( 5500 words )
Mos Eisley's streets burned with heat and fear. Shutters slammed closed. Civilians pressed into alleys and rooftops, knowing exactly what this was. A Mandalorian challenge. And the worst kind of opponent.
Pre Vizsla stood alone in the open, Death Watch colors stark against the smoke, darksaber blazing red. Across from him, Naga Sadow moved with lazy confidence, poison blade humming, the air around him bending under pressure. Everyone watching could feel it—Vizsla was in the worst position possible.
From cover, Jango crouched beside Jaster, both helmets angled forward, weapons ready. Neither spoke. They were already counting the seconds. Already deciding how far they could go before Mandalorian law shattered under necessity.
Vizsla knew it too. His stance tightened, feet adjusting in the sand. He has no gaps. If I slip once—
The blow came before the thought finished.
Sadow stepped in and slammed his blade into Vizsla's guard with brutal precision. The impact cracked like thunder, forcing Vizsla down to one knee, sand spraying outward. The darksaber screamed under the pressure, Vizsla's arm trembling as he barely held the line.
Sadow rolled his wrist, spinning the poison blade through the air with arrogant ease, never breaking eye contact.
"You can't keep blocking, Mandalorian," he said, voice calm, cruel. "Pick up the pace—before I turn this city to dust."
Vizsla growled low in his throat and forced himself upright . Sweat ran beneath his helmet, soaking the lining. His arm burned. His lungs ached. But his stance held, darksaber rising again as his eyes stayed locked forward. Arrogance, he steadied his breath. That's where I'll see his gap.
Sadow didn't give him time to think. The poison blade came down in a brutal arc, green corruption screaming through the air. Vizsla blocked, sparks exploding as the impact rattled through his bones. He slid back half a step, then fired the whipcord.
The line snapped up from the street and latched around Sadow's right arm—the one holding the Sith blade—and yanked hard. Stone cracked as Sadow was dragged off balance and slammed onto his back.
Sadow laughed. Amused. Already preparing traps, he thought. .
Vizsla didn't hesitate. He dropped the cord control and switched weapons, snapping up Jango's dual blaster pistols. Faster cycle. Tighter spread. He unloaded. Blasterfire ripped through the smoke.
Sadow didn't struggle. He let himself be dragged, body rolling with the pull, blaster bolts scorching past where his head had been a moment before. He flowed along the ground, movement lazy, deliberate, almost insulting.
Vizsla's jetpack ignited. He launched straight up, boosters screaming, shadow cutting across the street. He angled down, darksaber raised overhead, every ounce of Mandalorian momentum focused into one killing plunge. End it now.
Sadow lay still, eyes on the sky. A smile touched his mouth. "You misread my movement."
The Force answered him. Instead of pulling, Sadow reinforced his bound arm—muscle, bone, will locking together. The ground beneath him tore loose. Stone, durasteel, shattered wall and street all ripped upward, fused into a single massive slab anchored to his right arm.
He swung. The chunk of city met Vizsla midair.
The impact was catastrophic. The sky detonated into debris and dust as Vizsla was smashed sideways, armor screaming, jetpack spiraling out of control. He was flung across the street like a broken projectile, crashing through a storefront in an explosion of stone and fire.
Silence followed. Smoke rolled. Rubble settled.
Sadow rose to one knee, dust sliding from his shoulders, poison blade steady in his grip. His head tilted toward the wreckage where Vizsla had crashed, posture relaxed, patient, predatory. "Good," he said, voice carrying a faint amusement. "Like the old man Dooku. But you lack firepower."
Flame erupted around him.
A ring of fire snapped into existence as Vizsla's flamethrower roared to life, the heat slamming inward from all sides. Sadow did not retreat. He stayed where he was, fire licking across his silhouette as Vizsla circled above with his jetpack, fast, relentless, never holding one vector for more than a breath.
Blaster fire followed. Bolts cut through the flame in staggered rhythm. Sadow raised his blade and began to move—not hurried, not strained. The poison blade caught the bolts at sharp angles, green flares snapping with each impact. He adjusted his footing, shifting weight, compensating. Blocking blaster fire with a lightsaber was trivial. This blade required intent. Still—not difficult.
