the table. A strange sight—True Mandalorians and Death Watch drinking together without knives drawn.
Jaster Mereel lifted his mug high.
"Cheers for Duchess Satine's long health," he said, voice booming over the crowd, "and for the mysterious Armored Man who brought peace to Mandalore."
"For Mandalore!" the others answered, raising their drinks.
Pre Vizsla scowled into his cup. "Don't shove your victories in my face, Jaster. Focus. We came here for business."
Jango Fett, leaning back with the relaxed posture of a man who'd survived too much to worry now, tapped the table. "I'm with Vizsla on this. You've had too much to drink."
Jaster snorted, waving him off. "Bah, you two worry like old women—"
"Jaster." A sharp voice cut in.
Bo-Katan Kryze — young, dangerous, already sharp — strode in through the cantina doorway, her visor tucked under her arm, braid bouncing against her shoulder.
"Guys, come over here. Quick," she said, breath tight. "There's a commotion in the town."
Jaster chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "Bo-Katan's paranoid. Unlike her sister, who's a pacifist saint. Duchess Satine's got you dancing on a tight leash, is that why you joined Death Watch and keep throwing shade at us?"
Before Bo-Katan could fire back, the ground trembled.
A blast ripped through the street outside. Windows shook. Cups toppled. Mandalorians in both True Mandalorian and Death Watch colors shot to their feet, hands on blasters or vibroblades.
Bo-Katan didn't hesitate. She grabbed Jaster's armor collar, yanking him face-to-face.
"As much as I want to slap you right now and banish you from this bar myself," she snapped, "I still hold influence with my sister. I'm the first advisor she listens to. So trust me when I say this: there was a chill running down my spine the second I walked outside."
Jango Fett stepped forward, eyes narrowing under the rangefinder. "Could be a Gen dai bounty hunter. Someone built like Durge."
Pre Vizsla scoffed but kept his hand near his holster. "Durge is dead. Word around town is someone finally managed to kill the immortal Gen dai. My credits say it wasn't a Jedi, though. Something darker. Someone strong in what they call the dark side."
Out on the street, Mos Eisley trembled under the choking veil of smoke. Each plume rolled upward from the trail of bodies and collapsed walls left behind by Naga Sadow's slow, methodical rampage.
The joint Mandalorian group — True Mandalorians and Death Watch, an alliance that made no sense to anyone who remembered old wars — crouched in cover behind shattered duracrete. Rifles primed. Visors glowing.
Inside the smoke, Naga Sadow walked like a moving shadow of ruin.
He placed a hand on a fallen civilian. Flesh wilted. Life drained out in an instant. Memories flooded into him — short, tangled visions of moisture farms, gambling dens, Jawas shouting in the dunes. Enough to confirm the name of the world.
Tatooine.
Naga Sadow straightened,. "Dirt planet," he muttered. "Unlike the red sands of Korriban."
A young True Mandalorian trembled uncontrollably at the silhouette lurking inside the dust. Jaster placed a firm hand on the kid's pauldron, steadying him with the calm of a veteran who had seen a hundred death worlds.
Sadow turned his head. Slow. Predatory. A faint smile crept across his reshaped lips. There are worthy lives hiding nearby.
His eyes were long gone, but his senses sharper than ever.
… but scattered. Too many escapes.
He tapped the air with two fingers, calculating. How to drain them all in one fell swoop…
But hunger won over planning. He inhaled sharply, essence flaring—right before a metal mace slammed into his blind spot, launching him across the street and crashing him through a sun-blasted wall.
Sadow roared. "Who dares strike the great Naga Sadow?!"
Footsteps thundered through the smoke.
A towering figure stepped into view, armor weathered gold and ochre, silhouette unmistakable: Rayvis, the Gen'Dai warlord. Leader of the Bedlam Raiders. His gravelled voice rumbled.
"Jedi," Rayvis said. "I've been waiting for someone like you."
Behind him, an entire force marched forward—Bedlam Raiders in scavenged armor, supported by a platoon of hijacked Separatist B1 battle droids clattering into firing lines, rifles raised.
