John's gaze pierced through the smoke-filled battlefield, locking onto the tall, cloaked figure draped in brown—
Obi-Wan Kenobi.
The once-revered Jedi Master walked with measured steps, his boots crunching over discarded magazines and blackened metal debris with a faint crack underfoot.
Though his lightsaber remained unlit, his right hand rested naturally on its hilt, knuckles whitening slightly—ready at any moment.
"Oh?"
Douglas' voice came through the comm channel, tinged with awe. "Looks like the old Master's about to show us what he's made of."
John didn't reply to his comrade's jest.
His eyes swept over the civilians boarding the transports—mothers cradling crying children, the wounded limping forward with the help of auxiliaries.
Once he confirmed the evacuation was proceeding smoothly, John transferred temporary command to 104 Fred via the tactical network. Then, he turned from the firing line and walked toward the center of the landing pad, addressing Obi-Wan directly:
"With you here, Master Jedi, we don't need to worry about any supernatural threats breaching this hold point."
John's voice carried clearly through the loudspeaker, cutting through the intervals between bombardments.
At the words, Obi-Wan gave a faint, bitter smile.
"What I can do is far less than what your soldiers have already done." The Jedi's gaze drifted beyond John, toward the burning skyline. "Darth Vader's goal has always been his children.
But Luke, and the Lars family, are under your commander's protection. Vader's senses have been completely blocked—he won't be able to locate Luke anytime soon."
A violent explosion ripped through the eastern sector, and the shockwave cast a wave of dust over the two men.
Obi-Wan's brown cloak billowed in the scorching wind, but he only narrowed his eyes slightly.
"So..."
His voice deepened as he tilted his head to the bloodstained sky, now tainted by the influence of Chaos.
Amid the clouds, twisted silhouettes of warships circled like vultures awaiting a dive. Then Obi-Wan continued:
"When he finds no trace, he'll turn his attention to me. Fighting alongside you would only increase your casualties. I'll serve as bait—to buy you a chance."
As he finished, Obi-Wan's form shimmered.
His knees bent slightly, and the Force surged around him in visible ripples.
In the next instant, the Jedi Master launched into the air like an arrow loosed from a bow, effortlessly clearing the Spartan and auxiliary defensive lines. His cloak unfurled behind him like the wings of a hawk.
Some auxiliaries' helmet screens failed to fully track his trajectory.
By the time they refocused, Obi-Wan had already landed lightly atop the wreckage of a destroyed speeder.
"RAAHH—!"
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"
The heretics' maniacal warcries erupted around him like a plague.
The wreckage Obi-Wan stood upon was now an eye of calm in a storm of Chaos cultists.
Their purplish skin crawled with heretical runes. Blaster muzzles had mutated with bone-like fangs. Axes dripped corrosive ichor.
When the blue-white glow of a lightsaber tore through the smoke, hundreds of bloodshot eyes locked on the Jedi Master.
The hiss of blaster fire came first—dozens of crimson beams lancing in from all directions.
Obi-Wan's pupils contracted, and time seemed to slow.
His lightsaber spun a graceful arc in his hand, the plasma blade deflecting each bolt with surgical precision—
HUMMM—humm~—!
The redirected blasts weren't simply repelled—they were re-angled with slight twists of the wrist, returning as lethal countershots.
Three beams found their marks: one pierced the eye socket of a bone-axe-wielding mutant, another drilled through the throat of a Chaos cultist reloading his weapon, and a third impaled a heretic "priest" twenty meters away.
POP—POP!
The targets didn't even scream. Their skulls imploded into mist.
Stray shots came from his blind spots.
But just as a bolt was about to hit Obi-Wan's back, a rippling Force field bent reality around him.
The beam veered off course, slicing three incoming berserkers cleanly down the middle, their entrails splattering with a sizzling hiss.
Obi-Wan gave them no time to regroup.
He leapt into the mob, lightsaber trailing dazzling afterimages.
The first slash—horizontal—cleaved three rusted-helmet troopers in half.
The second—upward—split a charging Chaos giant and his axe in twain.
The third—a spinning throw—launched the saber in a perfect arc, cutting down heretics in a five-meter radius like wheat before a scythe.
HUM~—KRSSSH—KRAK!
Each clash of plasma and corrupted metal burst in sparks.
One rust-armored brute swung a chain forged from vertebrae. Obi-Wan sidestepped, slicing through the joint, severing the grotesque limb.
Before it could scream, he reversed the grip and sent its head flying.
He became a human meat-grinder, carving a no-man's-land through Chaos ranks.
Every step he took rippled through pools of blood.
His movement was equal parts flowing grace and thunderous ferocity. The raw power erupting from his aging body stunned even the hardened Spartans.
Wherever his saber passed, dismembered limbs and flesh rained down. Metal shards danced in the firelight.
A Chaos sorcerer raised a staff—too late. Blue-white light pierced his throat.
A corrupted shock trooper emerged from cover—only to be flung by the Force into a flaming wreck.
Obi-Wan's cloak billowed as he advanced. Corpses piled in his wake, forming a bizarrely straight path—
As if Chaos itself parted for Death incarnate.
"Holy hell..."
