Chapter 19:
– Silas –
The first pair of alien tits I ever saw up close were…honestly, pretty fantastic.
I'd just been shoved into Jabba's palace by the pissed off guards when she caught my eye, a gorgeous, half-naked Twi'lek with vivid blue skin and curves that definitely belonged in some sci-fi pin-up. The gauzy strips of cloth draping her body did little to hide the gentle sway of her breasts, capped by dusky, dark-blue nipples that were impossible not to notice.
Goddamn. Alien biology clearly knew what it was doing.
But my enjoyment faded fast when my eyes traveled up to the harsh metal slave collar around her slender neck. Her expression wasn't the seductive tease I'd imagined, it was timid and cautious.
She glanced my way, meeting my eyes for just a second, and the desperate, fragile hope I saw there hit me hard in the chest.
That same look was on nearly every slave's face as we passed. Human, Twi'lek, and dozens of other species I couldn't name—all sneaking glances, hopeful glances.
How the fuck had news about me spread this quickly? Had my epic dragon-slaying already gone viral? Tatooine had an internet? Seriously, was there no other gossip on Tatooine?
My angry escort clearly didn't appreciate all this newfound hope I was unintentionally inspiring. They grew more agitated with every passing slave's expectant glance.
Finally, one of the thuggish guards snapped, turning suddenly and kicking a young human boy who'd dared to stare at me too long. "Get back to work, scum! Quit gawking! None of you worthless pieces of shit are ever getting out of here! That damn prophecy's a joke!"
My fists clenched at my sides, electricity prickling at my fingertips. I could practically taste ozone in the air, my rage begging me to fry this sadistic asshole into crispy bits right now.
But no. As much as I wanted to make an example of him, starting a fight in Jabba's palace probably wasn't the smartest move. Not yet, anyway. I needed to figure out exactly what Jabba wanted first.
Though, to be honest, I was already pretty damn sure of what it was going to be. Jabba had probably summoned me just to try and kill me.
The moment I was marched into Jabba's throne room, every pair of eyes turned toward me. I felt the heavy stare of slaves, bounty hunters, and shady-looking merchants alike. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
I swept my gaze calmly over the room. It was crowded, more slaves here than I'd expected, their weary expressions instantly lighting with a mixture of excitement and desperation when they spotted me.
Guess the word had definitely gotten around. I had barely been on this planet for half a day, and already I was some sort of legend. If I hadn't been right smack in the middle of it, I'd have laughed.
Scanning further, my eyes caught a group of bounty hunters off to the side, armored from head-to-toe.
Mandalorians.
Well shit. The way they all stiffened up when I entered made it clear they'd heard the stories too. I smirked to myself beneath my mask, wondering briefly what was going on behind those helmets—especially with the female Mandos. Even beneath all that battle-scarred armor, it was obvious some of those ladies had curves tight enough to make me curious.
Shame about the helmets, really. Bet they had pretty faces too. And yet no one would ever see them. Talk about a lame custom.
The guards shoved me closer to Jabba's grotesque slug-like form sprawled lazily on his stone throne. The guards wore proud, cocky expressions, like they honestly believed they'd dragged in some helpless prisoner. As if their blasters—which were already secretly shorted-out with a quick zap of electricity from my new electromaster powers—could actually keep me in line if I decided to start attacking.
I kept my expression neutral as the head guard stepped forward smugly and called out, puffing himself up with pride. "Mighty Jabba, we have captured the troublemaker! We've brought this false prophet to you for judgment!" He beamed, practically wagging his tail like an eager dog expecting praise.
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
Not loudly, just a low, derisive scoff, enough to make heads snap toward me.
One of the guards jabbed his useless blaster roughly into my lower back. "Shut it, filth!"
I didn't react. No point in ruining the surprise just yet. Instead, I crossed my arms and stared blankly at Jabba under my mask.
He narrowed his yellowish eyes at me. His massive, slug-like body shifted slightly on the throne, the rolls of fat rippling unpleasantly. Honestly, how this disgusting space slug managed to intimidate anyone was beyond me. Maybe it was the smell?
Whatever it was, it was fucking rank. Did alien slugs even bathe?
The Hutt started to speak in his deep, booming voice, each word sounding more like a wet belch than actual language. Next to him stood a sleek, well-dressed Twi'lek—definitely not a slave—judging by the arrogance radiating off him.
The Twi'lek cleared his throat and spoke in clear Galactic Basic, translating Jabba's guttural noises. "Great Jabba is pleased with the swift actions of his loyal guards. You will be rewarded greatly for silencing this disgusting prophecy."