Sadow wiped blood from his jaw and stared at it dripping down his hand. His grin widened, teeth splitting too far, too sharp.
"You will pay," he hissed, "for the blood spilled in front of me."
Lightning crawled along his arms, crackling over the half-rebuilt frame that still carried the echo of Dooku's shape. Sand trembled under his feet.
Rayvis finally understood what stood before him. His voice rumbled through the helm.
"Never in my long existence did I think your kind still walked the galaxy. They said Sith were extinct for millennia. I was imprisoned in the Jedi Temple for hundreds of years. Until one day—shockwaves, explosions—something beneath the Temple shook itself awake. The Jedi called it an ancient Sith returning to the living. Can't say the same for my master Dagan… he's still out there."
Rayvis raised his mace, head tilting as if studying prey he hadn't expected to find.
"Our fates intertwine, it seems. A Sith from the old time."
Sadow had already stopped listening. His hunger surged.
With one gesture, the sand twisted into a vortex of death. Bedlam Raiders screamed only once before their essence tore free. Their bodies collapsed into husks. Every life was dragged into Sadow's core, feeding the broken monster back toward wholeness.
Only the hijacked B1 battle droids remained standing, clattering in confusion.
Sadow's voice deepened with renewed strength. "Your freedom is not free. I demand the lives of anyone who crosses my path."
Rayvis straightened, a terrible joy entering his stance. "Now you're talking my language. Only in violence shall we combat."
Rayvis charged. Sand exploded beneath his heavy steps, the hybrid mace-flail whirring as its weighted head spun on its tether, metal shrieking through the hot Tatooine air. His roar shook the nearby walls.
"Only in death," Rayvis bellowed, "freedom awaits!"
He brought the weapon down like a meteor—
—but Naga Sadow wasn't there.
The Sith's broken-yet-regrowing form slipped aside with a motion almost casual, almost bored. Each strike that should have crushed stone met only air.
Rayvis pivoted, snarled, and hurled the flail-head outward. The spiked tip snapped forward, cord ripping through the sand like a whip. It shot straight for Sadow's throat.
Sadow tilted his head. The spiked head passed cleanly in front of him, missing by a hair.
Rayvis yanked it back, fury rising. He swung again—left, right, overhead, thrusting with the haft, trying to break the Sith's guard.
Sadow didn't guard. He danced.
Every motion was a slow, predatory glide. He stepped around each blow as if watching a child play. His ruined tail dragged lines in the sand, marking lazy circles as he shifted.
Rayvis attacked harder. Desperation creeping into each strike.
Sadow finally lifted one hand.
A tiny gesture. Two fingers.
Rayvis' next swing simply stopped—frozen mid-air—held by invisible pressure. The Gendai strained, muscles bulging beneath armor plates, but the weapon didn't move.
Sadow leaned in slightly.
"Impressive ferocity," he murmured. "But so… crude."
With a flex of his wrist, the Force surged. Rayvis was thrown sideways like a toy, armor screeching as he smashed through a vendor stall and skidded across the dirt. Sand billowed up around him.
Rayvis roared in anger, leaping back to his feet instantly.
"You mock me!?" he thundered.
Sadow smiled. A split grin too wide for a human face, inner jaw clicking behind it. "I toy with you."
Rayvis charged again, firing his repeating blaster in a relentless stream. Bolts streaked across the street, carving glowing furrows into the walls.
Sadow walked straight through them. Not dodging—walking.
The bolts bent around him, warping off as if pushed by a pressure no eye could see. The air screamed as the energies twisted.
Rayvis' fury peaked. "FIGHT ME!"
Sadow ignored the taunt. His fingers twisted through the air, and a strange lightning—more binding than burning—snapped around Rayvis, locking down his limbs like glowing shackles.
Rayvis roared against the restraint. "Are you intending to humiliate me? To imprison me like those Jedi?"
Sadow stepped closer, voice low, edged with ancient authority. "Cast aside your foolish quest for an honorable death. Cast aside your loyalty to Dagan. Rayvis, leader of the Bedlam Raiders… serve me as the first member of my Eternal Empire, and I will grant you conquests beyond anything your shattered oath can imagine."