Most would have broken by now, he thought. After taking a building to the chest.
"Is that all, Mandalore?" Sadow called out, letting the fire wash around him. "Is this what you can do?"
The flames continued for a heartbeat longer—then cut out.
Sadow's posture changed. The amusement bled away. His senses stretched outward, Force perception sweeping the street, the rooftops, the air above.
Nothing. No heat trail.and presence.
His eyes narrowed. "Hm."
Behind him—
Beskar struck. Vizsla came out of the smoke low and fast, darksaber already mid-swing, the blade carving upward toward Sadow's spine. . Everything into one line.
Sadow twisted at the last instant. The darksaber grazed his side, tearing cloth and flesh, heat searing across his ribs. He snarled—not in pain, but irritation—and backhanded with the Force.
Vizsla slammed into the street, skidding across stone, armor screaming.
He rolled once, came up on one knee, arm shaking, darksaber still lit.
Sadow turned fully now, blood dark against his side, smile returning—sharper.
Sadow turned fully, blood dark against his side, a sharp smile cutting across his face. He laughed, the sound raw and jagged. "AHAHAHAHA—rather than lick your wound, you—"
His voice cut off. His body dropped hard to one knee. The Force around him thinned, dulled, like a blade losing its edge.
Vizsla stood behind him, left hand dripping wet and dark. Ysalamiri blood. Smeared thick across his gauntlet. And for certainty—dipped again when he carved across Sadow's spine, no hesitation, no mercy.
"Now," Vizsla said, voice hoarse but steady, "we are on equal ground."
He staggered a step, coughing hard. "Ugh—cahhh." Blood splattered the street. The impact from the building still rang through his bones, but he didn't fall.
Sadow pushed himself upright, movements slower now, heavier. His connection to the Force flickered, unstable. His stance shifted out of instinct alone, poison blade lifting despite the tremor running through his arm .
Vizsla raised the darksaber again, blade humming unevenly. His shoulders shook, but his posture held. A dying man facing a depowered Sith. Just will.
They circled each other in the smoke-choked street, heat rippling off scorched stone. Firelight flickered across broken walls. Breath rasped. Blood dripped. Everything narrowed to distance and timing.
Pre Vizsla raised his vambrace blaster and fired. The shot should have hit. It didn't. Naga Sadow tilted his head aside with lazy precision, reading the trajectory before the trigger finished pulling. Vizsla's arm shook—pain, exhaustion, blood loss. His aim wavered.
Vizsla snarled and broke into a run, boots hammering the ground. "I am the true ruler of Mandalore!" he roared, firing again as he closed the distance. "You will be my stepping stone—to face the Armored Man once more!"
A bolt struck Sadow's chest.
Vizsla followed through in one motion, darksaber arcing up and across. The head came free. It hit the street and rolled.
Vizsla froze. His breath hitched. "…I did it," he said, disbelief cracking his voice. "I defeated a Si—"
The world lurched.
The body dissolved into smoke. The street warped, heat folding inward. The illusion collapsed like glass shattering without sound.
Vizsla gagged. He dropped to one knee. Green blood spilled from his mouth and splashed onto the stone. A deep wound burned across his torso—not a clean cut . Poison.
The real Naga Sadow stood in front of him. Uninjured where it mattered.
Sadow looked down at him, posture relaxed despite the damage, grip steady on the poison blade. "You dimmed my connection," he said evenly. "You did not sever it."
Vizsla tried to rise. Failed. His hand slipped in his own blood.
"And second," Sadow continued, stepping closer, "my reserves are colossal. That was your fatal misconception, Mandalorian."
Vizsla tried to rise. His legs failed him. Poison burned through his veins, strength bleeding out with every breath. The darksaber slipped from his grasp and clattered against the stone. He clenched his jaw and forced himself upright anyway, stubborn to the end.
From the shadows, Jango shifted, wrist rocket angling up—ready to break the duel if it meant saving a Mandalorian life.
Bo-Katan's hand snapped out and caught his forearm. "Don't," she said, low and sharp. "This is a duel of honor. Even against a monster like that—we honor it."