Cheers rose briefly from Jabba's lackeys, the guards puffing up even further at the praise.
Finally, Jabba turned his massive, ugly head back toward me. His rumbling words oozed arrogance, dripping off him almost literally. The Twi'lek translated smoothly: "Great Jabba wants to know…what should he do with you, false prophet?"
– Missy –
Missy grinned as she carefully held out her hand, concentrating hard on the tiny metallic object embedded just beneath Shmi Skywalker's skin. Her powers flowed through the air, distorting the space around her fingertips as the slave implant appeared safely in her palm with a quiet pop.
Shmi gasped softly, touching the back of her neck in shock. "Is…is it really gone?"
"It sure is, Mom!" Anakin shouted enthusiastically, bouncing on his heels beside her. "You're finally free!"
Shmi's eyes brimmed with tears, and Missy had to fight down a proud lump in her own throat. Being a hero was amazing…
If also a bit troublesome…
Missy looked around the small home, noting with a grimace that their little operation had drawn quite a crowd. Qui-Gon stood near the entrance, watching cautiously as more and more slaves quietly trickled in, eager and nervous to be freed. He offered Missy a reassuring nod, clearly approving, even if the growing crowd made him wary.
Initially, Missy had planned to grab Anakin and his mom and get off this sandy hellhole as quickly as possible. But then Padmé—deciding to suddenly be the moral compass, apparently—had spoken up. "We can't just leave all these people behind," the queen had said softly, her voice gentle but firm. "It wouldn't be right."
And damn it, Missy knew she was right. Even if it was a royal pain in the ass. Still, Missy couldn't help but think Padmé wasn't exactly focused on the whole "being queen of Naboo" thing right now. Maybe worrying about literally everyone except the people who'd elected you wasn't exactly top-tier leadership?
Wasn't your planet currently in the middle of an invasion?
Well, whatever. It wasn't her place to judge, not while she was literally pulling bombs out of people's necks like she was plucking coins from thin air.
Besides, they couldn't leave right away even if they wanted to. Outside, the sandstorm roared loudly enough to rattle the walls of the house. Missy frowned slightly, keeping one hand outstretched to hold the swirling sands at bay. Oddly enough, the storm seemed to be seriously messing with her spatial senses. Every time she reached out with her powers to warp the space back toward the ship, her focus slid off-track, her grip on reality slippery and uncertain. It felt like trying to grab smoke with her bare hands.
"Stupid sand," she muttered irritably.
Anakin shot her a quick grin, clearly agreeing. "Sand sucks Bantha doo doo!" he grinned before his mother scolded him for his "language."
At least R2-D2 had finally located the exact ship part they needed back at Watto's shop. Getting back home—well, back to Naboo, or Coruscant?—at least, would be straightforward enough once the storm cleared.
She paused briefly in her work, glancing toward the front door. Where the heck was Silas anyway? Her stomach fluttered slightly at the thought of him, but she quickly squashed down the feeling. Nope. She definitely wasn't going to daydream about the sexy older guy she was totally not crushing on.
She had bombs to remove and slaves to free.
Still, she couldn't quite ignore the quiet whisper of the Force tickling at the edges of her consciousness. It was telling her, almost gleefully, that Silas was perfectly fine—actually more than fine. In fact, the Force seemed to think his current situation was…funny? Important?
Turning back to the line of freed slaves waiting eagerly for her help, Missy took a deep breath and refocused. One by one, she carefully extracted their control implants, each success earning her more grateful, awestruck stares. Pretty soon, she realized they weren't just grateful—they were looking at her like some sort of goddess.
Kinda like how people would sometimes look at Panacea now that she thought about it.
"Thank you, Lady Vista," said a young Twi'lek girl with wide eyes. "You're amazing!"
"Uh, thanks," Missy mumbled awkwardly, suddenly wishing her mask was still on to hide her flaming cheeks. "I'm just doing my job, as a hero, you know? No big deal."
Beside her, Shmi smiled gently, placing a reassuring hand on Missy's shoulder. "You really are incredible, Missy. For a moment, I almost believed you might be the prophesied liberator from legend…"
Missy tilted her head, confused. "Liberator? Wait, what are you talking about?"
Shmi waved her hand. "It's just an old Tatooine legend, about a great warrior who will free all the slaves. They say this liberator will wear black armor and face down a Krayt dragon alone in the desert, bringing freedom to everyone."