Rayvis froze. Shock flickered through his massive frame. "How do you know my name? How do you know my quest for an honorable death?"
"I am Naga Sadow," the dark lord answered. "First ruler of the Sith Empire. Born of the golden age of the Sith themselves. There is no secret I do not know. Even the stars once bent before me. Now… what do you say, Rayvis? Will you serve under me instead?"
Rayvis strained against the bindings, metal creaking around his armor. His voice dropped to a grave rumble. "I refuse. Even after another three hundred years, my loyalty to Dagan never diminishes. If you want to help me… then grant me a warrior's death."
Naga Sadow's expression didn't change. "That is not a choice you can make."
His hands glowed blue. Sith sorcery gathered, twisting like tendrils ready to reshape flesh and mind. Rayvis braced himself, accepting whatever came—until a sudden blast erupted at Sadow's flank.
A smoke bomb detonated. A second explosion tore apart the ground around Rayvis, shattering the lightning-bind that held him. Sadow instantly raised a force barrier, shielding himself as the cloud swallowed everything.
A wrist rocket shrieked in from the haze.
Dozens more followed, streaking toward him as shadows of Mandalorians appeared on rooftops and alley corners. True Mandalorians and Death Watch—working together in the same battlefield—ranged weapons raised, jetpacks humming.
Rayvis was dragged out of the kill zone by armored hands. His snarl echoed through the smoke.
"Unhand me! I said grant me a warrior's—"
The rest was drowned by the roar of rockets. When the smoke thinned, Sadow stood untouched. Every incoming explosive froze midair, suspended as if time itself obeyed him. Naga sadow gaze swept the battlefield.
With one lazy gesture, he unleashed a force push so potent it became a blast-wave.
The entire street detonated outward. Mandalorians vanished into the shockwave. Segments of the road buckled and peeled away like shredded metal. A chunk of Mos Eisley's frontage simply ceased to exist. Dust billowed through the town, swallowing the screams.
Sadow exhaled like he'd just brushed away insects. Right… those insects I was about to drain.
Across the rubble, hidden behind a half-collapsed cargo hauler, the main Mandalorian squad crouched low, dragging Rayvis with them. His armor scraped against stone as he struggled.
"Unhand me!" Rayvis roared. "I want my honorable death!"
Bo-Katan grabbed his jaw-plate and yanked him down.
"Quiet," she hissed. "That crazy relic can destroy mountains with a gesture. You want your death? Pick one that doesn't kill all of us with you."
The dune wind shifted. A low whisper moved between helmets and crushed stone.
Myles stiffened first. "Here it comes," he breathed. "The evil itself."
Naga Sadow appeared through the thinning smoke, each step slow, relaxed, deliberate—like a king inspecting insects. His presence pressed against the air. The sand bent under unseen force as he looked for whoever dared interfere.
Silas swallowed hard, fingers sliding toward his blasters. "Jaster… Jango… remember the story of the Armored Man you told me…" He flipped his safety and squared his shoulders. "Pour some mythosaur over my memorial stone when this is over."
But before Jaster or Jango could stop him, a gauntleted hand clamped Silas' shoulder.
Pre Vizsla. His voice cut low, sharp. "If you want to die for Mandalore, die with meaning. Not with a useless death." He pulled Silas back behind cover. "Enough of us already died for meaningless action."
Jango blinked—genuinely taken aback. So was Jaster. Vizsla choosing unity over old grudges… it wasn't normal.
Peeking over the shattered duracrete, Pre Vizsla caught sight of a thin line of blood running from Naga Sadow's nose.
Pre Vizsla thought, pulse kicking up. That monster can bleed. That's it. I'm doing it. A Mandalorian challenge. If I die, I die as a hero—and Death Watch's name goes to the galactic stage.
Out in the open street, Naga Sadow wiped the blood with the back of his hand. He looked at the smear, annoyed.
I forgot to fully recover this body. As usual, I rush the interesting parts.
