Galactic First Empire, Outer Rim Systems, Moddell Sector, Endor.
At the sparse outer edge of the Endor system, the Death Star floated in fixed orbit above its verdant moon.
On the surface of this colossal armored battle station of the Galactic Empire rose no fewer than 30,000 turbolaser batteries, 7,500 laser cannons, 5,000 ion cannons, and 768 tractor beam projectors—like a massive spherical cactus bristling with thorns.
Death Star II.
Four years had passed since the Battle of Yavin, when the first Death Star was destroyed. In that time, the Galactic Empire had once again poured astronomical amounts of manpower and resources into reconstructing this terrifying engine of war.
It was larger and more advanced than its ill-fated predecessor—its sister station destroyed by the Rebellion. Thankfully, this new battle station was still incomplete.
In the dark vastness of space, the monstrous, gleaming black sphere hung silently over Endor's green world below. Nearly one-third of its upper framework remained exposed to the void, with skeletal arms and girders curling outward like the probing limbs of a venomous spider—making its half-finished form all the more menacing.
Clearly, such a massive weapon could not be hidden.
As construction on the Death Star II accelerated, more and more Imperial manpower, resources, and funding were drawn to Endor, inevitably attracting the gaze of enemies and dissenters alike.
Endor—a remote world once overlooked by busy starfarers—had now become the focal point of the entire galaxy. Countless spies, agents, and reconnaissance operatives had gathered here.
At this stage, the Imperial Counterintelligence Bureau and its many security divisions stationed at the Death Star II construction site were among the busiest organizations in the Empire.
Suddenly—Boom, boom, boom!
In the dim void, searing streaks of energy bolts flashed through the darkness.
"Damn it! These Imperial war criminals... in less than four years, they've built something even more horrifying than the one at Yavin!"
Within the asteroid belt, amidst the chasing energy blasts, the red lights of warning indicators flickered across the control panels of a small fleeing recon ship. Wearing a pressure-resistant flight suit, a veteran scout of the Rebel Alliance dove and rolled through the debris, evading the Imperial pursuit.
Through the side window, he caught a glimpse—across astronomical distance—of the monstrous shadow of the Death Star II still visible against the light of Endor.
"It's already more than two-thirds complete... even the main superlaser's nearly installed..."
The faint tapping of drifting asteroid fragments, the explosions of chasing turbolaser fire, the blaring alarms—none of it compared to the dread that seized his heart as he gazed upon the colossal weapon.
His voice trembled. "If the Alliance fails to act soon... all hope will be lost."
A veteran of the Battle of Yavin, he had seen the first Death Star's destruction with his own eyes. And now, looking upon this second one—its design following the same deadly lineage—he knew enough to judge whether it had combat readiness.
If the Rebellion truly wished to overthrow the Empire's tyranny, time was of the essence.
Once the Death Star II reached completion, everything would be over.
This time, there was no repentant Imperial engineer leaving behind an 'Achilles' Heel' for the Rebels to exploit.
Boom!
As the scout transmitted his gathered data—coordinates, fleet strength, defensive positions, and patrol routes of the Imperial armada surrounding Endor—a crimson turbolaser bolt struck his small vessel.
The port wing shattered. Flames erupted, filling the cabin with the acrid stench of burning circuitry. Shards of alloy and synthetic plating scattered into the void like a spray of jewels.
The impact crippled the engines. The hyperdrive failed. He knew his fate was sealed—but his trembling hands stayed fixed on the console, watching the transmission indicator inch toward completion.
At least... before he died... the Alliance would know the Death Star II's construction status...
BOOM!
Another explosion. In the reflection of the Rebel scout's eyes, surrounded by fire, he saw the unmistakable silhouette of the Galactic Empire's TIE fighter—its twin hexagonal wings flanking a spherical cockpit. Twin blaster cannons flashed, and in an instant, the fleeing ship was reduced to a fireball and a cloud of twisted debris.
In an almost leisurely tone, the leader of the pursuing TIE formation opened his comms. "Command, this is ST-5185. Rodent extermination complete. Over."
"Within one Coruscant Standard Day, how many have you bagged today?"
"The sixth one. And that's just for our squadron. These sewer rats must be desperate—throwing themselves into the fire."
"Heh. Once Death Star II is operational, no matter how many of these clowns show up, they're all dead anyway."
...
"My Lord, the very existence of Death Star II is the ultimate bait—a grand lure. Its presence alone symbolizes fear incarnate. Your authority will extend to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Rebels like the Alliance will be paralyzed by terror before it."
