The deserts of Tatooine were forever lifeless and silent.
Under the blazing twin suns, there was no sign of vitality—only the occasional sandstorm broke the oppressive stillness, making the desolation seem even deeper.
Near and far, the mournful wail of the wind sounded like the cries of a wounded beast, raging endlessly, refusing to rest.
Vrrrm...
Amid the hum of the skiff's engines, Luke Skywalker's face showed no trace of joy, despite his return to the open sky.
Unaware that his connection to the Jedi legacy had drawn the attention of an otherworldly power, he felt an uneasy tightness in his chest. His heart was restless.
He didn't know why—but the Force itself seemed to warn him, a sense of urgency stronger than ever before.
It was almost like the moment he had faced the Sith Lord Darth Vader. Perhaps it was because Vader had claimed to be his father—or perhaps because Luke feared what was happening with the construction of the Death Star II. He sighed deeply, trying to calm his troubled thoughts.
Still, he reminded himself—first things first. He had to rescue Han and the others before worrying about anything else.
Squinting against the harsh light, Luke surveyed the execution site chosen by the grotesque and bloated Hutt, Jabba.
Below the hovering skiff lay a massive pit in the sand, within which a nauseating, mucous-covered, pink-fleshed maw writhed and gaped.
It was a huge biological mouth—over eight feet wide—ringed by three layers of inward-curving, needle-like teeth. The viscous slime coating its edges mixed with the sand and dripped into the dark central pit, where a barbed tongue writhed impatiently.
This was the Sarlacc—a carnivorous monster dwelling in Tatooine's endless dunes.
"Han, I guess we're even now," Luke said, the sight of the creature making his skin crawl. It was a purely instinctive reaction. Turning to his rough-featured companion with disheveled brown hair, he managed a wry grin.
"Next time, I'll be the one saving you. But let's focus—Leia's still in that slimy Hutt's hands. Luke, use your Force tricks or something!"
The man Luke called Han spoke in an anxious whisper, clearly pinning his hopes on his Jedi friend.
Had Lieutenant Haywood of the Imperial Auxiliary Corps been here, he would have recognized this man instantly—the very fugitive he'd been tracking since the Bounty Guild: Han Solo.
And the young man teasing Han? He was precisely the other figure Haywood had been ordered to find—a member of the legendary order of Jedi.
Muttering under his breath, Han's gaze flicked toward the grand anti-gravity sail barge looming not far away—flanked by several escort skiffs, the entire procession exuding the arrogance of royalty on parade.
That was Jabba the Hutt's mobile palace.
Inside, among the prisoners, was Leia Organa Solo—his lover and a leader of the Rebel Alliance.
"Trust me," Luke said, his confident smile returning as he met Han's tense eyes.
Seeing that calm assurance, Han exhaled slowly, nodding. His mind sharpened, ready to act at a moment's notice to aid Luke, escape Jabba's grasp, and get them all out of this pit.
"Chooka wooka! Chooka wooka!" barked one of the rough-skinned, reptilian guards, shouting in alien slang as he shoved the two captives apart.
Though the words weren't in Galactic Basic, their meaning was clear—the execution was about to begin. Luke would go first.
Two guards released his shackles and shoved him roughly toward the narrow plank extending from the skiff—directly over the Sarlacc's gaping maw.
The creature's slick throat walls began to ripple in anticipation, its secretions thickening. Seven or eight tentacles stretched upward eagerly, as if they could already taste the meal about to fall.
Luke subtly flexed his wrists, loosening the stiffness where the cuffs had been. Balancing carefully on the unsteady plank, he caught the eyes of his companions aboard the barge and the nearby skiff—silent communication passing between them.
"Throw him in!"
From the upper deck of Jabba's sail barge came a loud, wet bellow in Huttese. As the guards moved to push him, Luke saw his friends ready and, without hesitation, leapt from the plank.
Almost at the same instant, the onlookers—an assortment of monsters and thugs—erupted into bloodthirsty cheers. But within a second, BOOM!
A thunderous explosion tore through the air. The celebration ended abruptly, the cheers choking off as if the crowd had been strangled silent. Every eye turned toward the source of the blast—
Jabba's desert palace.
Between the dunes and the rocky wastes, sections of its massive stone-and-steel walls crumbled as fire engulfed the structure. The palace's great cylindrical towers, once proud and imposing, burst apart like overpressurized boilers, their tops shearing off and hurtling skyward.
