VMMM~————!!
The golden beam that had flung Darth Vader away did not dissipate. Instead, it hovered above the central ruins of Mos Eisley, overlooking the battlefield like the eye of divine judgment.
When John looked up, Mjolnir's enhanced vision finally resolved the form within the light—
It was an ancient war spear, three meters long.
Its shaft glowed with the luster of molten gold, delicate psychic runes pulsing across its surface.
Its tip wasn't made of metal but of a crystalline energy core, currently dripping radiant particles that ignited pure psychic flames upon touching the ground.
The war spear suddenly pivoted, carving a perfect golden arc in the sky as it shot toward the light pillar on the northern outskirts at supersonic speed.
In its wake, suspended dust ionized into tiny electric orbs, grievous wounds on auxiliary soldiers briefly ceased bleeding, and a Chaos sorcerer's curse unraveled midair.
John's HUD automatically tracked the spear's flight, sharing the visuals with all Spartans.
They turned to follow the direction where the golden light disappeared—
ROAAARRR————!!
A roar tore through the sky.
It wasn't a human battle cry, nor mechanical thunder, but the primal scream of an ancient beast—low, violent, grating with metallic echoes.
It thundered from above the clouds, shaking Mos Eisley's ruins until shattered glass sprayed and dust fell like rain.
Then came synchronized war cries that cracked like thunder—
"For Humanity!!"
"For the Emperor!!"
The metallic shout sent out physical shockwaves. Golden energy ripples swept across the battlefield, and wherever they touched, Chaos' crimson haze vanished like snow in boiling water.
The gloom lifted. "Moonlight" pierced through the clouds, illuminating the devastated streets.
And in that sudden clarity, the surviving warriors witnessed a spectacle worthy of the Imperial annals—
Hundreds of knights rode mythical beasts, hovering over the burning city.
These weren't mere flying mounts, but griffins of Tyrella—each clad in mithril-plated feathers, wings spanning over ten meters, talons gleaming like blades.
Their riders wore black-and-yellow Tacticus armor, their pauldrons marked with the Blooded Iron Fist insignia. They wielded power lances and bolt rifles, their eyes behind visors cold as blades.
And in front of the "Griffin Knights," a true dragon burst from the pillar of light—wings blotting out the sun as it soared.
Its eyes burned like twin gemstones. With every wingbeat, it conjured hurricanes that flattened ground fires.
"That's…" John's breath caught.
Cortana's voice echoed in his ear, calm and swift: "That's the 'Ironwing Knight Company' of the Imperial Fists. They've long been stationed in Tyrella and live symbiotically with griffins."
In truth, the moment the griffin riders and black-armored dragon appeared on John's visor, Cortana had already pulled up their profiles.
The Ironwing Knight Company were Imperial Fists stationed on Tyrella.
As adolescents, these Astartes received their gene-seed and underwent rigorous selection. Those who passed were granted a young griffin companion.
They trained, lived, and grew with their griffins to foster deep bonds and synchronicity.
The griffins themselves were biologically enhanced by Tyrella's bio-division, and the research division crafted mechanical exoskeletons and mithril armor to prepare them for high-intensity combat.
After all, Dorn's political marriage to Aoi Loslian made the Primarch the son-in-law of the Elven high houses—and gained his legion access to rare mineral veins on Tyrella.
With master Elven smiths fusing mithril and orichalcum into alloys light as feathers and hard as adamantium, and inscribing them with Chinese runes to resist Chaos corruption, the gear was near-legendary.
Every knight's armor, every griffin's plating, even the dragon's scales—all pulsed with this precious metal.
Of all legions, none had greater access to mithril and rare alloys than the Imperial Fists.
And that black-armored dragon?
It was no ordinary beast of war, but Tyrella's legendary dragon of apocalypse—
Níðhöggr.
With a wingspan over 100 meters, its black body soared through the sky, golden energy veins glowing between its scales.
In Tyrella's unique magic field, Níðhöggr wielded cataclysmic power.
It was once the embodiment of destruction—its wings summoned storms, breath scorched mountains, claws shredded city walls. Legends abounded.
But outside Tyrella, its magic faded.
When it first fought for Atlas and the Human Empire, Níðhöggr found itself weakened—its breath feeble, scales no longer deflecting fire, even flying became taxing.
Once a harbinger of doom, it became just a large "heavy unit"—with little tactical value. Not even comparable to Knight or Titan mechs in shifting a battlefield.
A humiliating fate for a proud dragon.
Having lost its magic, Níðhöggr's combat capacity dropped by 80%.
Fortunately, Samuel Young valued the dragon that had pledged loyalty to him.
He "paid out of pocket," pouring funding into R&D to craft the "Endbringer Armor"—a full-body exosuit for Níðhöggr.
Its internal life-support system let him survive and fight in vacuum, high-pressure, and extreme environments. It even mounted heavy cannons for devastating support.
But it wasn't enough.
Níðhöggr didn't want to be just a "living weapon."
As one of the oldest, wisest, and most prideful dragons, he craved more—
Power. Status. And… gourmet food.
Yes, gourmet food.
After millennia of feeding on magma or devouring herds, he discovered human cuisine.
Golden-roasted rock beef—crisp outside, tender inside, juices exploding on his tongue;
Spice-stewed Terra deep-sea whale—silky and smooth;
Thousands upon thousands of desserts from different planets, each bite a revelation.
But there was a problem—his appetite.