Pre Vizsla stepped out from cover, walking with Death Watch pride in every line of his posture. Dust swirled around his boots. Mandalorian armor caught the harsh twin-sun light.
He pointed straight at Naga Sadow. "I challenge you, You who claim the name Naga Sadow. Face me in honorable duel, Mandalorian tradition."
From the hiding spot, every Mandalorian froze.
Jaster blinked. "Huhhh?"
Jango muttered under his breath. "Hehhh… are all Vizslas lunatics like him?"
Bo-Katan grabbed the edge of the wall, eyes wide with fury. "Crazy leader… what are you doing? Challenging a monster like that!?"
Rayvis, still half-bound by the Mandalorian grip, recoiled with pure indignation.
"I AM THE ONE WHO MUST DEMAND THAT!" he roared. "NOT THESE MANDALORIANS!"
Naga Sadow watched them all — Mandalorians, a Gendai, scattered survivors — with a faint, amused curl at the edge of his mouth.
I was told Jedi and the beings of this era were weak. But their guts… are harder to measure.
On Naga Sadow's palm, a lightning orb began to gather. He spoke, voice flat and confident. "Are you really that certain just because you see my nose bleeding? I still have enough power to scorch this entire planet to dust."
Pre Vizsla didn't flinch. "Maybe. But you have no way off this planet. I don't know how you got here — unless you used the same method as the Armored Man, since he can disappear and reappear whenever he wants — but the rest of us still need starships. Including you."
He lifted his chin, posture straight, voice firm despite the tremor running beneath it.
"And lastly — you're a man, right? Then fight like a man."
Naga Sadow smiled. This one is not stupid. The lightning in his hand dispersed. " does the Mandalorian way of dueling allow everything I bring to the table?"
Pre Vizsla swallowed, but his pride was on the line, so he told the truth. He ignited the Darksaber—its blade now red, ever since the black kyber crystal had been destroyed by the Armored Man and replaced with a Sith-colored one.
"Everything is legal," Vizsla declared. "One-on-one. No outsiders. That's the Mandalorian way."
Sadow's laugh rolled across the sand like thunder. "Hahaha… you were beaten so badly you wield our color now."
He raised his hand, crimson energy swirling as he forged a weapon from raw alchemy — a jagged, venomous blade humming with ancient malice.
"My old fighting style is too much for you," he said. " I will handicap myself. I'll use the modern Sith way instead."
Naga Sadow leveled the poison blade at Pre Vizsla, the edge humming with alchemical venom. "What do you think?" A generous handicap… yes?"
Pre Vizsla tightened his grip on the darksaber, the red blade snarling to life. For a split second, a memory cut through him—his father's fate, cut down by someone far beyond him. Is this how it ends? Cut in two for daring too high? His jaw set. Fear stayed. He didn't let it rule him.
"Vizsla!" Jango's voice snapped through the smoke. A blur of motion—two blaster pistols spinning end over end toward him. "Use this!"
Pre Vizsla caught them on instinct, then froze. He turned his head just enough to spit back, "Are you mocking me, Jango Fett? A true Mandalorian doesn't need another man's weapons to fight his duel."
Before Jango could answer, Bo-Katan stepped forward, anger sharp in her posture. "This isn't bravado time Use everything you have ."
Pre Vizsla exhaled once, slow. He clipped one pistol to his belt, kept the other in hand, and raised the darksaber again. "Fine," he said, voice ironed flat. "Everything on the table. One on one. Mandalorian law."
Naga Sadow's mouth curved. Lightning burst from his hand without warning, a vicious arc snapping straight for Vizsla's chest. "Defend this," Sadow taunted. "Mandalore."
Vizsla reacted on instinct. His right arm came up, beskar bracer catching the bolt with a violent crack. The impact drove him back a step, boots grinding into sand. Electricity crawled across the metal, burning hot through the plates. He slammed his arm into the ground, forcing the current to discharge into the street, the stone beneath him spiderwebbing as the energy bled away.