Missy stared at her blankly, trying to process that.
Black armor? Slay a Krayt dragon?
Silas wore black armor. And he had gone off to the desert by himself earlier to kill a Krayt Dragon! That couldn't be right…? But then again, hadn't his "system" said something about the "Path of the Liberator?"
Qui-Gon, obviously eavesdropping from nearby, abruptly choked on the water he'd been sipping. Coughing, he stepped closer, eyes narrowed in sudden concern. "Excuse me? A warrior in black armor slaying a Krayt dragon? Miss Skywalker, can you tell us more about this legend…?"
– Silas –
I slowly glanced around Jabba's throne room as his slimy translator's question hung in the air. Beneath my mask, I couldn't stop a cocky smirk from spreading across my face, even knowing damn well that things were about to go to shit in spectacular fashion.
The slaves crowded around the edges of the room stared at me nervously, their eyes wide with desperate, cautious hope. Something twisted sharply in my gut as I looked at them. If I backed out or tried to sweet-talk my way free now, what kind of hero would that make me?
Screw that.
Maybe my system had put me on this insane path, but I was the one choosing to walk it. Hell, I'd already killed two giant dragons today. How much worse could a giant gangster slug be?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I squared my shoulders and faced Jabba directly, making sure my voice rang out clearly across the throne room. "I am Dragonborn, and I am the Liberator!" I declared firmly, electricity humming eagerly along my fingertips. "You're going to free every single slave on this world, Jabba, and never deal in slavery again."
A stunned silence spread across the room. Jabba just blinked at me slowly, as though he couldn't quite believe anyone would dare speak to him like that.
From the bounty hunters and shady merchants scattered around the chamber came muttered insults, some snickering in disbelief at my apparent stupidity.
"He's got a death wish," sneered one particularly scruffy-looking mercenary nearby.
"Let's fucking kill this asshole!"
"No one talks to Jabba like that!"
I flicked my gaze briefly toward the group of Mandalorians watching from the corner, expecting them to be reaching for their blasters, but instead, they simply lounged back against the walls, observing me carefully.
Interesting...
Well, I'd figure them out later, assuming I survived the next few minutes. But I liked my chances!
Jabba finally rumbled something deep and menacing, and although I didn't speak a word of Huttese, I knew exactly what the hell he meant.
"Kill him!" the translator cried out, though the translation was completely unnecessary. The whole room erupted into movement.
The mercenaries pulled their weapons immediately, and I heard the guards at my back squeeze the triggers on their blasters—
CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!
And then curse loudly when nothing happened!
"What the hell?" one of them shouted in confusion, shaking his useless blaster.
I grinned savagely beneath my mask. Idiots. I spun around, throwing a fist into the first guard's jaw with all my strength. A sickening crunch echoed as his head snapped violently sideways, his body crumpling lifelessly to the floor.
Holy shit! I paused for a split second, amazed at the raw power now pulsing through my muscles. Those two Krayt dragon souls hadn't just juiced up my magic, they'd seriously boosted my physical abilities too.
Useful upgrade, for sure.
The remaining two guards scrambled desperately for their backup weapons, but I wasn't feeling generous. Electricity surged from my fingertips in blazing arcs, crackling violently into their chests. They collapsed to the floor, bodies twitching wildly until they finally went limp, smoke rising faintly from their armor.
And then all hell broke loose.
Blaster bolts streaked toward me from every direction, red flashes sizzling through the air. A couple of shots hit my battered Nightingale armor, sending sharp jolts of heat through the fabric and scorching the skin beneath. The enchanted leather held up remarkably well under the barrage, but I definitely couldn't afford to take many hits to the spots where my armor had torn open earlier.
I dove behind one of the nearby stone pillars, dodging another volley of blaster fire. The pillar shuddered against my back as blaster bolts pummeled the other side relentlessly, chips of stone flying past my head. I quickly reached into my inventory, the Nightingale Blade materializing instantly in my right hand. My left hand crackled eagerly, electricity sparking across my fingers.
I waited, muscles tense and ready, my breath coming in short, controlled bursts. Blasters had their perks, sure. But one major drawback? They overheated if you spammed them too fast.
I learned that one from video games…
And right now, the room was full of morons mashing their triggers in panic.
And soon enough they all overheated.
The moment a lull in blaster fire finally came, I launched myself from cover, I moved faster than I'd ever imagined possible with just natural abilities. My newly upgraded body practically hummed with power, every muscle enhanced from absorbing those dragon souls earlier. My reflexes felt dialed up to eleven, with adrenaline sharpening my senses to an almost terrifying clarity.
