Dizziness. Ringing in his ears.
The flames from the fallen speeder burned the air, searing Luke Skywalker's face. He instinctively squinted and staggered away from the twisted wreckage of steel.
"Ugh... That wasn't a blaster shot—it was some kind of chemical-propellant projectile weapon..."
The numbing ache throughout his body, along with the groans of his companions nearby, brought him back to awareness. Shakily rising to his feet, Luke brushed the sand off his robes, grimacing as grains clung to his sweat-soaked face.
He stared at the jagged fragment in his hand—an explosive casing and a diamond-like bullet head—and frowned deeply.
Years of fighting against foes armed with standard energy-based blasters across the Galactic Republic had trained his reflexes to perfection: deflect the beam with his lightsaber. But this time, the solid round had detonated upon contact, and the explosion had gone off right in his face. His ears were still ringing painfully, his eardrums throbbing from the blast.
Projectile weapons—whatever else could be said about them—were far louder and more brutal on the ears than any blaster's soft hum.
The shrapnel from the secondary explosions had caught him completely off guard. Fortunately, he had managed to erect a Force barrier just in time to protect himself and his companions, including Han Solo. But their commandeered light skiff hadn't been so lucky. The fragments had torn through its fragile control systems, sending it spinning out of control and crashing into the sand.
They had been thrown clear, tumbling hard across the dunes.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"
Half-buried in the sand from the impact, Han Solo cursed loudly.
Walking through sand was miserable enough—but now, without a vehicle, getting back to Jabba the Hutt's palace on foot would take far too long. The thought of Princess Leia still in that slimy slug's grasp made Han's blood boil.
Spotting Luke, he shouted, "Luke! Don't worry about me—go save Leia! I'll handle Lando, Chewbacca, Artoo, and Threepio!"
"Alright—"
Before Luke could finish, a shrill roar of engines tore through the air, drowning out his voice.
A massive-caliber explosive round slammed into the dunes, sending up a geyser of sand. This time, Luke was prepared. As shards of metal burst toward them, he used his lightsaber to deflect while reinforcing his body with the Force, shielding his senses from the deafening blasts.
At the same time, his telekinesis redirected the flying shrapnel midair, bending its path away from his allies.
Bang! Bang! Bang bang bang...
Deflecting bullets with a lightsaber—every Jedi's essential lesson. Shrapnel flew. Sand exploded. Amid the hail of gunfire, Luke narrowed his eyes, peering toward the horizon several hundred meters away.
A gray gunship, its hull marked with the sigil "≡][≡" and an imperial warhawk, screamed in low over the dunes. Flames spat from its thrusters as figures in full-body powered exoskeletons descended from its side, slamming into the ground with heavy thuds like Mandalorian bounty hunters.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Shockwaves rippled from their landings. Without hesitation, the soldiers of the Imperial Auxiliary's Provisional 16th Recon Squad, Team A, raised their weapons and aimed straight at the young man wielding the supernatural power before them.
"Drop your weapon!" barked a soldier in heavily accented Galactic Basic, his voice translated by his helmet's AI.
"Never!"
They might not have been Imperial stormtroopers, but Luke could sense it through the Force—the stench of blood, the disciplined malice that radiated from them. Whoever they were, they carried the same darkness as the Empire's executioners.
Different banners—same evil.
"Open fire!"
There was no room for negotiation. The moment they realized force was required, Lieutenant Haywood's Team A soldiers squeezed their triggers without hesitation.
Ratatatat!
.357 bolt shells, caseless electromagnetic spines, laser beams, plasma bursts—each soldier unleashed his preferred weapon. The air filled with a multicolored storm of death.
But Luke held his ground. His emerald lightsaber became a blur of motion, the Force surging through him. Metal slugs were cleaved in half, explosive rounds burst midair, and searing plasma was deflected harmlessly aside. With superhuman reflexes and precision far beyond mortal limits, he broke through the storm of gunfire, charging straight at them.
Zzzzzzt!
"Raaahhh—!"
Caught in the hail of gunfire, Chewbacca let out a pained roar. His thick brown fur was stained red as blood streamed down his arm. A laser bolt had pierced his shoulder; the Wookiee's massive hand, still clutching a blaster, went limp as he collapsed into the sand.
"Chewie!"
Han Solo, who had just dug R2-D2 and C-3PO from a mound of sand, rolled toward his fallen companion, panic flashing across his face.
"Raaah!"