The lightning faded. Smoke curled from the bracer. Vizsla clenched his jaw, gripping his right arm as pain flared up to his shoulder. So this is it, he thought. I heard the stories. Sith are worse than Jedi. His eyes lifted to Sadow. And it wasn't bullshit.
Naga Sadow watched him recover, amused, poison blade still leveled at Pre Vizsla. "Good," he said calmly. "You survive the first lesson."
Pre Vizsla didn't answer. His jetpack roared to life and hurled him forward, boots cutting a straight line through smoke and sand. "For Death Watch!" he shouted. "For Mandalore!"
Sadow considered ending it there. The thought passed. Toying with him felt more appropriate.
The poison blade flared sickly green as Sadow raised it. Steel and corrupted kyber met with a violent crack. Sparks burst outward, tainted red and venomous green colliding in a grinding lock that forced both of them down into the sand.
Pre Vizsla gritted his teeth, muscles screaming as he pushed. "What kind of sword is that?" he snarled. "Sand shouldn't withstand the Darksaber."
Sadow leaned in, strength effortless, the pressure inexorable. "Sand?" he echoed, amused. "Mandalorian… you truly know nothing of the Golden Age of the Sith."
He twisted his wrist. The poison blade scraped along the Darksaber's edge, hissing like acid.
"And look at it," Sadow continued, voice low, mocking. "Your blade glows red. Not black. Tainted. A failed Darksaber—born from the ruin of Mandalore itself."
Pre Vizsla snarled, teeth bared behind his visor. "Mandalore will rule the galaxy," he growled. "Even relics like you will be put down."
Sadow's reply was immediate, almost pleased. "Then come," he said. "Show me you have worth."
Vizsla ignited his jetpack and drove forward, Darksaber carving heavy arcs meant to crush, not finesse. His style was pure Mandalorian—weight behind every strike, momentum chained into the next, forcing the opponent backward, forcing mistakes. Each blow carried the intent to break bone through armor, to overwhelm by pressure alone.
Sadow did not retreat. He stepped into the strikes.
The poison blade met the Darksaber head-on, green alchemy screaming against corrupted kyber. Sparks burst outward, blackened and hissing as if the air itself recoiled. Vizsla pushed harder, shoulders burning, boots digging into sand as he tried to drive the Sith back by sheer force.
Instead, the force came back at him.
Sadow twisted his wrist and the lock broke violently. The poison blade slid, angled wrong—then snapped back in a savage counter that Vizsla barely blocked in time. The impact rattled through his arms, numbing fingers even through beskar. Another strike followed immediately. Then another. This wasn't Jedi combat.
Sadow fought like a storm given intent—brutal, direct, every swing meant to maim or kill. The blade came from impossible angles, low to high, inside Vizsla's guard, forcing him to block instead of attack, react instead of control. Each clash drove him back a step, then another.
Vizsla grunted, locking blades again, muscles screaming. "You fight like a beast."
Sadow leaned in, close enough that Vizsla could feel the heat rolling off him. "I fight like a Sith," he said. "You assumed I would duel like a monk."
The poison blade slid free and hammered down again. Vizsla raised the Darksaber just in time, sparks exploding inches from his helmet. He couldn't counter. Every attempt was smothered before it began. Openings vanished the moment he saw them, crushed by raw aggression and perfect timing.
Preview — Next Chapter
(The wording may change, but the story remains the same. I want the escalation to feel more intense.)
The poison worked faster than Pre Vizsla expected. Just a thin burn spreading beneath the beskar at his shoulder, veins darkening under the skin, breath turning heavier with every heartbeat. A single scratch. That was all it took.
Pre Vizsla didn't retreat. He forced his stance steady, Darksaber still raised, even as the venom crawled through his muscles like ice mixed with fire. His right arm trembled. He hid it by shifting his grip.
From behind shattered stone, Jango Fett's fingers tightened around the trigger of his wrist rocket. One shot. One distraction. That's all it would take.
Bo-Katan grabbed his forearm hard. "Don't," she hissed. "Don't you dare mock our leader. This is a duel. Even against a monster—we honor it."