Burning debris streaked through the sky, blazing like meteors as they scattered across the horizon.
"RAAAHHH!"
It all happened in mere seconds. When Jabba finally realized what was happening, his rage boiled over. Screeching orders in Huttese, he commanded his panicked underlings to put out the fire—it was his fortress, his lair being destroyed.
"Throw them all in!"
He roared, abandoning all thought of Han Solo, the shameful debtor, and Luke Skywalker, the so-called Jedi apprentice.
Immediately, the massive anti-gravity sail barge lurched into motion. Dozens of alien species scrambled to obey, rushing about in chaos as the ship, escorted by its skiffs, pivoted toward the inferno consuming the desert palace.
Clang, clang...
The corroded hull groaned in the desert wind, its great sails flapping and wailing—a sound that seemed to mirror Luke's own bewildered thoughts.
"...???"
In the instant he leapt, Luke twisted midair, grabbed the edge of the plank with his fingertips, used its springy flex to launch himself upward—and flipped cleanly onto the deck again.
Landing lightly, he blinked in confusion, hand tightening around his lightsaber hilt. His eyes darted between the dome-shaped head of the little astromech droid R2-D2 and the distant, retreating form of Jabba's sail barge.
They were leaving. Just like that.
He hadn't even started yet.
It wasn't until the hiss of incoming fire reached his ears that Luke snapped back to focus. With Jedi reflexes, he ignited his lightsaber—its green blade flaring—and deflected a blaster bolt before cutting down the slovenly guards on the skiff.
The glowing blade flashed again and again. In moments, six of Jabba's thugs screamed as they were hurled overboard—straight into the gaping maw of the writhing Sarlacc below.
Freed from his bonds, Han Solo leapt to the controls. "Come on, Luke! Let's get Leia and get the hell out of here!"
"Rrrrgh—GRAAARRRHH!"
The deep, roaring growl of Chewbacca, Han's Wookiee partner, echoed beside him. The towering, fur-covered being slammed his massive fists against his chest, his yellow eyes burning with fierce determination.
Chewbacca's face, somewhere between ape and bear, might have looked savage were it not for those expressive eyes that gave him a touch of warmth.
"Who's attacking Jabba's palace?" Luke asked, concern creasing his brow as he helped the golden protocol droid C-3PO—half-buried headfirst in sand—back onto the skiff.
"The Rebel Alliance?"
Lando Calrissian, disguised as one of Jabba's guards, looked puzzled. "That's news to me. I never heard of the Alliance assigning anyone to Tatooine. Maybe a unit sent to protect Princess Leia?"
"No. Not the Alliance," Han said grimly, his expression darkening. "Leia came here on her own."
"Then... the Empire?!" they all exclaimed almost in unison.
BOOM!
"Look out!"
Luke spun around, igniting his lightsaber once more. The emerald blade hummed as he brought it up before them, facing the direction of Jabba's burning palace.
A blinding explosion followed.
BOOOOOOM! The violent shockwave shook the entire skiff, rattling its metal frame. The blast wind nearly flung them all into the sands below. Metal shards whirled through the air. The skiff's repulsorlift engines shrieked under the strain before sputtering and dying in a cloud of smoke.
The craft plummeted, crashing hard into the blazing dunes below.
Meanwhile—seven or eight kilometers away—
Pop.
He pulled the charging handle, ejecting the spent casing. A dull yellow-orange 0.75-caliber bolt shell dropped silently into the sand. Beneath the sealed visor of his tactical marksman helmet, the sniper from Haywood's recon squad let out a low hum of interest.
Cradling his two-meter-long anti-materiel electromagnetic rifle, he smiled beneath the helmet. "Lieutenant, visual on Han Solo. He's not alone—Jedi signature confirmed."
"Judging from the situation, his Jedi friend must've rescued him before we arrived."
Pop.
"Is that so?" Haywood's tone was calm, but his smirk held a faint edge. "Looks like our middleman didn't take me for a serious client. Dispatch two tactical teams to verify. Support group—keep eyes on them. Don't lose visual."
The once-grand sail barge moored beside Jabba's palace was now a wreck—its hull shredded, alien corpses strewn across the deck. Amid the carnage, a soft shhk echoed as a blade slid deep into the bloated Hutt's flesh. Lieutenant Haywood of the Imperial Auxiliary Forces planted a boot atop the massive creature.