"Oh fuck—he's a Jedi!" shrieked one wide-eyed bounty hunter, his voice cracking in panic as I blurred toward him.
"Nope, wrong guess, asshole!" I snarled, driving my sword cleanly through his gut without slowing down. He stared at me in shock, blood dribbling from his mouth, eyes bulging before I jerked my blade free, letting him slump to the floor in a gory heap. Whirling around, I faced the crowd of bounty hunters frantically scrambling to raise their weapons again. "I'm something way fucking worse," I declared, my voice echoing with raw power. "I'm a goddamn dragon!"
Then, pulling all my breath into my lungs, I let loose a powerful shout that shook the throne room itself.
"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"
My Disarm Shout exploded outward in an invisible wave of force. Dozens of weapons were instantly ripped from hands, flying wildly across the room. Panicked gasps and curses filled the air as mercenaries and guards staggered back, defenseless and terrified.
"Oh shit!" a Rodian squealed, his huge eyes wide in horror. He turned to run, but too late.
Instinct and fury surged hotly inside my chest, my Dragonborn nature urging me forward in a ruthless rush of violent intent.
Usually, I wasn't the bloodthirsty type—I liked to think I had a decent moral compass—but staring at these slaving fucks, I felt no remorse.
I lunged forward, carving through bone and flesh alike. Blood splattered across my mask and armor as screams echoed around me. My fingers sizzled with lightning, arcs of energy crackling violently as I blasted every asshole that dared step too close. Bodies twitched and convulsed, dropping to the ground as the scent of burning flesh filled the air.
A group of guards rushed me, desperately waving electro-staffs and backup knives. I ducked beneath the swing of the closest thug and drove my elbow upward into his jaw with enough force to shatter bone, sending him sprawling backward with a sickening crunch. I pivoted, slicing through the next guard's wrist before a surge of electricity erupted from my fingertips, leaving him spasming on the floor.
"Come on!" I shouted fiercely, adrenaline pounding through my veins. "You bastards love beating people who can't fight back, huh? How's it feel now, assholes!?"
Another wave of slavers surged toward me, desperation etched across their ugly faces. I threw out my hand, arcs of lightning snapping from my fingers, frying them into twitching heaps before they got within five feet. My senses felt impossibly sharp, every detail around me magnified. I could hear their panicked breaths, smell their fear, feel every movement in the air around me.
"Please, mercy!" begged a cowering slaver, falling to his knees, raising trembling hands towards me.
I paused for just half a second, looking down into his terrified eyes. Then the memories of those slaves outside flashed across my mind—the hopeless faces, the bruised bodies, the fucking collars.
"Sorry," I growled darkly, feeling no sympathy, "fresh out of mercy today."
My blade ended him quickly.
Every swing felt natural, every strike driven by instinctive skill and fury. It was raw, vicious, and deeply satisfying, something primal within me roaring in triumph at finally unleashing its true power.
I glanced around the room briefly. Jabba was staring at me now, massive body trembling in rage—and, maybe, fear? The few surviving mercenaries desperately backed away, scrambling toward the exits. The Mandalorians hadn't budged from their spot, just calmly observing the carnage with cautious interest. I'd expected more trouble from them, but they seemed content just to watch.
Well, fine by me.
I turned slowly towards Jabba the Hutt himself. "So, Jabba," I said calmly, as if we were just having a casual conversation, "are you ready to reconsider freeing all the slaves?"
The giant slug narrowed his eyes at me, clearly weighing his options. His thick, slimy lips curled into a sneer as he reached lazily toward something on his throne.
My instincts screamed a warning, and my muscles tensed automatically. I'd seen Star Wars like twenty freaking times. I knew exactly what that fat bastard was going to do. He slammed his chubby hand down onto the large red button, his ugly face splitting into a triumphant grin.
"Nice try, asshole!" I growled, already in motion as the floor dropped out beneath my feet. I threw myself forward, sailing through the air in a smooth, powerful leap.
Below me, the rancor pit opened wide where I'd just stood. No thanks. I definitely wasn't up for playing Luke Skywalker today.
I landed on Jabba's raised platform, directly in front of his massive, slimy form. He reared back in panicked surprise, eyes bulging wide, his rolls of fatty flesh quivering grotesquely. "H-hrraa cha wanya!" he blubbered frantically in Huttese, eyes darting around desperately for help. But his cowardly translator had already bolted for the exit.