Jango froze, jaw tight, then lowered his arm by a fraction. He didn't agree. But he stopped.
Jaster watched in silence. Tor Vizsla… my enemy. My rival. His eyes narrowed behind his visor. I never thought it would end like this. Your son will follow you soon… and Mandalore will remember your name, even if the galaxy won't.
Across the street, Naga Sadow rolled his shoulders. Blue alchemical light crawled along his spine, knitting torn muscle and shattered bone back into place. The wound sealed—but the blaster scar across his face remained, blackened and raw. He left it untouched.
He stepped closer, boots crunching over scorched stone. His poison blade hummed low, restrained now, respectful in its own cruel way.
"Impressive," Sadow said. "For a Mandalorian born in a pathetic era." His gaze settled on Vizsla, assessing, weighing. "You dimmed my connection. You forced adaptation. You made me bleed."
Vizsla spat green-streaked blood onto the street and forced a breath through clenched teeth.
Sadow tilted his head. "It pleases me." He paused. "Tell me your name. I do not grant that courtesy lightly."
Vizsla laughed once—wet, broken. "My name means nothing to you."
"Do not insult my judgment," Sadow replied, voice calm, absolute. "I deem most of this era worthless. You are not." He leaned in, close enough that Vizsla could feel the heat of his presence. "Had you not misread your movement twice… my life would have ended here. That earns a name."
Vizsla's hands trembled. His body screamed to collapse. He forced himself upright one last time, chest heaving, refusal burning hotter than pain. He drew in a breath that tasted like iron and fire—then shouted, not in fear , but in pride.
"PRE VIZSLA. SON OF TOR VIZSLA. TRUE RULER OF MANDALORE. NOT THAT SATINE—NOT THAT KIND OLD MAN JASTER."
Naga Sadow watched him, head tilting. The poison blade lowered a fraction, curiosity replacing contempt. "Very well, Pre Vizsla. Any last words?" His palm glowed, power condensing. "Or a change of allegiance. I could use a Mandalorian in my ranks."
Vizsla lifted his hand and flipped him off, middle finger rigid despite the tremor. "Fuck off, monster . Jedi aren't our allies. you are no different. Mandalore stands alone. We build ourselves."
Sadow smiled. "Offer wasted."
He raised his left palm. Force destruction bloomed—dense, annihilating—aimed to erase Vizsla where he stood. The blast never reached him.
A slipspace portal snapped open in front of Vizsla like a shield of fractured light. The destruction struck it—and bent, redirected, screaming away into the sky. The street detonated elsewhere, stone and flame tearing upward, leaving Vizsla untouched.
Sadow's eyes narrowed. The portal widened. Shapes poured through—angular, cold, precise. Aggressor Sentinels emerged in formation, metal limbs unfolding, hard-light weapons charging in unison. Blue-white cores pulsed. Targeting arrays locked.
Sadow straightened, blood dark along his side, scar burning on his face. The smile returned—thin, amused, dangerous. "And you might be… who, exactly?"
He raised a hand, fingers curling. The Force crushed inward—then stopped. The pressure shattered against an invisible barrier, rippling across a hard-edged energy field.
Sadow's smile sharpened. Curious. "Machines," he said calmly. "I have broken fleets. Crushed the republic . How do such things resist the Force?"
The answer came as fire. Aggressor Sentinels surged forward, angular frames locking into attack vectors. Hardlight shields flared as Sadow's lightning struck—forks of blue-white fury crawling across their surfaces, dispersing, bleeding away into nothing. More lightning followed. More shields held. Too many targets. Too little leverage.
Sadow stepped back once, cloak dragging through scorched sand. Annoying.
Then the air tore open. A heavier slipspace aperture split the street, violet-blue light flooding the smoke. From it descended an Eradicator Sentinel . Inside its control cradle, a single monitor's voice cut clean through the chaos.
"Asset secured. Subject condition: critical but viable. Priority: rescue the Mandalorian group." Adjutant Resolution , replied
Gravity fields bloomed outward. Invisible hands seized the hiding Mandalorians, lifting them bodily from cover. Jaster vanished upward in a blur of armor and dust. Jango was dragged mid-step, . Bo-Katan cursed as the field caught her, one arm locked around Pre Vizsla's failing body.