"Jabba the Hutt—ruler of Tatooine's underworld, head of the largest criminal syndicate in the Arkanis Outer Territories. Slave trading, weapons smuggling, spice running, extortion, assassination, loan sharking... a textbook case of filth incarnate."
Clicking his tongue, Haywood studied the grotesque, three-meter-long sluglike creature.
Jabba's appearance was every bit as repulsive as his soul—his head several times the size of a human's, his eyes reptilian yellow, his body swollen and legless, his oily skin glistening like mud, a living mass of decay.
By any human standard of beauty, he was utterly revolting.
"Sever his head. Extract the soul."
Adjusting the brim of his cap, Haywood added, "Let's see if the brain of a galactic crime lord contains anything useful."
The Hutt's body convulsed, a wet scream caught in his throat. His massive tail twitched in agony, and his wide mouth—stretching nearly ear to ear—froze in a silent shriek as Haywood turned away. The last thing Jabba saw was a squad of black-armored soldiers—standard model Mind Reapers—closing in.
Among the freed captives, a young human woman in revealing attire stood dazed, scanning the chaos. When she spotted Haywood—tall, composed, the brim of his hat shadowing sharp eyes—her face brightened.
"You—who are you people?"
"Hmm?" He froze mid-step. Turning slightly, Haywood's gaze swept over her. A slave? No. Not quite.
Her intelligent brown eyes, finely styled hair, and unmistakable air of nobility and composure—it all spoke of breeding. Not a slave, but... royalty?
"Lieutenant," the woman said sharply, realizing his gaze lingered too long. "It's rather rude to stare at a lady's face—and body—so boldly." She crossed her arms defensively, blushing at her current state of dress.
"A lady?" Haywood raised an eyebrow. "Then perhaps you can explain why you're here, in Jabba the Hutt's palace—wearing that?"
"I'm..." She hesitated. Leia Organa Solo nearly blurted out her identity as a leader of the Rebel Alliance, captured while attempting a rescue. But as her eyes flicked over the heavily armed soldiers—disciplined, professional, and utterly foreign—she faltered.
These were no Rebel troops. Their armor, formation, and bearing were wrong—efficient, precise, and alien. Could they be an Imperial black-ops division? Their manner certainly fit.
But if they were Imperial, why didn't they recognize her?
"No matter," Haywood said, noting her silence. "If you don't wish to speak, I won't pry." His tone was casual, dismissive. Whether she was a fugitive, a noble, or a smuggler—it wasn't his concern.
"You're not a Jedi. You're irrelevant."
He turned to leave but paused briefly, offering a parting remark over his shoulder. "If you value your life, get off this planet. The desert or offworld—it doesn't matter. War is coming."
"Wait! War? What do you mean?!" Leia called after him, voice rising with urgency. "If you're mercenaries, I can pay you ten times your standard rate! I'll hire your entire team!"
Without turning back, Haywood shook his head. "You couldn't afford us."
Crunch, crunch.
Jumping down from the ruined sail barge, Haywood tightened his coat against the hot wind and glanced at his wrist chrono. "By now, the Starpoint beacon at Mos Eisley should be ready."
"Confirmed, sir," his comms officer replied. "Our garrison at Mos Eisley reports the Galactic Empire's Tatooine detachment has arrived and begun sweeping operations. Our men are engaging in diversionary maneuvers to buy time. The Starpoint calibration isn't complete yet—once the temporal network stabilizes, we'll have full passage access—"
BOOOOM!
A deep tremor rolled through the desert. The sky over Mos Eisley flared with rippling bands of violet-red light, spreading outward like ripples across a pond.
The liaison officer grinned knowingly. "That'll be the temporary spatial network link stabilizing. Looks like the celebration's begun."
The sky flickered with bursts like distant fireworks, soft crackles echoing across the dunes.
"Lieutenant," the liaison continued, "High Command confirms the first wave of reinforcements has arrived. They've engaged the Galactic Empire's local garrison. Orders are in—our reconnaissance mission is complete. We're to regroup with the main fleet within two Imperial Standard days. Shall we withdraw?"
"Two days, hm..." Haywood clapped his hands lightly and pointed toward the shattered tower they'd breached earlier. "Send an engineering team. Assemble a teleportation platform here."
"Sir? You intend to—?"
"None of the other recon teams found anything worthwhile," Haywood said, eyes narrowing. "But we did. A trace of the Force... a Jedi, right under our noses."
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