=== Raxor ===
Raxor stood in the center of a burning courtyard, his massive armor bathed in the glow of molten metal and fire.
The broken bodies of droids surrounded him, their limbs still twitching in the death throes of fried circuitry and shattered processors. His breath came in heavy long pulls, the barrel of his heavy flamer still glowing from its latest purge. All around him, the city burned, not from collateral destruction, but from calculated fury. Another Separatist garrisoned settlement on Ryloth reduced to slag and ash.
Korrin stepped up beside him, visor steaming slightly from the heat. "We found another mass grave. Twi'lek civilians. Hundreds. Looks like they were executed weeks ago."
Raxor said nothing. His hands clenched into gauntleted fists. The weapon groaned from the pressure.
They moved again. The Pyro Drakes were scattered across the planet like burning meteors, striking city after city with brutal efficiency. Wherever the droids made a stand, they were crushed. Wherever they dug in, they were uprooted. No quarter was given.
The next target was a city known as Nabat. Its streets were once bustling with merchant activity, but now, droids patrolled it like maggots across a corpse. The Mandalorian drop ships descended with screaming engines, fire and smoke pouring from their wings as drop pods slammed into concrete and steel. Explosions heralded the Pyro Drakes' arrival.
Raxor was first through the breach, his heavy flamer igniting a dozen battle droids mid-stride. Their death screeches were mechanical and meaningless to him. He tore through their ranks like a juggernaut, his strength empowered by a fury that had grown with each step across the burning world.
A squad of super battle droids opened fire from an overpass. His armor held, weathering the barrage like a mountain against the wind before hurling a massive chunk of ferrocrete at the bridge's supports. The overpass collapsed, droids screaming in digitized panic as it brought them down in a cloud of smoke and fire.
Korrin and his squad were close behind. Plasma bolts hissed through the air, arcing into droids and blowing apart torsos and heads. Korrin's modified melta tore through barricades and armor alike, a beam of searing fury that turned durasteel to liquid in seconds.
Still they pressed forward. Door by door, building by building.
And every time the battle ended, his rage would only grow.
The streets would fall silent, and then the survivors would emerge. Starved, wounded Twi'leks, most no older than Sienn when he had found her all those years ago. Their eyes were sunken, backs bent from chains and labor. Some flinched at the sight of the Salamander, wary of yet another monster in different armor.
But Raxor offered food. Water. Freedom.
He ordered medical supplies, evac routes, and protection.
One elder, her skin a pale shade of lilac, reached up and touched his helmet as he held it under his arm.
"You are not like the others," she whispered. "You burn with fury… but not at us."
Raxor looked at her with tired eyes. "Not at you. Never at you."
And then it was on to the next city.
Another stronghold. Another massacre. Another grave.
The Pyro Drakes adapted to his fury. They began executing captured tactical droids for information, their interrogation methods swift and violent. Data led them to deeper horrors, hidden bunkers, underground labor camps, places where droid overseers had forced Twi'lek slaves to work until death.
One such camp they stormed at dawn. The droids were caught mid-transition, moving the remaining slaves deeper into the tunnels. Raxor came in, his flamer setting the front gate ablaze while Korrin and the others deployed from jetpacks above, unleashing plasma fire with surgical savagery until it was done.
===
The fires still smoldered in the distance as the sun dipped low over the jagged ridgelines of Ryloth. Smoke drifted from broken towers and shattered streets. The cries of battle had faded now, replaced by the crackling of ruined droid husks and the murmur of displaced civilians.
Raxor stood alone amidst the rubble, his armor scorched and pitted from days of ceaseless combat. His warplate, once a proud green with black trim, was now bathed in ash and dried oil. His heavy bolter hung loosely from his right hand, still steaming from the last barrage that had leveled a droid command station.
Around him, the Twi'leks began to emerge, hesitant, silent, barefoot and hollow-eyed. Mothers clutching children. Elderly leaning on sticks. Young men with fear and fire behind their eyes. Survivors, every one of them.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
To them, he was a monster from a myth, wreathed in flame and fury, roaring through the skies like vengeance incarnate. They had seen him tear battle droids in half with his bare hands, watched him stride into fire as if it were nothing. And yet, here he stood, still and silent.
The first to approach was a child with soot-streaked skin and a swollen ankle, wrapped in a scrap of blanket. She limped forward with eyes wide, trembling as she extended a small hand.
Raxor didn't flinch. Slowly, gently, he knelt, his massive frame groaning with the weight of war. His helmet hissed and unlocked, lifting just enough to reveal his face, scarred, stern… and tired. So very tired.
The child touched his gauntlet with trembling fingers.
Others began to follow.
One by one, the crowd came forward, surrounding him in a hushed, reverent silence. Calloused hands brushed against his arms, his chest, the scorched metal of his pauldrons. A woman knelt beside him and placed her forehead against his armored shin, whispering thanks in her native tongue.
A Twi'lek elder placed a hand over Raxor's heart and murmured, "Bless you… Fire from the stars."