Promethean Watchers phased in around them, gravity wells overlapping, stabilizing, pulling the wounded free.
Rayvis thrashed as the field wrapped him, roaring in fury. "I WANT MY GLORIOUS DEATH—"
Bo-Katan slammed her forearm across his chestplate. "Shut up. Right now. Better we stay alive."
Gravity fields tightened. The Mandalorians were pulled from cover, boots scraping against air as Promethean Watchers lifted them cleanly out of the street. Smoke and fire shrank beneath them. Blaster fire faded into distant noise.
Jaster twisted in the lift, visor angled toward the towering Sentinels. "Hey—droid," he barked. "Did the Armored Man send you? Is he here?"
Adjutant Resolution's optic flickered once. The word processed. Armored Man… alias detected. Internal designation: Supreme Executor. Restriction flag active.
"Clarification," Adjutant Resolution replied evenly. "The Armored Man is currently engaged elsewhere. And I am not a droid. I am a Monitor. Address me accordingly."
Jango snapped his head up, jetpack thrumming as he was carried. "Engaged where? You call this not tight? A lunatic relic just crawled out of the dead and says he can turn planets into dust."
Adjutant Resolution rotated slightly, keeping visual on Naga Sadow below as Aggressor Sentinels closed ranks. "Assessment: Naga Sadow is the party at risk. Current opposition includes assets that defeated Mendicant Bias."
Bo-Katan frowned. "Mendicant… who?"
"Historical context unnecessary," Adjutant Resolution said. "Priority is extraction. Secondary objective: preserve Mandalorian population centers. Tertiary—" his tone dipped, almost dry, "—your 'precious Mandalore.'"
Below them, the street split apart.
Naga Sadow stood amid shattered duracrete, lightning tearing from his arms as the Force screamed outward in crushing waves. Aggressor Sentinels met it head-on. Shields flared. Space warped—then slid aside. The pressure dispersed like water striking glass.
Sadow's smile thinned. Machines that ignore the Force. Curious.
He raised a hand again. Veins burned blue-red beneath his skin as lightning detonated outward in a storm. Three Sentinels staggered back, armor scorched and smoking—but five more stepped forward, blades igniting as suppressor fields locked space around him.
Above, Pre Vizsla hung limp in a Watcher's grip, blood trailing from his armor. His eyes were still open. Still defiant.
Sadow looked up. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.
"Enjoy your borrowed salvation," Sadow said, his voice carrying through smoke and fire. "This is not fin—"
A beam lanced out. A Sentinel beam, tuned to sever Force interaction itself, ripped through the air toward him.
Sadow's posture snapped tight. He threw up a Force shield on instinct. The beam struck—space shrieked—and the shield held for a heartbeat too long. The feedback tore through him. His arm scorched, flesh blackening, alchemy already crawling to repair the damage.
Alarm flashed through him. That was not a weapon of this galaxy.
Then the sky tore open. A massive slipspace rupture bloomed overhead, light folding inward as something vast emerged. A colossal Sentinel descended, dwarfing the others—its single central eye glowing , three red orbs rotating around it like execution markers .
The sand beneath it fused into smooth glass.
Offensive Bias had arrived. "Enemy designated," the voice declared, layered and absolute. "Commencing combat assessment. Target will be tested for worthiness. If deemed suitable, dissection will proceed. All data will be collected for Supreme Executor."
Gravity collapsed inward. A localized singularity formed, the air screaming as buildings bent, tore free, and spiraled toward the center.
Sadow braced, Force shields flaring again as his feet carved trenches into the glassed street. His arm continued to heal, slowly, painfully. His laughter broke through the strain. Low. Then rising.
"Huhuhahahahaha…" His head tilted back as the storm howled. "How miserable our galaxy has become. No wonder the dark side itself trembled—begged me to save it."
His gaze lifted toward the massive Sentinel. Toward the presence behind it.
"That Jin-Woo…" he continued, voice sharp with scorn. "And you—cut from the same blight. Poking your noses into our galaxy."