Seeing this, Luke shouted, his voice bursting with power as he moved faster—three times faster—than before. Like an arrow loosed from the string, he lunged forward, lightsaber slicing down toward the Imperial auxiliary sergeant who was still directing suppressive fire.
Whoosh!
The sergeant hurled his rifle at Luke, only for it to be instantly severed and explode in midair. He drew a monomolecular tactical dagger in reverse grip. "Conventional small-arms fire is useless—use melee weapons!" he barked through the comms.
As for why they didn't use heavy plasma cannons, Gauss annihilators, or melta weapons—the answer was simple. It wasn't just about logistics. They needed the target alive, or at least with an intact brain. A vaporized corpse couldn't be interrogated or soul-probed later.
Ting!
The monomolecular dagger met the lightsaber—and disintegrated instantly. The sergeant's eyes widened beneath his helmet. This weapon...!
But there was no time for awe. He triggered his wrist-mounted energy shield, dropped the shattered blade, and swung a gloved fist at Luke's head in a side spin.
Boom!
The shockwave blasted sand in all directions, the dune beneath them rippling outward. Locked in a deadly exchange, the sergeant's eyes met Luke's through the Force—both surprised by what they felt.
That blow... even an elephant's skull would have been crushed by it. And yet, this man—this Force-user—stood unharmed.
What's more, that energy shield had momentarily resisted the lightsaber's edge. Just for a fraction of a second, but enough to prove its strength.
Gritting his teeth, Luke unleashed another surge of Force-enhanced power. The lightsaber swung like a pendulum, slicing clean through the wrist-shield generator and sweeping across the sergeant's torso.
Sparks burst. Even though the man dodged, the blade cleaved through his left arm and part of his chest. He grunted, pain muffled by his helmet, while his armor's auto-med system injected coagulant gel to seal the wound.
Glancing at his severed arm, the sergeant activated his jump pack, rocketing upward to evade further strikes.
"Those without close-combat gear, fall back! Keep your distance—contain him! He can't maintain that state for long..."
Before he could finish, he suddenly found himself lifted into the air.
"Telekinesis... or gravity?" he gasped.
Face flushed with exertion, Luke focused his will. The Force gripped the airborne sergeant as he deflected blaster and cannon fire, even batting aside the rotary plasma bursts from the gunship's cannons. Then—he leapt.
Eight... nine meters into the air.
BOOM—!
Just as he was about to seize the officer—whose ornate pauldrons marked him as a squad leader—a blinding plasma burst struck him head-on, hurling him through the air.
Zzzzzzt...
Electric arcs crackled as Luke crashed into the sand, smoke rising from his scorched body. His black Jedi robes were in tatters, the fabric fused with charred flesh. His skin was burned, blistered—his once-calm face now twisted in agony.
Half-kneeling in the sand, blood surged up his throat, and he spat it out in a crimson spray.
The Force might be infinite—but Luke's mastery of it was not.
Though Luke Skywalker possessed extraordinary potential—perhaps enough to one day become the greatest Jedi Master—he had yet to fully embrace his destiny or attain true serenity. For now, he was still just a Jedi apprentice.
That he had managed to shield his companions from a .75-caliber explosive bolt, survive the crash, and still hold his own against Imperial Auxiliary troopers was already an astonishing feat.
"Sergeant, are you alright?"
"I'll live. Someone grab my arm—yeah, that one. Good, still mostly intact. Once we're back at camp, I'll have the medics reattach it. Better to use the original than grow a new one from scratch."
"Keep your distance. Don't rush in with daggers—this kid's dangerous. His strength output's through the roof, but his defense is weak. Especially that sword—it must be one of those Force-based weapons. Our armor and standard shields won't hold; they're paper-thin against it..."
"Alright, I'll give it a shot..."
The words were in the Sacred Selene Empire's standard tongue—foreign to Luke Skywalker's ears.
Then—hum.
A pair of gray-black armored boots stepped into view. A squad of Imperial auxiliary troopers advanced, some slinging rifles behind their backs and drawing chainswords, power blades, twin-edged energy sabers, and short gravity hammers. Their eyes, hidden behind visors, locked onto Luke like predators closing in on prey.
Those armed only with combat knives or short blades kept their distance, covering the assault group with aimed rifles and heavy sidearms.
Without a word, the soldiers moved as one—every strike aimed below Luke's neck, precise and lethal.
Clang, clang, clang!
