Suddenly, in the high-end docking bays of Mos Espa Spaceport—the expensive, privately reserved section—a deep TUNG echoed as the Defender-class corvette landed with weight and precision. Nearby, several other ships already parked there powered down… only to have their ownerships instantly and quietly transferred.
Jin-Woo, masked in his Revan-style armor, stood at the edge of the landing pad with his arms crossed, watching the scene unfold below with a satisfied smile behind the mask.
One by one, starships that had landed were now his—every last one bought in a silent blitz.
A flustered Mos Espa worker hustled up to him, datapad in hand, nervously adjusting his vest.
"Uh—thank you, sir, for buying out this entire section of the spaceport. That's… at least fifty million Galactic Republic credits. However, I'll just need your signature here—"
Jin-Woo handed him a datapad with another silent transfer. An extra one million credits. And a wink.
The worker blinked, then looked down at the transfer.
"…Or I can just fill this out for you," he said quickly.
Jin-Woo's tone remained calm, but firm. "I need you all out of here. Two minutes."
The worker straightened immediately. "R-Right away, sir. Merchant. You got it."
He turned and started barking quiet orders to his crew, ushering them off the landing zone without delay.
At the edge of the corvette's extended landing ramp, Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, Panaka, and Padmé stood frozen in place—staring out at the scene unfolding in front of them.
Dozens of Mos Espa workers were scrambling to clear out of the premium docking bays. Ships that weren't there ten minutes ago were now under new ownership. All of it… bought out in silent, effortless dominance.
At the center of it all stood Jin-Woo, his Revan-style armor catching the harsh twin suns as he calmly turned, raising one hand.
A single gesture. Money talks.
Panaka leaned toward Padmé, keeping his voice low—still treating her as a handmaiden. "Padmé… just how rich is Jin-Woo?"
Padmé's eyes never left Jin-Woo's back as she quietly answered, "…I have no idea."
And that bunker… she thought, a quiet chill brushing her spine, The bunker he built for me beneath Theed—how much did that cost? Trillions? Dozens of megastructures, all hidden underground…
She swallowed. Hard. Behind them,
Obi-Wan's brow furrowed slightly as he watched Despondent Pyre drift lazily beside the hangar ramp, completely still but ever-present.
That droid, he thought, It's not like anything I've ever seen in the Order's archives. Probably custom-made. Probably by Jin-Woo himself…
Just… who the hell is this man?
Panaka stepped forward, keeping to formal posture as he addressed Jin-Woo.
"Wait—her majesty requests that her handmaiden accompany you."
From behind, Padmé moved quickly to Jin-Woo's side, slipping smoothly into the group. She offered a playful smile. "Guess I'm stuck with you now. Te-hee."
Morgan, walking just behind Jin-Woo, gave Padmé a narrowed glance but said nothing aloud.
More like you're trying to stick to him like a magnet, Morgan thought flatly.
Rey glanced at them both but held her silence, keeping pace beside Jin-Woo with the quiet ease of someone who had long since accepted the attention he drew.
Obi-Wan, concerned, stepped closer toward Qui-Gon. "May I suggest otherwise, Master? This is Tatooine. Dangerous. Lawless. Surely the handmaiden should remain with the ship."
But Qui-Gon only raised an amused eyebrow, his lips curling slightly.
"Let them be," he said calmly. "Besides… I doubt there's anything here that could seriously threaten Jin-Woo."
He looked after the armored figure as he continued ahead and said nothing more. But his eyes betrayed quiet knowing. Qui-Gon had seen through the mask long ago. He is the Armored Man only in different armor .
Jin-Woo turned slightly then, walking backward a step, eyes meeting Qui-Gon's.
"Qui-Gon," he said, voice low but pointed. "I have a request. When you go to Watto's junk shop—when you look for replacement ship parts—I need you to stay there for a while. There's a boy inside. I want you to talk to him. Ask him questions. Keep the conversation going."