He let his poison blade crumble to dust, dismissing it without regret. His stance shifted—ancient, grounded, no theatrics left. What remained was raw intent.
"Very well," Naga Sadow said, spreading his hands as the Force surged around him in its original, brutal form. "An enemy from beyond the stars."
The air screamed as he drew on what remained of his reserves. He tried to ignite a solar flare—small, controlled—but the pull faltered. His body was not ready. The wound along his side burned. The severed connection earlier still echoed. The flare collapsed before it could form, scattering into violent sparks that tore up the street but failed to reach orbit.
Sadow clicked his tongue in irritation and shifted tactics. His presence split—one became many. Projective telepathy bloomed outward, illusionary clones tearing free from his silhouette and sprinting in every direction, each radiating a convincing echo of his will.
Aggressor Sentinels pivoted in unison. Blades flared. Suppressor fields snapped shut. They cut down illusions by the dozen, each impact dissolving into smoke and ash.
Offensive Bias did not move. The massive Sentinel's central eye rotated once, calmly. Gravity spiked again.
A compressed singularity detonated at street level.
The illusions peeled away like wet parchment, ripped from the ground in strips. The real Naga Sadow was torn free with them, dragged screaming across duracrete as the gravity field locked onto his mass. His left arm took the hit full-on. Bone snapped. Flesh burned. The limb hung useless, already knitting itself back together through frantic Sith alchemy—but slowly.
Sadow rolled, came up coughing, blood dark against his mouth. I can't run like this.
Then his eyes narrowed. Dark matter folded across his back as four alchemically-grown wings tore free again, imperfect but functional. He launched himself skyward in a violent burst, tearing out of the gravity well at the last second. The Sentinels fired—too late.
He vanished toward Mos Espa in a streak of fire and shadow.
The landing was uncontrolled. He slammed into the outskirts of the city like a meteor, carving a shallow crater through stone and sand. When the dust settled, there was nothing there.
Citizens gathered at the edge of the impact site, whispering, afraid.
Wrapped in stolen robes, his presence smothered, Naga Sadow slipped through an alley, posture hunched, breath steadying. His broken arm finished healing with a wet crack beneath the fabric. He flexed his fingers once, slow.
He reached out with the Force.
The Sentinels were still there—ringing the original battlefield. Waiting.
Sadow's smile thinned beneath the hood as he moved through the crowd, steps unhurried, posture perfectly ordinary . You hunt—but you do not scorch the nest to kill the insect. . His senses brushed the sky again.
The machines remained. Waiting. Watching. He weighed the pressure carefully. Are these constructs Jin-Woo's… or something adjacent to him? The Shadow Monarch was power incarnate—darkness given will. Technology felt… redundant for someone like that. Unless, Sadow thought, this galaxy is already infested with tools beyond my era.
He adjusted his robes and continued toward Jabba's Palace, letting the noise of Mos Espa swallow him. A city of excess. Criminal hierarchies. Information traded like blood. Resources he could siphon without drawing the sky's attention. This will do. His eyes never stopped moving, though his face remained calm. If they refuse to burn the city to ash, then they are bound by restraint. That is a weakness I can exploit.
High above, Offensive Bias hovered, central eye glowing a fraction brighter than before. The escape registered as an anomaly. A correction vector missed by a narrow margin , a prioritization spike—rippled through its processing lattice. Target evasion acknowledged. Miscalculation margin unacceptable. Reliance on external assets declined. Supreme Executor assistance… unnecessary.
Multiple Promethean Crawlers phased into being across the city's periphery, their forms collapsing into the environment—stone, scrap, shadow—nodes establishing shared targeting links. Simultaneously, a humanoid Promethean construct manifested at street level, its silhouette reshaped into a common spacer's profile. Civilian gait. Civilian mass. Civilian heat signature. The moment Sadow's vector stabilized, the disguise locked.
Offensive Bias' red lens rotated once, slow and deliberate. "Pursuit protocol updated," it stated to itself. "Target classification revised. Ancient hostile. Persistent threat. Dissection authorized."
..............