Eyes blazing red, Luke gritted his teeth, channeling the Force to dull the searing pain of his burns. His lightsaber whirled through the air, tracing brilliant arcs of green light. In the narrow space of the dune, energy blades clashed and sparked, lighting up the battlefield.
"Shit!" one soldier shouted as his chainsword melted in half.
Even the mass-produced mortal variant of his weapon—though far inferior to the fine-forged models used by officers and the Astartes—had served him faithfully through countless battles against xenos and heretics alike. But here, against this young Jedi, it shattered like glass.
Crack!
Another trooper staggered back as his gravity hammer's head split and fractured, moments from total failure.
Zzzchh! The green lightsaber met a blue energy blade, sparks shrieking across the sand. The duel with the Honkai-compression powered sword lasted longer than the others—their energies more closely matched.
So this was a Jedi's craft—their unique art of the Force. A rare and potent weapon. If they could uncover the construction method, the materials used... and replace the power source with Honkai energy, the Empire could mass-produce them.
Yes... perhaps they could even equip an entire division.
Several soldiers entertained the thought.
Realizing Luke was still holding his own, a few recon troopers shifted their focus toward the downed skiff and the survivors struggling among the wreckage.
They had already identified Han Solo and his companions. But now that the Jedi had revealed himself, those others no longer mattered.
Would Luke abandon them—or fight to protect them?
Bang!
A dark-skinned man with a mustache—Lando—had just stood when a caseless electromagnetic spike round tore through his waist. He fell instantly, blood spilling as his organs convulsed in view.
"Lando!"
In that instant, Luke's Jedi training—the teachings of calm and control—snapped. Rage and hatred surged through him, twisting his face. The soldiers ignored his outburst.
"Jedi Knight. Drop your weapon."
"Cowards! If you have even a shred of honor—fight me!"
He froze, torn between fury and desperation.
"I'll repeat myself. Drop your weapon."
Several more troopers disembarked from the gunship, their weapons leveled at Han Solo and the wounded Wookiee.
"This is your final warning. Surrender peacefully, and we may save your companions."
"Don't get your hopes up," one of them said coldly. "At this range, our aim doesn't miss."
Their voices were flat, emotionless.
"Don't stall for time. Both of them—chest cavity and abdomen punctured. Prolonged delay equals certain death."
Their tone—the clinical indifference—made Luke's blood boil.
"That's because of you! You Imperial dogs—executioners! What are you, bounty hunters? Mercenaries? Here for Jabba's pay? That Hutt filth working with your Empire to slaughter the Rebellion?!"
Weary, bleeding, and cornered, Luke felt the last of his composure crumble.
A soft chuckle echoed through the comms—followed by the distant hum of engines.
Descending from a gunship, resplendent under his wide-brimmed hat, was Lieutenant Haywood Spike. His smile was cold, mocking.
"Let's not rush to conclusions, Jedi. You call yourselves the Rebellion? Hah!"
"I don't know what you are—but that friend of yours, Han Solo? He's no hero. Just a smuggler."
Haywood's voice was smooth, contemptuous.
"He took a job, pocketed the advance, then dumped a shipment of Hutt spice worth a fortune. Jabba had every reason to want him dead. That's business. He made his choices."
He gestured idly with his gloved hand.
"The galaxy's full of scum like him—men who think rebellion makes them righteous. If he really were a soldier of your 'Rebel Alliance,' he'd have paid his debts. Instead, he fled. You both did."
He smirked. "You and I—we're not so different, Jedi. You talk about justice while your friend hides behind excuses. Neither of you are saints."
He lowered his hand.
"Execute them."
A squad of Imperial troopers moved forward, dragging out the two droids—gold and blue—then kicked them down, snapping their joints. Han tried to resist, only to be smashed across the face with a rifle butt, his nose breaking, his arms twisted until his shoulders popped. The troopers forced him and the Wookiee to the ground, blasters pressed to their heads.
"I surrender..."
Luke's voice trembled as he shut off his lightsaber and tossed it aside. Instantly, a group of soldiers rushed in, binding him tightly.
"A wise choice," Haywood said, waving a hand in satisfaction. "Stand down. Take Skywalker into custody."
He was just about to issue the order to withdraw when the air suddenly vibrated—whummm...
The sound of approaching engines filled the sky. Haywood's head snapped up.
A dart-shaped starfighter broke through the glare of Tatooine's twin suns, descending like a burning spear.
A faint voice echoed through the Force—calm, resolute.
"Luke... your destiny does not end here..."
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