Hiring chefs wasn't a problem for Imperial soldiers. But Níðhöggr ate by the ton.
One meal required five tons of premium meat—not counting carbs, sides, desserts, and drinks.
Yes, he also developed a love for alcohol.
Even the Empire's vast wealth and generous benefits strained under his gluttony.
So after the Empire's founding, his food budget was slashed. The dragon had to "earn his keep."
So Níðhöggr decided to change.
He began studying psionics.
For ordinary dragons, this was impossible.
Their magic depended on Tyrella's field—like fish needing water.
But Níðhöggr was different. He prayed to Samuel Young, studied him, bathed in the pure psionic energy he constantly emitted.
Gradually, he learned to "gather," "store," and harness this pure energy—not from the Warp, but from Samuel himself.
Eventually, he learned to turn that energy into breath, even to warp reality with his will.
Now, Níðhöggr was something else entirely.
His breath melted warship armor; its afterheat turned steel to rivers.
His roars were psychic shockwaves, shattering daemons' essence.
His scales no longer needed armor—his psionic field made him immune to conventional fire.
Now, he rivaled or even surpassed Olympus gods like Athena or Hera—and no longer needed Tyrella's magical field.
At this moment—
The golden light pillar still connected heaven and earth, a blazing bridge between worlds, tearing a brilliant scar into Tatooine's dark sky.
…
John stared at the Ironwing Knight Company circling the beam—and the massive form of Níðhöggr—with indescribable awe.
He, Sigismund, and the others couldn't comprehend how these reinforcements had "teleported" into the Star Wars universe—onto Tatooine.
Nor could they explain who had hurled the ancient spear that stopped Vader from corrupting Obi-Wan.
So many questions swirled in their minds.
But the battlefield gave them no time to think.
The Ironwing Knights and Níðhöggr didn't pause to explain. From the moment they emerged from the light, they launched a full offensive against Vader's Chaos legions.
Ri~ROOOAAARRR————————!
Níðhöggr's roar sent visible shockwaves rippling across the battlefield, air distorting with heat.
A moment later, his throat glowed pale gold, and a breath of fire rivaling a solar flare erupted.
The already lost northern outskirts of Mos Eisley became a literal hellscape.
Chaos demons vaporized instantly, their screams cut short. Corrupted tank armor melted like wax, their warp-fueled cores detonating, and the ground turned to glass, reflecting twisted firelight.
Before the flames died, the Ironwing Knights began their hunt.
CLANG CLANG CLANG—!
Swooping from above, they rained precise bolts upon heretics and twisted monstrosities—flesh fused with metal.
One bolt shell decapitated a Chaos sorcerer, silencing his spell. Another penetrated an AT-ST's joint and blew it apart.
John's HUD flashed wildly, IFF signals updating, then overwhelmed by a flood of kill alerts.
The Knights were tearing through the battlefield with terrifying efficiency. Bolters roared, griffins shrieked, and far above, Níðhöggr's flames turned the city into a sea of fire, lighting up half the sky.
"John."
Cortana's projection appeared at the edge of his visor.
"Regardless of why the reinforcements arrived early," she said, "your priority is still to evacuate."
Data danced at her fingertips, the tactical map unfurling rapidly. "Mos Eisley is a deathtrap. Staying here will only put you face-to-face with Vader again. If the Empire could deploy Níðhöggr, they must have more forces capable of countering him."
Her logic was sound—this port city had become a slaughterhouse. Every second of delay meant more senseless death.
"You're right."
John's voice was low and steady—but his fingers tightened on the Gauss rifle's grip.
He understood Cortana's reasoning. But he was looking ahead, and his visor zoomed in on a figure marked in red—
The barely breathing form of Obi-Wan Kenobi.
The Jedi Master's vitals were critical. His chest wound still bled, staining the sand dark red.
"Blue Team, Red Team, Black Team—" John said suddenly, his voice echoing across the squad channel, "—with me. We're rescuing Master Kenobi."
No hesitation. No doubt.
"Yes, Chief!"
The three teams responded in perfect unison, like gears locking into place.
They surged from their positions like arrows loosed from drawn bows, Mjolnir armor whining at full output.
John led the charge, his silhouette a blurred streak through firelight.
A Chaos "giant" wielding an axe made of vertebrae and skulls lunged forward—only to have its throat crushed by John's rifle butt.
Then the Gauss rifle pressed to its forehead—
TAT TAT TAT—!
Three shots burst its skull open. Bone fragments and brain matter splattered on the scorched earth.
Cortana watched silently.
She no longer tried to stop him—only adjusted the tactical datastream, plotting the most efficient rescue path.
She knew John too well.
Once he set his sights on something, he would pursue it like a bullet—whether it meant winning a training sim, or tearing a dying Jedi from a Dark Lord's grasp.
When they were just thirty meters from Obi-Wan, the battlefield fell into eerie silence.
The wind died.
Flames froze in midair.
Even Níðhöggr's breath solidified into a wall of fire.
John's armor screamed with overload alarms, sensors going offline.
The cause—Darth Vader, rising from the ruins where he'd been thrown.
He tried again to immobilize all Imperial and Imperial Fist forces.
And he had teleported beside Obi-Wan, turning to the Spartans with a low voice:
"Children, you shouldn't be here… but still, I welcome—"
"What's the point of bullying a bunch of kids and an old man?"
"Try me if you've got the guts."
His words were cut off by a rich, magnetic female voice.
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Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 256)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 336)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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