He didn't respond. He couldn't. His throat burned with something unfamiliar, not rage, not adrenaline. Something deeper. Something that made his chest ache beneath the weight of his armor.
He looked around at them, dozens now, pressing close in hope.
That defiant glint in the eyes of a young Twi'lek boy, too proud to cry. That quiet strength in a mother's face as she held her infant high. That same soft lilac shade in the skin of a girl with a torn lekku, who smiled despite it all.
It overwhelmed him.
Raxor lowered his head and let them surround him. Let them touch the bloodstained armor. Let them see him not as a monster or warrior, but as their shield.
For the first time in his long, brutal life, Raxor did not feel like a weapon.
He felt like a protector.
And when he finally stood again, the people parted for him in reverence. The sun had fallen behind him now, casting his silhouette long and golden over the broken street.
Korrin watched from a distance, leaning silently against a ruined wall. He said nothing, just nodded when Raxor met his gaze.
The war was not over. Not yet.
But hope… hope had returned to Ryloth.
And Raxor, the Salamander forged in fire, the son of Vulkan, the bringer of flame, walked forward as its bearer.
===
"What's the count?" The Salamander asked, looking over the planes of the planet.
Korrin, who had approached, answered. "Five hundred thousand droids destroyed. Fifty Pyro Drakes wounded. No casualties."
"And the civilians?"
"Three hundred thousand freed."
Raxor gave a slow nod, then turned to the communications officer. "Mark this camp for orbital destruction. Once the survivors are evacuated, I want it reduced to molten ash."
"Aye, sir."
With a final glance, he donned his helmet again, turned, and made his way down the tower.
The next city awaited.
=== Cham Syndulla ===
Cham Syndulla stood in the hollowed-out ruins of an old Twi'lek citadel, one of the last standing remnants of Ryloth's past before the war. The walls were cracked, scorched from years of conflict, and patched with scavenged durasteel plating. It served now as the central base of operations for the scattered resistance fighters across the planet, a symbol of resilience amidst devastation.
The interior of the war room was lit by flickering power conduits and low-burning sconces. A large holotable in the center projected a rotating map of Ryloth, glowing red in many areas, with clusters of Separatist activity dominating key cities and mining facilities. Cham leaned forward, one hand resting on the edge of the console, his eyes hard and tired.
Every day, more reports came in of massacres, slavery, and hopelessness. Towns once loyal to the Republic had fallen into ruin. The Twi'lek people, his people, were being crushed under the mechanical heel of the Separatists.
A resistance fighter sprinted into the chamber, panting heavily, his lekku twitching with urgency.
"Commander Syndulla!" he called. "You need to see this."
Cham straightened, his weary expression sharpening. "What is it?"
The soldier hurried to the holotable, inserting a small data chip into the console. "Reports just came in from Nabat. A new vessel has entered orbit, a Strike Cruiser. But it's not Seppie-controlled. It's flying under the insignia of The Imperium."
Cham raised an eyebrow. "The Imperium?"
"They're not attacking civilians. In fact," the man keyed in a command, and a series of holovid feeds flickered to life above the table, grainy and unstable.
The first showed a group of armored warriors dropping from the sky like meteors, pod impacts shattering Separatist buildings. Another feed showed six figures charging into the streets of Lesu City, cutting down entire squads of B1 and B2 battle droids with terrifying precision. One massive figure, larger than the rest, in green and black armor, fired a massive weapon that ripped through tanks like paper.
Other Mandalorians followed him, marked in green and black armor as well, jetting into positions, blasting droids from the air, clearing buildings with ruthless efficiency.
Children and elderly Twi'leks were being pulled from cages, carried out of collapsed buildings. Grain silos were unsealed. Medicine delivered. It was chaos, but it was liberation.
Cham stared at the feed for several silent seconds.
"The locals are… singing their praises. They've cleared out three cities in the last two days. No civilian casualties reported."
Cham stepped back from the holotable, his expression thoughtful.
"For years, we begged the Republic for help," he said, voice laced with bitterness. "And they left us to rot. But now, this Raxor brings an army and scorches the Separatists from our soil without asking for tribute or control?"
He looked to the open doorway, where a humid breeze wafted through the scorched halls of the citadel.
"I need to meet him."
The soldier blinked. "Sir?"
Cham turned, decisive now. "Raxor. I don't know who he is or why he fights for us, but I intend to find out. If he's truly here to free Ryloth, then I owe him my thanks, and if he's not…" He let the words hang in the air.
"Ready my transport. We leave immediately."
"Yes, Commander," The man said.
Cham took one last glance at the holotable. The feeds still played: battlefields of fire and steel, a warlord of flame wading through metal corpses, pulling survivors from rubble.
He had seen many warriors in his life. But something about Raxor chilled and intrigued him.
Not just a liberator… not just a killer. There was something else.
Perhaps… hope.
With a heavy sigh, Cham stepped away from the war room, cloak sweeping behind him as he made for the landing pad.
Ryloth's future might just lie in the hands of a monster wearing a Salamander's crest.
===
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