Jango's jaw clenched. He didn't fire.
Nearby, Jaster Mereel stood frozen, fists balled so tight the beskar creaked. Enemy or not… blood was blood. His voice came out low, broken. "Tor… I'm sorry. Looks like your son's coming to you sooner than any of us wanted."
On the battlefield, Naga Sadow wiped blood from his face. The cut across his cheek had already closed, flesh knitting together under Sith alchemy—but the scar remained. A thin, ugly line. Interesting. Sadow looked at Pre Vizsla with something close to respect.
"Boy of Mandalore," Sadow said calmly, "you managed to wound me. That earns you a name."
Pre Vizsla straightened, pain screaming through his body. He lifted his chin anyway.
"Pre Vizsla," he said. "Son of Tor Vizsla. True leader of Mandalore."
Naga Sadow nodded once. "Very well."
The air around him changed. Power gathered—not lightning, not fire, but something heavier. A crushing presence that bent sand inward, pulled debris off the ground, warped space itself. Force destruction, coiling, compressing—enough to erase a man completely.
Pre Vizsla felt it. The end.
Naga Sadow raised his hand. "Anything else," he asked evenly, "before you go to the void?"
The power intensified. "…Or," Sadow added, eyes narrowing, "do you wish to reconsider your allegiance?"
Pre Vizsla didn't answer with words at first. His body shook as the poison worked through him, green-black veins spidering under his armor where the blade had kissed his shoulder. He spat to the side—thick, tainted saliva splattering into the sand—and forced himself upright.
"Fuck off," he rasped. Then, with everything left in him, he lifted his chin. "And die, ancient relic."
Naga Sadow smiled. smile of something that had ended civilizations and found it boring.
"So be it," Sadow said calmly. Force Destruction.
The air screamed.
Reality compressed around Pre Vizsla as a sphere of annihilation formed—space folding inward, pressure stacking until matter itself began to unravel. The Force Destruction surged forward—
—and vanished.
A slit of impossible geometry tore open in front of Pre Vizsla, space folding into a hard-edged aperture of blue-white light. The annihilation sphere slammed into it and was violently redirected, hurled skyward through cascading slipspace fractures that snapped open like broken mirrors. The blast detonated far above the desert, ripping the clouds apart instead of a Mandalorian.
Before Pre Vizsla could fall, metal hands caught him.
Aggressor Sentinels dropped out of slipspace in precise formation, their frames angular and brutal. Eradicator Sentinels followed, heavier, bristling with weapons. One of them seized Pre Vizsla cleanly, lifting him away from the battlefield in a single controlled motion.
Adjutant Resolution's voice rang through open channels, cold and absolute. "Asset secured. Subject condition: critical but viable."
They carried him back toward cover, toward the surviving Mandalorians, who stared in stunned silence as machines older than their myths moved with surgical efficiency.
Then the air split again. This time, the rupture was larger. Deeper. Heavier.
A massive Sentinel emerged, dwarfing the others—its single central eye glowing, three red orbs rotating slowly around it like execution markers. The partial AI matrix of Offensive Bias radiated pressure that bent the sand beneath it into smooth glass.
Naga Sadow laughed. A deep, rolling sound that shook the ruins. "AHAHAHAHA. No wonder the dark side itself trembled," he said, eyes alight with interest. "Begged me to save them. Other galaxies intrude . That Jin-Woo… and you are cut from the same blight."
His tone sharpened, predatory curiosity replacing amusement. "Another enemy born beyond the stars."
Offensive Bias did not respond with emotion. Its eye locked onto Sadow, red orbs aligning.
"Enemy designated," it said evenly. "Commencing combat assessment. Target will be tested for worthiness , If deemed suitable, dissection will proceed. All data will be collected for Supreme Executor ."
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Note:
Please consider this a double chapter. See you next week — I genuinely need more time to write this battle properly. For me, the finale of the Phantom Menace arc cannot be a simple fight. It has to be massive — to the point where even the dark side itself becomes desperate just to stand on equal ground with Jin-Woo's forces.