I tightened my grip on the Nightingale Blade. "Should've chosen wiser, Jabba," I said coldly. "Game over."
His slimy mouth opened again, spewing desperate pleas in a language I didn't give two shits about. Without hesitation, I swung my sword in a swift, clean arc. The magical blade sliced effortlessly through Jabba's thick, rubbery neck. For one surreal moment, his head hung comically askew, eyes blinking in stunned disbelief, before rolling off his shoulders with a heavy, wet thump.
I watched the headless mass shudder, then slump forward. Jabba was dead.
Well—I was pretty damn sure he was dead. Honestly, if this slug bastard somehow survived losing his head, someone else could deal with finishing him off. I'd done my part.
For a long second, stunned silence stretched across the throne room. Then, slowly, the surviving slaves who'd taken cover behind overturned tables and pillars peeked out cautiously.
Their eyes stared from Jabba's twitching remains back to me.
"The Hutt is dead!" an alien slave shouted in ecstatic disbelief. "Jabba is dead!"
In seconds, relieved cheers erupted, echoing loudly off the walls. They jumped and hugged each other.
"Liberator!" someone cried joyfully. "Hutt-slayer!"
I wiped a smear of blood off my mask, feeling oddly embarrassed and proud at once.
Hutt-slayer, huh? Actually, I kind of liked the sound of that.
I dismissed my sword back into my inventory. Then I turned slowly toward the Mandalorians in the corner of the room, who hadn't moved a muscle throughout the chaos.
For a tense second, we just stared at each other. They watched me silently. Then, surprisingly, one by one, they inclined their heads slightly—an unmistakable nod of respect. Without a word, they turned and walked out together.
Huh. Was that like a badass warrior-to-warrior kind of thing?
I'd take it.
Better than a firefight against a squad decked out in heavy beskar armor. Those guys had clearly seen plenty of shit, and the fact that my brutal display hadn't even made them flinch meant they were a tough bunch.
Shaking my head, I turned back toward the celebrating slaves. We weren't finished yet. My eyes settled on an older slave nearby, a grizzled human man. This guy clearly had a lifetime of shitty experiences etched into his weary face.
"Hey, old-timer," I said urgently, stepping up to him. "Jabba's gone, but I need info. How the hell do we disable all these slave chips at once?"
His sunken eyes lit up as he nodded eagerly, clearly glad to help. "Jabba had a master control room installed in his palace, Liberator," the old man explained quickly, his voice hoarse from years of hardship. "He could activate or disable any slave chip on Tatooine whenever he pleased. That's why no one ever rebelled against the Hutts. It was a guaranteed death sentence."
"Well then," I said firmly, clapping the old guy on the shoulder gently, "we'd better haul ass. We have to shut down every slave chip before the other low-level Hutts on this dusty rock realize Jabba's worm-food and try something desperate."
He nodded sharply, eyes brightening even more. "Yes, Liberator! Right away! I know exactly where it is."
– Yoda –
Master Yoda sat quietly in the Jedi Council chamber, the soft hum of the city-world Coruscant a familiar background noise as he listened to the murmured discussions of his fellow masters. The Force moved gently around him, calm and steady—until suddenly, it did not.
A powerful, roaring tremor surged through the Living Force, so strong it felt as though someone had struck a giant cosmic bell. Yoda's eyes snapped open sharply as the energy crashed over them all. Around him, younger Jedi Masters gasped, several nearly falling from their chairs, clutching their chests as the echo passed through them.
"By the Force—what the hell was that?" Master Mundi exclaimed, voice trembling slightly as he steadied himself against his seat.
Yoda took a deep, slow breath, his small fingers gripping his cane a bit tighter as he reached out through the Force, exploring carefully, delicately. The feeling wasn't dark.
Not pain, nor grief. It was… something else entirely. Something rare in these trying times.
Slowly, Yoda turned his gaze toward Mace Windu.
The powerful Jedi Master looked just as startled as the others, though his composure had returned swiftly. Windu hesitated before speaking, choosing his words carefully, his voice subdued. "That…felt like hope."
Yoda inclined his head slightly as he nodded in agreement. "Correct, Master Windu is. Hope, indeed it was. From the far edges of the galaxy, felt this we have. A place of darkness and despair, that sector often is. Believe, I do, that Qui-Gon Jinn is involved."
At Qui-Gon's name, the assembled masters murmured, exchanging uncertain glances.