Qui-Gon tilted his head slightly, intrigued. "And why is that? What is your goal with this request?"
Jin-Woo gave a smile, then turned back forward.
"I'll explain when the time is right."
The streets of Mos Espa bustled under the twin suns. Dust swirled at their feet, vendors called from shaded stalls, and alien chatter filled the air. Jin-Woo's group moved through the chaos with quiet purpose.
As they walked, Jin-Woo subtly flicked his wrist. A small projection shimmered above his palm: a countdown timer. The red digits ticked steadily—02:59:57—marking three hours remaining until the Tatooine sandstorm struck.
Rey glanced sideways, smirking. "What's the countdown for, Jin-Woo? Some dramatic fireworks?"
Jin-Woo didn't break stride. "Countdown before I pull off another one of my magic tricks."
Padmé, still maintaining her handmaiden cover, chuckled lightly.
"Isn't your 'magic' just money and that future-tech armor you left back on Naboo?"
Morgan, walking just behind them, leaned in with a laugh and a sly smile.
"You're still a newbie, princess. Stick around. You'll see things money can't even explain."
Jin-Woo's group moved with purpose, weaving through the bustling, grimy streets of Mos Espa. The sun hung mercilessly overhead, but he barely noticed. His mana detection spread outward—quietly, invisibly—blanketing the city. If he pushed it, he could sweep the entire system. But he didn't need to. He already sensed it.
Jabba's here. Secondary palace. A fat bastard hiding in plain sight.
Ahead stood the building—a hulking, sand-stained structure flanked by thick doors and even thicker guards. Four Gamorrean brutes loomed at the front entrance, holding rusted axes and looking dumber than they sounded.
Jin-Woo stopped in front of them, tilting his head lazily.
"Step aside," he said dryly, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "I've got a sludge boss to talk to. Before strawberries fall from the sky, yeah?"
Padmé blinked in confusion. Morgan didn't miss a beat. She reached over and gently covered Padmé's eyes with one hand.
"You don't want to see this, princess," Morgan muttered softly.
The Gamorrean guards snarled, speaking in rough Huttese and spitting at the ground.
"You disrespect Great Jabba! Puny bugs, leave now or be crushed!"
Jin-Woo slowly turned his head, and for just a second, there was silence.
"…Poor choice of words."
He raised a hand—fingers curling slightly—and the temperature dropped. The light dimmed. A wave of darkness rippled outward like a silent scream as his power surged. But [Force Draining]. This Nihilus-level annihilation. The kind that ripped the Force, tore the soul, and obliterated every ounce of life.
The Gamorrean guards didn't even have a chance to scream. Their bodies shivered, then crumbled into dust—shadows peeling off their bones before vanishing entirely. All that remained were their weapons… and the faint, blackened silhouette of where they once stood, seared into the wall behind them like a silent echo.
Jin-Woo lowered his hand. The entrance was silent now, nothing left but lifeless scorch marks and drifting dust where the Gamorreans once stood.
Morgan gently pulled her hand away from Padmé's eyes.
Padmé blinked—then stared at the remains, her voice barely a whisper.
"Was that… necessary? You killed them to dust."
Rey stepped past her, calm and unapologetic.
"We're in enemy territory," she said with a casual shrug. "Might as well treat everyone here like they're fair game. Rampaging isn't off the table."
The group moved forward into the palace. The air inside was thick—humid, stale, and heavy with the smell of unwashed bodies and pungent spice smoke. Echoes of muffled music bounced off the sandstone walls.
As they passed deeper, Padmé's steps slowed. Her eyes caught them—lines of civilians, Twi'leks, Rodians, even some near-human children—all collared, bruised, and shackled at the ankles. Their eyes didn't rise. They didn't speak.
She gasped slightly, hand reaching out unconsciously.
Morgan noticed it instantly. She stepped closer and leaned in, voice low near Padmé's ear.
"We're outside Republic territory," Morgan murmured. "Slavery is legal here."
Padmé didn't answer.
