The entertainment zone of Jabba's palace in Mos Espa glimmered with torchlight and opulent decadence—strange instruments played eerie melodies from the corner, and dancers in glittering silks spun across polished sandstone floors.
Jin-Woo sat calmly at the long banquet table beside Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, the three of them already served and waiting. The faint scent of roasted meats and imported beverages clung to the air.
Obi-Wan broke the silence first, swirling the drink in his hand. "I never thought I'd say this," he muttered, glancing sidelong at Jin-Woo, "but you're an excellent fighter. That Gorog—most of us wouldn't even last a minute. And you turned it into your own arena."
Jin-Woo was about to respond when a low, booming drum echoed across the chamber—followed by a rumble of motion.
Jabba the Hutt had arrived. The great slug-like crime lord was carried on a gilded hover-platform flanked by Gamorrean guards and adorned with cushions and writhing smoke incense. He slithered forward to the central throne dais and settled in with a grunt of satisfaction, his eyes scanning the room before resting on Jin-Woo.
A protocol droid—old, slightly rusted but well-spoken—stepped forward and bowed stiffly before the trio. "Master Jedi,the great Jabba extends his most generous gratitude. Each of you shall receive ten thousand peggats for your role in subduing the Gorog. He is most… pleased."
Then the droid turned to Jin-Woo, bowing again. "And to you, Outlander. The Great Jabba requests your presence in private. He would speak with you… personally."
Jin-Woo stood up, "Catch you later, Obi-Wan," he said smoothly, offering no further elaboration.
Obi-Wan simply nodded, watching as Jin-Woo followed the droid toward the darker hallway beyond the throne room. He sipped from the glass at his side.
The private chamber was dimly lit, the walls adorned with lavish fabrics and trophies of creatures long dead. The scent of spice and smoke lingered in the air, though it could not mask the tension boiling beneath the surface.
Jin-Woo stepped into the center of the room, his presence casting a cold pressure over the air itself. At the far end of the chamber lounged Jabba the Hutt—hulking, motionless, his eyes narrowing with every step the Outlander took. Beside him stood a visibly trembling Bib Fortuna, whose gaze locked on Jin-Woo like a frightened loth-cat facing a storm.
To Jabba's right, slumped in a broken heap, was Ziro the Hutt—unconscious, bruised, and drooling over his own tongue.
Across from them, sitting with tightly crossed arms and wearing a tight-lipped scowl, was Xomit Grunseit, the Falleen leader of Black Sun. At his feet knelt one of his own council members—bloodied, unconscious, clearly the result of a bad wager turned worse.
A protocol droid shuffled forward toward Jin-Woo, static crackling slightly as it spoke.
"Outlander," it said in a clipped tone, "it has come to our understanding that these three individuals were involved in provoking a situation that nearly razed Mos Espa to the ground… all due to a bet placed with you."
Xomit's voice cut in, cold and biting. "You demanded five Gorogs to be delivered within one hour," he growled. "One of them went berserk. it was destabilizing. You're responsible."
Jin-Woo didn't even blink. "And I knocked one of them down, didn't I?" he said flatly. "Handled it without your help."
He stepped closer, eyes like voids . "Now pay up. Fifty Black Sun frigates. Five Gorogs. That was the bet."
He turned to Bib Fortuna, his voice low and edged with steel. "And you… where are my one hundred rancors?"
Bib stammered, trying to hold his composure. "O-O-of course… they—they're in the holding pens—we just need a little time to—"
Jabba's massive tail twitched. He leaned back with a deep grunt, muttering in thick, gurgling Huttese. The protocol droid began to translate. "Outlander, this is the Outer Rim. Agreements here are not always—"SHING! A pulse of darkness split the air.
Jin-Woo's All Darkness Monarch Sword—, summoned from his shadow—flashed into existence, cleaving the protocol droid clean in half. The halves clattered to the floor, sparking and twitching as they sizzled from residual black mana.
The sword dripped with shadow, its edge whispering across the polished stone as Jin-Woo advanced another step. Black mist curled outward from his boots, creeping like a living tide across the chamber floor.
His eyes locked with Jabba's. "I know you can speak Basic, Jabba," Jin-Woo said softly, each word like a falling guillotine. "This is the second time we've met—maybe this sword will jog your memory."
He raised the blade slightly, shadows writhing along its length. "I remember your subordinates. your uncle. how they lost to me in that sabacc game at the Lucky Despot."
He pointed the blade directly at Jabba's bloated face. "So, what's it going to be, slug?" he asked, voice tightening. "Will you pay what you owe?"
The shadows thickened. The walls seemed to bend, the air itself shrinking inward. "Or shall I glass this entire planet—starting with your palace?"
Jabba's wide eyes narrowed as he stared at the sword leveled at his face. A guttural noise rumbled in his throat—part recognition, part dread.
That blade. He remembered it. The same weapon wielded by the Masked Man—the ruthless figure who had descended on Mos Espa's Grand Arena like a storm from the Outer Rim, slaughtering ten thousand mercenaries in a single engagement. The same monster who had butchered the infamous Durge,
Jabba's lips curled in revulsion mixed with bluffs . "You… Masked Man," he rumbled, his voice dragging through Bluff like he always did . "You already caused chaos at the Grand Arena. You slaughtered mercenaries. You executed Durge. And now… you threaten the Hutts themselves?"