Mace frowned thoughtfully, folding his arms as he leaned back in his chair. "Then that means the strange armored warrior and that incredibly powerful young girl Qui-Gon spoke of must be involved as well. Whatever just happened—they must have triggered it."
Yoda hummed thoughtfully, eyelids drooping as he considered. Qui-Gon's recent reports from Naboo had spoken clearly of two mysterious figures.
"Answers will soon arrive. Sensed it, I have. The path to Coruscant is open for them now. Not long shall we wait. Soon, all our questions answered will be." Master Yaddle spoke up, nodding at Yoda.
"Or more mysteries unveiled," Mace Windu added dryly, skepticism creeping into his voice despite his composed expression. "This girl Qui-Gon found—if the stories are even half true, we could be dealing with the Chosen One herself. But what of her companion, the armored stranger? We must consider the possibility he could be Sith."
"True that is," Master Yoda conceded gravely. "Yet darkness, clearly, I have not sensed. Strange, unusual…yes. Dangerous? Perhaps. But evil…I am uncertain."
Another master spoke up cautiously, a trace of worry in her voice. "This armored warrior is still clearly dangerous! Especially if he has an influence on the Chosen One!"
"Careful, we must be, then, but not paranoid" Yoda murmured thoughtfully, tapping one small finger against his gimer stick. "Easy, suspicion is—yet open minds, we must maintain."
Yoda couldn't help but admit he was looking forward to the Qui-Gon's return and meeting the two anomalies he'd picked up on his latest excursion. Lately, the future had been nothing but dark and clouded with uncertainty, but today for the first time in years, he'd gotten glimpses of a better path forwards.
– Darth Maul –
Darth Maul descended the ramp of his cloaked stealth ship, his boots crunching lightly on the metal. His mind was sharp, intensely focused, his senses attuned to the task ahead.
The strange armored warrior, possibly Sith, and a girl whose raw power in the Force defied reason.
He would find them. But he would not capture them like his master wanted. He would destroy them.
Failure was not an option.
And then, without warning—the Force itself screamed.
A massive tremor surged through him, slamming violently into Maul's consciousness like a tidal wave. It hit him so hard that he staggered mid-step, his footing slipping from beneath him. Maul gasped, twisting helplessly as he flipped over the side of the ramp.
His world spun chaotically in midair for a brief second of humiliating panic, before he crashed head-first into the hot, gritty sand dunes below with a muffled thud. Pain spiked through his pride far more sharply than through his body. For a moment, Maul lay there, blinking in disbelief, sand stinging his eyes and filling his mouth.
…A sharp, humiliating embarrassment twisted in his gut, followed swiftly by burning rage.
"What the fuck was that?" Maul snarled, pushing himself to his feet, sand cascading angrily from his robes. He shook violently to clear his head, glaring hatefully around the empty desert landscape as though daring it to mock him further.
The Force still reverberated with powerful intensity, but now that the initial shock had passed, Maul felt something else radiating across Tatooine. His senses stretched out, probing, analyzing, feeling—
Hope.
His lip curled with disgust.
The revolting sensation saturated the entire damn planet. Someone had freed all the planet's slaves—every single fucking one—and triggered a simultaneous, massive uprising. He felt the echoes of their rebellion clearly, passionately surging through the Force.
Maul clenched his fists, teeth grinding together as he breathed heavily, rage building rapidly in his chest. "The Jedi..." he growled through clenched teeth. "They must have—" He stopped short, eyes narrowing sharply as realization struck him. No. Not the Jedi. They were far too predictable, too cautious for something so brazen, so chaotic.
This wasn't the Jedi's work. It was them. The two unknowns his master had sent him after—the mysterious warrior clad in black armor and the impossibly powerful Force girl.
It had to be them!
"They dare humiliate me again…" Maul whispered, voice trembling with barely-contained fury. The memory of their display on Naboo burned in his mind—how he felt so utterly weak watching them wipe out an entire army!
A deep, primal fury blazed in his chest, demanding vengeance, craving their destruction. No more games. No more humiliation. These fools would pay dearly for their insolence!
Maul stabbed a finger down onto the communicator button strapped to his wrist, his voice hissing with rage. "Speeder. Now." Within seconds, it hovered obediently in front of him. He swung his leg sharply over the bike, gripping the controls tightly. Sand whipped around him, stinging his tattooed face, but he barely felt it. His entire body trembled with pure, focused hatred. "I will find you," Maul vowed darkly, his voice tight with lethal promise. "I will hunt you down and cut you both into pieces. I will prove myself the superior being—the true Sith!"
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