Jabba's palace pulsed with music and heat. Dancers swayed. Bib Fortuna leaned close, murmuring into Jabba's ear, when the main doors detonated inward with a concussive boom that rolled through the chamber. Stone cracked. Smoke poured across the floor.
Bib Fortuna recoiled. "Who dares intrude upon Jabba's resi—"
He stopped. A cloaked figure stepped through the ruin, gait slow, controlled, wounded but unbowed. The Gamorrean guards froze, axes half-raised, then hesitated. The air itself pressed down on them. A weight older than fear.
Naga Sadow moved one hand along the wall. Stone rippled under his touch, veins of gold blooming outward like living metal. Gasps rippled through the court. Dancers scattered. Music died.
Sadow lifted his head. His eyes settled on Jabba.
"I can make more," Sadow said, voice low, steady. "Palaces. Vaults. Power that turns dust into tribute." He took one step forward. "But I require payment."
Jabba's tail twitched. His eyes narrowed, calculating.
"One hundred lives," Sadow continued. "Prisoners. And the circle chamber you once kept for your old master."
Jabba's bulk shifted on his dais. His eyes narrowed, calculating. That chamber… the old one. The place Hego Damask had used. The tall Muun with the cold smile. Jabba never liked that room. Never liked the way the air bent when Damask stood inside it. Magic, people whispered. Bad business. Dangerous.
Bib Fortuna leaned close, murmuring in Huttese. Jabba's tail twitched. Then Bib straightened and spoke, voice oily but cautious. "The prisoners can be delivered," he said. "Many. Enough. But the circle chamber—" he hesitated, choosing words carefully, "—that place is not for outsiders. Even Jabba does not open it lightly."
The hum outside grew louder.
Sadow's hand lifted. Green-black light folded in on itself, and his poison blade formed again—wet, humming, alive. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning. The blade screamed past Jabba's face, close enough to peel heat across his skin, and buried itself in the wall behind the dais. Stone turned gold where it struck, molten veins spreading like infection.
The dancers froze. Gamorrean guards tightened their grips but did not move. Sweat ran down Bib Fortuna's temple.
"And I am pressed for time," Sadow said calmly.
Another tremor rolled through the palace. Dust fell from the ceiling. Outside—something heavy landed. The sound was not an explosion. It was worse. Controlled. Deliberate.
Sadow stepped closer, boots leaving scorched prints on the floor. He placed one clawed hand against the wall. Gold spread again, flowing like liquid sunlight, crawling toward the floor beneath Jabba's throne.
"Accept," Sadow said, voice low, layered, absolute. "Or we all die—crushed beneath the oppression of another galaxy."
Jabba's eyes flicked, calculating. Bib Fortuna didn't wait for permission. He turned and moved fast.
One minute later, they were already running.
Sadow's steps were uneven, blood soaking into the stone as Bib led him through side corridors, past sealed vaults and forgotten doors. They stopped before an old chamber—round, carved with archaic sigils, walls humming faintly with residual power. Plagueis' meditative chamber. The air inside tasted wrong.
The door sealed behind them. Thirty seconds later, it was done.
Bodies collapsed where they stood, prisoners reduced to husks as crimson-black energy streamed into Sadow's broken form. His spine straightened. Breath deepened. Cracks in his body stitched themselves closed through Sith alchemy.
Bib Fortuna stood rigid near the door, throat tight. "A-anything else this humble servant can do…?"
Sadow wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes burning beneath the hood. "Yes, Buy time. Talk. Stall. but do not lie to the machine. Delay them. Every second matters."
The door slammed shut. Bib exhaled shakily and turned back toward the throne room.
Jabba was already tense when he arrived. Three Aggressor Sentinels stood near the center of the chamber, massive and silent, red optics fixed forward. Beside them stood a humanoid figure—metal and light shaped like a man. Offensive Bias. Adjudant Resolution hovered a step behind, posture precise.
Jabba leaned toward Bib, massive tail twitching, eyes wide with unease. "Chuba da naga?" (What does the one below need?)
Bib bent close, whispering fast, breath shaking. "Buy him time. That's it. Say anything. Everything. Just… keep them talking."