Morgan continued.
"And the Senate? They're too busy twiddling their thumbs, stuffing their mouths with imported delicacies bought with the taxes of those same slaves."
Padmé's mouth parted. Her gaze lingered on a chained girl no older than ten, forced to scrub the floor with torn gloves. The illusion of the galaxy—of peace, fairness, and structure—cracked a little more behind her eyes.
Jin-Woo moved ahead, his pace steady as he entered the palace's entertainment zone. The chamber was loud—music, drunken laughter, the clatter of mugs—but his eyes locked immediately on the center platform.
There, under flickering lights and surrounded by the slouched bodies of thugs and guards, danced a Twi'lek girl.
Her movements were elegant—fluid, trained. But her outfit was unmistakably that of a slave: minimal, decorative, humiliating. A collar blinked faintly at her neck.
And yet, the moment her gaze met Jin-Woo's across the distance, everything stopped.
The music faded in her mind. Her steps halted. Her heart skipped, then pounded faster in her chest.
Why… do I feel so close to you? she thought, frozen in place, unable to look away.
The Gamorrean raised his whip, snarling through broken Basic, "Get back to work, sl—"
His sentence ended in a wet splorch. His head hit the floor a second before his body did.
Everyone froze.
Rey stood casually where she was, spinning the severed head once on her fingertip like a ball before tossing it aside. Her voice rang out "Sorry. I couldn't resist."
Silence blanketed the entire room. All music, motion, breath—gone.
Jin-Woo, unfazed, kept walking. The crowd parted like water, all eyes lowered, no one daring to speak. He approached the bar, placing one gloved hand gently on the counter.
The bartender—pale, sweating, and trying very hard not to make eye contact—cleared his throat and forced a crooked smile.
"W-What's your poison today, sir?"
The bartender flinched slightly
Jin-Woo spoke. "I want to buy that Twi'lek dancer."
The man hesitated, glancing toward the entertainment floor where the girl still stood frozen—eyes locked on Jin-Woo.
"That one?" he muttered nervously. "She… doesn't have a name. Just 'the nameless Twi'lek.' She's owned by Jabba the Hutt himself. Off-limits."
Just then, the bartender's comm unit crackled. A short message buzzed across the small screen. He read it. Blinked. Cleared his throat again.
"Jabba the Hutt wishes to speak with you."
Jin-Woo didn't look surprised. His eyes drifted toward the looming figure of a lead Gamorrean guard now stepping into the lounge entrance—massive, grunting, flanked by a full battalion of armored thugs behind him, armed and already forming ranks.
Jin-Woo cracked a smirk under his mask."…About time."
Jin-Woo's stride never slowed as the lead Gamorrean guard and his battalion flanked him from all sides, marching through the dim, smoke-laced corridor. The hallway reeked of spice and oil, its cracked tiles echoing with each heavy footstep. Lights flickered. A single security camera followed them down the corridor before losing signal—intentionally.
As the final door hissed open, Jin-Woo stepped into a grand, dome-ceilinged chamber.
The room was wide, lit by a mixture of hanging lanterns and embedded floor panels, casting long shadows over the marble and sand-blasted metal walls. At its center, lounging on a raised dais, sat Jabba the Hutt—gargantuan, bloated, his tail lazily coiled. Beside him was his protocol droid, tall and rusted but functional, holding a tray of drinks. On the left side of the room, a Dejarik holoboard glowed faintly mid-game, another alien opponent frozen in tension across from him.
Jin-Woo's eyes swept the space.
Fifteen bodyguards in total were scattered across the room—armed with a mix of disruptor pistols, heavy rifles, and modified slugthrowers. Another ten Gamorrean guards stood stationed at intervals, all armed with vibro-axes, some already gritting their teeth and tightening their grips.
Jabba's gaze lazily rolled over to Jin-Woo, the Hutt's thick fingers pausing his turn on the Dejarik board. A long, wet exhale escaped him as he began to speak in deep, rumbling Huttese