Inside the cavernous, cathedral-like control room of the Death Star II, a hunched, gray-haired engineer raised his head from the monitors that displayed flashes of distant combat—Imperial escort ships vaporizing intruders in brilliant sparks. Bowing deeply, he turned toward the shadowed figure seated above the steps, his voice trembling with reverent sycophancy.
"Countless fools will hurl themselves toward it like moths to flame, as they do to summer lanterns in a garden. All we need do is prepare the glass casing—and then, simply watch their despair."
"Excellent."
From the throne shrouded in darkness and dread, the black-robed shadow rose. The dim lights cast long, cold gleams along the obsidian floor. The voice that followed was rough and rasping—like a metal file scraping against steel—each word filled with the promise of paralysis and death.
"Bevel Lemelisk... you have not disappointed me."
He descended the steps slowly.
Short and frail, his aging, corrupted body hunched over a segmented cane. A long hooded robe draped over him—like a Jedi's attire, but entirely black, a void that devoured all color.
His face, gaunt and skeletal, was half-hidden beneath the hood. Yet from the shadows gleamed a pair of sharp yellow eyes—eyes that could seemingly set ablaze all they beheld.
Once the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic—Sheev Palpatine. Now, the Emperor of the First Galactic Empire. The Dark Lord of the Sith—Darth Sidious.
Sidious nodded to the chief engineer who had miraculously survived the destruction of the first Death Star, then turned toward the vast viewport overlooking the half-complete behemoth.
"Raise your head, my most brilliant designer. Show me your masterpiece."
The old engineer stood with care, following close behind his master. Behind them marched a procession of Imperial dignitaries, royal guards, and elite Death Star II officers—all carrying the same blend of awe and fear.
All but one.
Hsss...
The sound accompanied the figure that always stood nearest the Emperor. Over two meters tall, a black cloak trailing behind him, his face forever concealed beneath that grim, iconic mask—a black metal respirator that radiated intimidation with every breath.
Silent. Unyielding.
"My Lord, this design fully adheres to the specifications of the Tarkin Doctrine's weapons platform, correcting the flaws and vulnerabilities that led to the first Death Star's destruction."
"Compared to its predecessor, the Death Star II uses a vastly improved thermal dispersion system. Instead of a single large exhaust port, excess heat from the reactor core is now expelled through millions of microscopic heat vents—rendering infiltration impossible."
"When complete, its diameter will reach two hundred kilometers—larger than the first station. Its main reactor's energy output surpasses that of a hundred supergiant stars combined. The superlaser itself... will be even more powerful."
As the engineer spoke, and the monstrous war engine loomed beyond the viewport—two-thirds completed—Sidious smiled.
The gathered ministers and sector governors followed suit, their faces glowing with the shared vision of a galaxy united, the Empire's dominion eternal.
"Death Star II will be completed on schedule, my Lord," the trembling engineer said softly under Sidious's piercing gaze.
"Yes," Sidious murmured. "I know."
As he spoke, the Dark Lord of the Sith halted, his withered gaze shifting toward his disciple. "You have done well, Lord Vader. Do not let these clowns distract you from our grand design... I sense your growing impatience to resume the search for the young Skywalker."
"But it is not yet time. Be patient, my friend."
The Sith Lord's voice deepened, filled with both admonition and quiet amusement. "Patience has never been your strength. In time, he will come to you... and when he does, you must bring him before me. He has grown powerful—very powerful. Only together can we persuade him to embrace the power of the Sith."
Hsshhh...
For once, Darth Vader remained silent. The rasping breath from his mechanical lungs filled the air. At length, he spoke.
"My Master, the Outer Rim has grown unstable. The governor of the Arkanis Sector has sent distress signals—reports of unknown rebel forces growing in strength. They have defeated our local fleets. Several systems, including Tatooine, have fallen or lost contact..."
The galaxy was divided into the Inner, Mid, and Outer Rings. Beyond the Outer Rim lay the Wild Space—regions poorly governed, weakly garrisoned. But Tatooine was an exception.
Tatooine—homeworld of Darth Vader, once Anakin Skywalker; birthplace of his son, Luke Skywalker; and the hermitage of his old master, Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Empire had stationed a considerable force there.
Though not as heavily defended as the Inner Core worlds, it should have been far beyond the reach of a mere Rebel expeditionary detachment.
"I understand your meaning, Lord Vader," Sidious replied with an almost dismissive tone. "But these are trifles—minor irritations."
"As long as they stand against the Empire, they cannot help but know what the Death Star II represents. They will come to Endor. All of them will come here."
