Inside the atmosphere:
Yaven IV— the fourth satellite of the colossal gaseous planet Yaven— is draped in dense rainforests and boasts a tropical climate reminiscent of Earth's equatorial zones. Perpetually cloaked in thick fog with frequent downpours and sprawling swamps, the air carries the heavy scent of humidity and decay. This environment not only nurtures abundant life but also offers perfect cover for concealment. Precisely for this reason, the Rebel Alliance established their base deep within the jungle.
Yet, Yaven IV's history stretches far beyond the existence of the rebels. Millennia ago in the Star Wars universe, ancient Jedi once set foot on this land. Harnessing the power of the Force alongside advanced technology, they transformed the planet's environment into the rainforests we see today and constructed a "City of the Forgotten" within it.
Thousands of years ago, Yaven IV again captured history's attention. A Sith Lord named Exa Kwon, cornered by the Old Republic, launched an unspeakably brutal ritual—liberating his soul from his mortal shell to become an eternal entity, thereby cloaking the land in an aura of mystery and danger.
Now, with the arrival of the Human Empire, the long-held serenity of the rainforest has been shattered. The Rebel Alliance's base is nestled within a pyramid reminiscent of Earth's ancient Mayan structures, its architecture silently testifying to hidden histories and secrets.
Boom—rumble—!
Suddenly, numerous airdrop pods—activating their cushioning protocols—plummeted like meteors into the jungle surrounding the pyramid. Their thruster trails scorched through the fog, felling trees upon impact, while the soaked ground buckled into craters as mud and splintered wood burst in all directions.
Buzz—buzz—!
Almost simultaneously, harsh alarms blared from within the pyramid. Rebel soldiers surged out, their equipment makeshift and faces etched with tension, clearly unprepared for the sudden assault. Still, they quickly scrambled to reinforce the perimeter around the pyramid, keeping a wary eye on every rustle.
The dense fog provided the rebels with minimal cover but also hampered their visibility, forcing them to rely solely on instinct and experience to detect the enemy amid the complex terrain. Unbeknownst to them, by the time they reached their positions, Hell Paratroopers—donning full-body exoskeletons—and assault squads from the Empire's Fist, equipped with titanium armor and explosive crossbows, had already encircled the rebel base.
Compounding the rebels' plight, half of their X-wing fighters had been diverted to support the Scarif conflict, leaving only a scant handful of U-wing transports and Y-wing bombers. Their air support was thus critically depleted, while on the ground, their armored vehicles were few—a smattering of outdated armored cars and light turrets, woefully insufficient for the scale of the impending assault.
At this juncture, the Rebel Alliance base stood at its most vulnerable, with its forces seemingly faced with only two grim options: wait to be annihilated or surrender outright. Hidden in the jungle canopy, the elite troops of the Empire—both Hell Paratroopers and the finest of the Empire's Fist—had already secured optimal firing positions. Their weapons were trained unerringly on the rebel defenses, though not a single shot had been fired. Their objective was not immediate destruction but rather to impose a crippling intimidation, stifling every rebel movement. Meanwhile, several technical specialists had covertly set up ground jamming stations in the undergrowth; once activated, these devices would sever communications across Yaven IV, leaving the rebels isolated and vulnerable.
It wasn't long before the rebel soldiers, scanning the jungle with naked eyes, began to discern faint, shifting silhouettes in the fog. These ghostly figures, barely visible amid the cascading rain, evoked a surge of terror. Panic quickly rippled through the ranks—their breaths grew shallow, and trembling hands gripped their weapons tighter. Despite efforts to remain composed, an undercurrent of fear proved nearly impossible to suppress.
Fortunately, no direct conflict erupted immediately. The Empire's elite maintained a disciplined restraint, while the rebels, though tense, managed to hold their line—bolstered by their resolve to resist tyranny and the stalemate's peculiar stability. As the fog drifted slowly and rain pattered softly on the leaves—heralding an even heavier downpour—the stage was set.
Yet none were more baffled than the high-ranking officers and commanders of the Rebel Alliance. Their overall commander, mon mothma, had just concluded a holographic negotiation with Magnus, reaching a preliminary agreement. Still, questions loomed: Why had the Human Empire deployed such a massive fleet to Yaven IV? And why were they displaying such an overtly hostile posture? These mysteries weighed heavily on the rebel leadership, breeding unprecedented confusion and unease.
Inside the command center, mon mothma's brow was furrowed as she scrutinized a barrage of data. On the central display, countless Human Empire vessels loomed in low orbit around Yaven IV—their scale and imposing presence sending shivers down the spine. Before the rebel leaders could regroup their thoughts, the situation shifted dramatically.
Soon—
Boom—
With the roar of engines, countless transport ships and carrier aircraft suddenly appeared over the rebel base, shattering the previous stalemate. These vehicles swarmed like a massive hive, blotting out the sky like an oppressive cloud. Leading the charge was a specialized Thunderhawk gunboat—its massive hull and formidable firepower striking terror into all who beheld it. Trailing closely were several Pelicans and additional Thunderhawk gunboats, forming a transport formation that headed directly for the base's airstrip. Simultaneously, other transports dispersed to the base's periphery, rapidly landing on open clearings within the jungle.