Douglas crouched at the edge of a half-ruined rooftop, Mjolnir stabilizers keeping his sniping posture rock steady.
His finger squeezed the trigger. A blasphemer's head exploded into mist.
Yet his attention was on Obi-Wan, prompting a second remark:
"That old man's medical bill must be wild."
Stifled laughter echoed through the comms—but so did tense breathing.
Not just Douglas—John, Jerome, every Spartan and auxiliary soldier had slowed, surprised expressions hidden behind visors.
Their helmet feeds displayed the battle in full clarity—
And the brown-cloaked figure tearing through the enemy like a force of nature.
Obi-Wan's style was nothing like the Astartes.
Where they were ruthless and precise, the Jedi's "blade dance" carried a timeless elegance.
When his saber spun through the air, it left a perfect arc of blue-white death. All within five meters fell like grain beneath the scythe.
One cultist even managed two steps in a charge before realizing his upper body had already fallen behind.
A young auxiliary corporal, watching through his visor, recalled a childhood video game—a "Dynasty Warriors" fantasy now made real amid blood and fire.
THOOM—THOOM!
Suddenly, the ground trembled.
Metal footsteps, heavy as funeral bells, beat against the eardrums.
Three Chaos-corrupted AT-ST walkers stomped into view, wading through wreckage and flames.
Once Imperial war machines, they had become nightmares.
Their rusted plates were nailed with still-twitching sacrifices. Mutilated prisoners writhed in torment, bound by ritual and agony.
Turrets were overgrown with bone-like tumors. Twin talons forged from spines crackled with warp lightning beneath their cockpits.
Through the viewing slits glowed not eyes—but flickering warpfire.
One walker casually crushed several heretics underfoot as it advanced, leaking blood-tinged black oil.
Seeing this, Obi-Wan slowly lowered his saber. Its tip hissed against the sand, burning a small crater.
He caught his breath—his old body weary after such intense combat.
But as he raised his lightsaber once more, forming the cross-guard stance before his chest, his eyes burned brighter than any young soldier's.
"Provide fire support!"
John's command rang across the network. Every firepoint on the defensive line surged to life.
The Spartans shook off their awe.
Young, yet seasoned by countless battles, they and the auxiliaries formed interlocking fields of fire.
Behind them, two Titan main battle tanks—serving as static artillery—charged their plasma turrets.
BOOM—BOOM!
Blazing plasma shells tore through the smoke-filled city, leaving heat-distorted trails in the air.
They crashed into the red energy shields around the AT-STs, triggering a jarring WHUMMM that echoed in every gut.
Rippling energy waves bent incoming shots. Plasma bolts deflected into nearby buildings, leveling entire towers in blue-white firestorms.
But Chaos defenses weren't infinite.
BOOOOM—!!
The fifth shot broke through. The shield shattered like glass.
Follow-up volleys drove home, punching through warped armor.
Superheated plasma filled the cockpits, instantly vaporizing the mutant pilots.
Molten shells warped the exteriors like candle wax. Secondary explosions ripped the walkers apart.
Scalding plasma splashed across surrounding heretics. Their "blessed" flesh carbonized instantly, leaving only charred skeletons frozen mid-charge.
Meanwhile, evacuation on the landing pad reached its final stage.
The first thousand civilians crammed into four Luna transports. The hydraulic hiss of the closing hatches sealed their cries and prayers from the battlefield.
Thrusters roared to life, lifting the transports skyward in brilliant trails of ion blue.
The Lunas regrouped with other transports, forming a coordinated flight.
Wraith fighters dove from the blood-red clouds, using hardlight cannons and missile pods to intercept threats and escort the convoy through the upper atmosphere.
Inside one Luna—
Through the portholes, refugees caught a last glimpse of the burning city—and another wave of Lunas descending.
These ark-colored ships carried new hope, returning without hesitation into a city soaked in blood.
Mos Eisley's locals had never imagined that the Human Empire—particularly the Imperial Fists—would fight to save them, even at the cost of their own retreat.
It defied everything they had come to expect.
They had known only oppression under the Galactic Empire. Non-humans especially were routinely harassed or killed by stormtroopers over nothing at all.
This had made the people of Mos Eisley hard and defensive—tough on the outside to hide their fragility within.
But now, John had no time to notice that the people they rescued were slowly beginning to accept the Human Empire in their hearts.
Cortana reminded him that Sigismund and the last operational units had landed at key cities across Tatooine.
And in the upper-right corner of John's visor, a timer ticked down—12:36... 12:35...
When it reached 00:00, the fleet would jump to warp and leave Tatooine behind.
They, however, would remain—until the main force of the Imperial Fists arrived.
Even John—always calm and composed—couldn't stop the thought from surfacing:
Can we really hold out long enough?
As the countdown ended, the last wave of transports left Tatooine's atmosphere, docking with the fleet.
Then, heavily damaged, the fleet jumped into the Warp—vanishing from John's minimap.
And as Darth Vader sensed Luke's presence fading, he ordered the Chaos fleet to bombard Tatooine indiscriminately.
Then he boarded a Chaos shuttle and descended—
Straight toward Obi-Wan Kenobi's location in Mos Eisley.
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