Offensive Bias already knew. It could feel the disturbance below, the weight of an ancient presence coiling in a chamber not meant to be disturbed. Flooding Tatooine would be efficient. Total containment. Total erasure. But efficiency carried cost. The Armored Man's sentinels were visible. Known. If this became a massacre, the galaxy would not blame a machine—it would blame him. And displeasing the Supreme Executor was not an acceptable outcome.
Adjudant Resolution rotated once, reading the calculation in Bias' silence. "Allow me to handle this," it said calmly. "Dialogue is my specialty."
It drifted forward, its frame smooth, posture deliberately non-threatening. "Greetings," Adjudant Resolution said, voice even and precise. "I am a sub-monitor of an external domain. An aide to the Armored Man. The entity beside me is his trusted executor."
Bib Fortuna swallowed, forcing a smile that barely held together. "We are… friendly," he said quickly. "No need for hostility. Especially not toward the Armored Man. Hero of the galaxy, yes?"
Adjudant Resolution inclined its central eye a fraction. "Good. Very good." It paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unbalance them. "Then I will ask only one thing."
Jabba shifted, tail curling tight beneath his bulk. Dancers had gone still. Guards didn't breathe.
"May we proceed to the lower levels," Adjudant Resolution continued, tone unchanged, "There is an individual below who requires extraction."
Bib's eyes flicked—just once—toward the sealed corridor leading down.
Offensive Bias watched the micro-expression register. Confirmation. Target present.
Jabba let out a low, uneasy rumble, eyes darting between the machines.
Bib leaned closer, whispering again, desperate. "Of course. Of course. Lower levels… very old chambers. Dangerous. You should be carefu—"
The floor snapped open.
With a dry mechanical drop, the trap door released. Offensive Bias' humanoid proxy vanished straight down the shaft.
Silence hit the room like a held breath.
Dancers froze mid-pose. Gammorreans stiffened, axes half-raised. A pair of bounty hunters glanced at each other, then very carefully looked anywhere else.
Jabba's eyes widened. His mouth twitched.
"Chuba da patta, Bib Fortuna," he muttered in Huttese.
(You absolute idiot, Bib Fortuna.)
Adjudant Resolution hovered in place, unmoving. Three Aggressor Sentinels adjusted position with identical, precise steps. No weapons raised. Not even reaction. Just waiting.
Adjudant Resolution turned its central eye toward Bib. "Clarification required. Is this behavior consistent with 'friendly' classification?"
Bib's face went pale. He threw both hands up, nodding too fast. "No—no! Friendly. Very friendly. Extremely friendly." He laughed, thin and cracking. "Trap doors are… cultural. Old architecture. You understand."
One of the dancers clapped once, way too loud. "Yes! Friendly. We love guests. No enemies. Only tips."
A Rodian bounty hunter shrugged, hands open. "Honest work. I was just paid to stand here. Standing is friendly."
Another hunter nodded immediately. "Same. Standing. Very friendly standi----."
Stone burst upward in a violent spray. Dust, bone, and shattered durasteel blasted through the trap floor as a massive shape slammed into the wall—what remained of a rancor's head impaled clean through by a glowing Promethean spear. The weapon hummed once, then locked, pinning the corpse like a grotesque trophy.
Silence followed.
Offensive Bias' humanoid form rose from the breach below, fragments of debris orbiting him before disintegrating into fine dust. His single red lens burned brighter, rotating once as data streamed in.
"Adjudant Resolution," he said, voice flat and merciless. "Launch Enforcer Sentinels. No compromise. Target attempting ritual reinforcement below."
Adjudant Resolution floated in beside him, three red orbs aligning. "Acknowledged. Enforcers deploying."
Slipspace tore open beneath the floor—wide, violent fractures of light. One. Then three. Then six. Enforcer Sentinels emerged like executioners, heavy frames bristling with suppressor arrays and gravitic anchors, landing in perfect formation amid the wreckage of the rancor pit.
Offensive Bias turned his lens upward—toward the room. "And for the irrelevant actors upstairs," he continued, tone unchanged, "classification: unnecessary."