As their hatches opened, fully armed support troops and elven warriors spilled out with coordinated precision—a rhythm honed by countless operations. The rebel soldiers, dumbfounded, could only watch as their own weapons drooped, their grip slackening in the face of overwhelming might. Accustomed to guerrilla warfare, they had never witnessed such a colossal military maneuver, nor imagined themselves as its target. Panic once again surged, gripping every soul like an unseen hand.
!!!
The scene reached its climax when the colossal Thunderhawk gunboat descended slowly onto the airstrip, its bay doors unfurling. A profound, inexplicable emotion surged within the rebels. Accompanying the heavy thud of boots from the gunboat's cabin emerged a group of Empire's Fist Glory Guard Temple Knights, clad in exclusive Terminator Armor and standing nearly three meters tall. These towering warriors advanced with measured, earth-shaking steps—each footfall resonating like a drumbeat on the rebels' hearts. Their mere presence, reminiscent of "deities" among mortals, left the rebel soldiers utterly paralyzed; though weapons were in hand, their strength and courage seemed to vanish.
In the rebel command center, mon mothma observed the spectacle via surveillance screens—and then, shockingly, she saw Dorn, towering at nearly five meters. The sight drew a deep frown from her, and her eyes flashed with an unmistakable mix of awe and despair.
"Phew…"
mon mothma exhaled deeply, struggling to regain her composure. She knew that the Rebel Alliance now teetered on the brink of a desperate choice—any rash move could trigger a catastrophic response.
As the commanding officer of the rebels, she understood that decisive action was imperative; otherwise, the entire base—and all those who shared their ideals—would be doomed. Her gaze swept over the other senior officers and commanders in the room, each sharing her grave concern. Then, she transmitted an order over the comms:
"Stand down. Do not fire!"
Her voice, firm and resolute, sought to instill calm, but the oppressive tension remained undiminished.
Moments later, after adjusting her uniform and taking a deep breath, mon mothma surveyed the room of leaders before speaking slowly:
"Let's go. It's time we meet with this overly aggressive 'ally.'"
"Agreed," replied a high-ranking officer with tanned skin and a square beard—none other than Bel Bail Organa, one of the Rebel Alliance's founders, a former senator of the Old Republic, and governor of the Ordan system. With both leaders in accord, the remaining officers nodded; they recognized that their only path forward was to confront this sudden crisis head-on if any hope for the future was to be salvaged.
Escorted by elite rebel guards, the group left the command center and navigated through the pyramid that served as their base. The corridors were dim and flickering, each step echoing as if treading on uncertain fate. Eventually, they reached a spacious hall.
Thump—thump.
Before they could steady themselves, a series of heavy footsteps thundered in from the hall's entrance—a sound as powerful as war drums. Twelve Temple Knights formed a semi-circle in the center of the hall; their towering, muscular figures resembled an unyielding fortress of steel. The Temple Knights, without even raising the explosive crossbows mounted on their left arms, simply standing there was enough to freeze the rebel soldiers in place. The rebels' eyes, filled with fear and reverence, betrayed their inability even to breathe audibly.
Even more astonishing was the sight behind the Temple Knights: Dorn himself. His towering frame, even greater than that of the knights, appeared as if he had stepped straight out of myth—a presence so awe-inspiring that the hall's atmosphere grew unbearably oppressive. In stark contrast, Arroi, standing quietly by his side, seemed almost inconspicuous. Despite her elven features, in the overwhelming presence of Dorn and the knights, few rebel eyes lingered on her.
Outside, John's Spartans stood at the pyramid's perimeter, locked in a silent standoff with the rebel soldiers. Though the Spartans appeared diminutive compared to the towering Temple Knights, their presence still exuded a crushing pressure upon the enemy.
mon mothma, Bel Bail Organa, and the others gathered in the hall's center. As their eyes met the imposing figures of the Temple Knights and Dorn, they fought the instinct to drop to one knee—a reaction not born of weakness, but from the primal awe and shock of encountering a being beyond mortal ken. In real life, few could meet a five-meter-tall man whose very presence evoked the image of a "divine being." Even in the diverse tapestry of the Star Wars universe, such an entity was unparalleled.
Indeed, the impulse to kneel among Mossma, Bail Organa, and their peers wasn't merely due to Dorn's physical stature—it was also the palpable aura of the Force emanating from him, an intangible pressure that swept over the hall like a tidal wave, making every breath heavy and labored.
Then Dorn's gaze swept over the assembly and finally rested on Mossma. With a slight smile, he announced, "Greetings. I am Dorn, the genetic prototype of the Empire's Fist, of the Sixth Legion, and the sixth son of the Human Emperor."
After a pause, he continued bluntly, "We have arrived at Yaven IV with one clear purpose—to have you join us, the Empire's Fist, in dismantling the rule of the Galactic Empire. Therefore, I order you to immediately organize your forces: gather all your equipment, weapons, and vehicles, and transport them to our flagship, the Eternal Crusader. Naturally, all combat units are to be deployed aboard the Eternal Crusader."
Dorn's words fell silent, and mon mothma, along with Bail Organa and the others, was left speechless—unsure how to respond. His declaration was tantamount to forcibly reconfiguring the Rebel Alliance.
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Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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