His pale, desiccated face curved into a confident, sinister smile beneath the hood. "And here... they shall meet their end."
Endor itself was a trap—a carefully woven snare, designed to end the Galactic Civil War once and for all.
"I hope so."
Vader lowered his great metallic head. "My Master, I request permission to go to Tatooine."
"Because of the young Skywalker?" Sidious's voice was soft, probing. He raised his head slightly, watching his apprentice's retreating figure. A cold, knowing grin crept onto his lips as he murmured to himself.
"Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen."
...
Meanwhile, on Tatooine.
The barren desert world had transformed into a massive staging ground for materials and personnel.
In low orbit, alongside the uniform, standardized fleets of the Sacred Selene Empire's Navy, drifted countless other ships—varying in size, color, design, and even armament. A kaleidoscope of vessels painted in red, yellow, green, blue, black, and white—each bearing distinct emblems and battle scars.
They lacked the majesty and polish of the Imperial warships beside them, their hulls scarred and worn by time. Yet their weathered plating and battle damage lent them a rugged, brutal majesty—ancient, steadfast, and unyielding.
They were machines of war, unapologetically so.
They defied the stars themselves.
Capital City: Bestine.
The major battles had ceased. Aside from scattered gunfire echoing from the outskirts and desert regions, Tatooine was now fully under Imperial control.
The reason was simple—the combined strength of the newly deployed Astartes Chapters and restructured Imperial Guard divisions utterly dwarfed the planet's native population.
Boom!
The dull clang of metal on stone. An officer of the stubborn Banking Empire's desert corps was sent crashing into a thick stone wall by a single punch. Debris flew as the man's armored body smashed through the barrier, collapsing into the adjoining dwelling. Angry shouts erupted from within.
"Son of a—!"
"Damn it!"
"Fuck you!"
"Who the hell did that?! Can't you see we're eating here?!"
A group of Imperial Auxiliary soldiers slammed their hands on the table, brushing dust from their uniforms as they turned toward the source of the chaos.
"Sorry, sorry—this bastard was hiding in the sewer for hours. When I was taking a break, he jumped out and startled me. I might've overreacted a bit. Anyway, let me apologize on his behalf."
Chuckling awkwardly, a petite demi-human auxiliary soldier with blue-green hair and eyes—sporting three pairs of dragonfly wings and fuzzy antennae—scratched the back of her head sheepishly, holding a scythe glowing with emerald light.
"Sigh... Looks like we'll have to sweep this district again."
The auxiliary captain seated at the square table dusted off his hat and gestured toward a nearby service automaton. "Have the men who got caught in the blast get a proper meal."
"And you—Yasujin! Take your squad and clear out the rats in this block. If I hear another explosion while I'm eating, and it ruins my stew again, that new Phase Scythe of yours is going straight into storage!"
"Uuuu... I'm sorry, Captain!" Even her fuzzy antennae drooped pitifully. "I'll go right away! I promise we'll finish the job!"
Across the same city, makeshift rest zones had been hastily divided and repurposed.
After all, livable space on Tatooine was scarce. Aside from its two polar cities, the rest of the planet was endless desert. Even with ongoing terraforming, progress was slow. As a result, various units had to camp in close quarters.
"Oh, by Selene above! Praise be to Her Majesty, who blesses us with such a bountiful feast!"
The source of the outburst was easy to guess—the soldiers of the former Imperial Guard from Sector A–13. Having spent years subsisting on vitamin supplements, oat bars, protein sticks, and the dreadful corpse starch that once passed for rations, they were now almost weeping with joy at the lavish spread provided by the Selene Empire's logistics corps.
"Do they have to be so dramatic? Were they from some backwater wasteland world?"
Across the wire fence, another group of Imperial auxiliary soldiers from an industrial world peered over curiously.
"Who cares?" another shrugged. "Eat and rest while you can. We launch in six hours. And who knows—if the restructuring goes through, those guys might outrank us before long."
Not far away, on a flattened stretch of the temporary landing field, Imperial Navy engineers and quartermasters stood slack-jawed as they watched a group of heavily armored warriors argue fiercely over supply crates.
"By the Throne of Selene—let go! You Ultramarines already get the best equipment. How can you still have the gall to hoard more?!"
"Watch your tongue, you Fenrisian mutt! These supplies were assigned to us. The new heavy weapons and armor are part of our requisition! And this expedition is for successor chapters only—what's your parent chapter doing here?"
"You had to bring that up, huh? We Wolves have no successors! You think we'd miss an honor like this? We sent our companies fair and square! Now let go!"
"You lot fight harder over supply crates than you do in battle..."
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