Bib Fortuna threw both hands up so fast his sleeves slid down his arms. "No enemies here! No rituals! Just—uh—entertain—"
The floor shook. Below them, a Sentinel plasma lance punched through stone like wet clay. The ground screamed. Dancers shrieked. Gamorreans stumbled back as heat rippled up from the depths. The Sentinels advanced, methodical, carving straight down toward the lower chambers where Naga Sadow hid.
At the center dais, Jabba's eyes bulged. He slammed his tail down and smacked Bib Fortuna across the back of the head.
"You fool," Jabba snarled in Basic. "You almost made Tatooine flat."
Bib staggered, clutching his lekku. "At least… at least we're still alive, right?"
Another explosion thundered from below. The palace groaned. Cracks raced up the walls. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Bib winced. "…And, uh. Some repair costs. On your expense."
Jabba hit him again, harder.
"IDIOT," Jabba roared. "Twi'lek!"
Below them, deep within the old meditation chamber, Naga Sadow straightened. The air around him pulsed—thick, heavy. His breathing had steadied. Power flowed again. Not whole. But enough.
Seventy percent, he calculated. Sufficient.
The front wall exploded inward.
An Enforcer Sentinel forced its way through the rubble, massive frame locking into place. Red plasma bolts fired in a precise burst.
Sadow raised a hand. A Force shield snapped into existence. Plasma splashed against it, dispersing in crackling arcs.
"Is that all?" he said calmly. "If so, I am disappointed."
Slipspace flared. Metal screamed.
Gravity lances slammed down—pinning his arms, locking his legs, crushing him into the stone. The chamber groaned under the pressure.
Adjutant Resolution floated into view, eye bright and cold. "For your appreciation," it said evenly, "you have forced multiple monitors into an inefficient pursuit. I will ensure your nervous system remains intact during dissection."
Sadow laughed.. "Heh."
"A laugh before inevitability," Adjutant continued. "Predictable."
"You're late," Sadow said. "By two seconds."
The Force screamed. A beam of condensed darkside energy tore down through the chamber ceiling, ripping space open. The gravity restraints shattered. Stone vaporized.
Sadow surged upward, wings of corrupted force flaring as he launched through the rupture, body blurring into the sky.
"Ever heard," his voice echoed back, "that Naga Sadow is also an escape legend?" He vanished.
Slipspace folded again. Offensive Bias manifested above the ruins, lens burning. "Target escaped. Again. This is unacceptable."
Adjutant Resolution rotated beside it. "Then the priority shifts. Determine destination."
Data streamed. Star maps aligned. Probability collapsed into certainty.
"Vector confirmed," Offensive Bias said. "Yavin 4. Not Korriban."
A second alert rippled through its lattice.
"Additional detection," Adjutant Resolution added. "Queen Morgan present on Korriban."
A hologram unfolded in midair. Morgan le Fay stood amid the red sands, cloak unmoving, posture relaxed in a way that implied absolute confidence.
Offensive Bias spoke without delay. "Queen Morgan. The entity designated Naga Sadow has altered trajectory. He is no longer approaching Korriban. He has redirected toward Yavin 4 at high velocity."
Note: the rest is the same chapter on: Phantom Menace Arc 099 : Finale of the phantom menace part 2. Now on to the main story again.
Yavin 4.
The jungle breathed. Thick, ancient, heavy with moisture and the weight of forgotten rites. Stone temples rose between the trees like broken teeth, vines crawling over carvings that remembered Sith prayers older than Republic law.
Morgan le Fay sat on a flat slab of moss-covered stone, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on her knuckles. Pink sigils pulsed faintly along her cloak.
XoXaan paced nearby in her newly prepared clone body, boots crunching softly against leaf and stone. Her fingers flexed, tension leaking through every movement. "This is a terrible idea," she said flatly. "You should have brought the Sith'ari. You should not face Naga Sadow alone."
Morgan didn't look at her. Her eyes stayed on the temple ahead, unreadable. "Dead people," she said calmly, "should stay dead forever."
XoXaan stopped pacing. "That 'dead person' once ruled an empire that burned stars."
Note:
Please consider this a double chapter. See you next monday