Jin-Woo took a single step forward, blade tilting just slightly toward Jabba's eye. "I darken the skies above this planet with my ship," he said, voice like slow thunder. "Three hundred seventy-one kilometers wide. Alien-made. Fully armed. One command from me—and it drops."
He smiled coldly. "The choice is yours, Jabba. Payment… or extinction."
Jabba's bloated jowls trembled, then stilled. His breath slowed. He knew, without a doubt, that he had been beaten. Again. "Fine," he said in Huttese.
With one meaty hand, he slammed a hidden button embedded in the armrest of his dais
A massive steel gate rumbled open at the far end of the chamber.
Inside—two hundred rancors stood chained in rows, each one blindfolded, each one shackled in place. Their growls and restless movements echoed like a chorus of caged war beasts.
Jabba didn't look at Jin-Woo. He turned instead to Bib Fortuna, his voice now seething.
"This is the only time I help you," he spat. "You provoked the most dangerous being on this planet. Do it again… and your head will decorate my table."
Bib Fortuna bowed deeply, trembling. "Yes, Majestic One. Of course. Never again."
Jin-Woo didn't speak. He simply lowered his blade, letting the black mana flicker off it like trailing smoke before dissolving it back into the void. The shadows around his feet pulled away, slinking into nothingness.
Then he turned his eyes toward Xomit Grunseit—the cold, calculating Falleen leader of Black Sun.
"You," Jin-Woo said, voice low. "Have you decided to oppose me… or pay what you owe?"
Xomit's expression twisted with restrained fury, but he finally gave a slow, bitter nod. "It's on the desert of Tatooine," he said sharply. "Both the fifty Black Sun frigates and the remaining four Gorogs. You asked for the impossible—to deliver all of that within the hour. And look at what happened." His voice rose, frustration laced through every word. "Mos Espa was nearly leveled."
Jin-Woo said nothing. But deep within his mind, a voice flickered through the mental link like a whisper of circuitry and fire.
Offensive Bias, his Forerunner AI, responded. "Affirmative, Supreme Executor," the AI said. "Slipspace transfer complete. All requested assets have arrived at Shadow Tython. Frigates and Gorogs secured under planetary stasis dome."
Jin-Woo's eyes slowly returned to Xomit, impassive and dark. "Your debt is settled," he said. "You're lucky I didn't collect interest."
Suddenly, Xomit's holo-comms lit up with static, and a scrambled report came through from a panicked subordinate. "Sir—! The Gorogs and frigates… They were swallowed by some kind of blue spatial anomaly! Vanished completely off the grid! They're gone—!"
Xomit's jaw clenched. He lowered the holo slowly.
His eyes met Jin-Woo's one last time, filled with fury—and the deep, gnawing realization of helplessness.
Monster, he thought, swallowing the words as if they were poison. He robbed us clean.
Inside the dim hallway beyond, the door to the rancor chamber slammed shut with a resounding BOOOM—sealing Jin-Woo within by a silent wave of Force telekinesis. The massive locking arms hissed into place, leaving the remaining figures outside .
Xomit Grunseit's gaze lingered on the door for a long, bitter moment. He slowly turned his head toward Jabba, arms folded behind his back.
His voice dropped low, wary.
Huttese Translation:
"Jeedai kohnah chobaso wermo? Me doth nopa Jedi e'Coruscant gee mombay chuba besadii?..."
[ENGLISH SUBTITLES]
"Is he a Jedi who's gone rogue? I think the Jedi on Coruscant might be hunting this Outlander…"
Jabba didn't turn to face him. His eyes remained fixed on the door Jin-Woo had vanished through, his massive bulk barely shifting as he exhaled with a slow, guttural rumble.
Huttese Translation:
"Jee hatkocanh wa mo goota. Peedunkee bolla, wamma um ateema, wamma boska. Naaki doth mombay jee-jee wermo, Masked Man. Dopa mee see haku, moolah mopeya... dan mo killee dee gajidi."
[ENGLISH SUBTITLES]
"He is a monster. And for both our sakes, may we never meet him again. Do not ever pick a fight with the Masked Man. This was the first time I saw his face… and his eyes—they were like death."
In the echoing chamber carved into the lower levels of Jabba's palace, the space was vast and lined with reinforced stone. The heavy breaths of two hundred rancors filled the air—a rumbling symphony of low, mournful sounds. Each of the beasts was restrained and blindfolded, standing motionless in their respective pens. Despite their size, a strange heaviness hung over them… like sadness.
Jin-Woo stepped forward, his eyes scanning the rows of the great beasts, expression unreadable.
As he walked, a figure emerged from the far end of the chamber—grizzled, weathered, with long hair and a scar-lined face. The man bore a passing resemblance to Danny Trejo and moved with a quiet confidence. He wiped grease from his gloves as he approached. ( img here )
"So," the man said, voice gravelly but calm, "you must be the outlander who managed to get two hundred rancors all at once."
Jin-Woo gave a short glance toward him, then returned his gaze to the creatures.
"Jabba paid Bib Fortuna's dues to me. That's all that matters."
The man gave a short nod. "Name's Dann. Easier for conversation."
Jin-Woo didn't respond at first. His eyes stayed fixed on the closest rancor. It didn't move. Even blindfolded, its massive head hung low, its body sagged with invisible weight.
"They look depressed," Jin-Woo finally said.
Dann exhaled through his nose, folding his arms. "You're not wrong about that. They're emotionally complex creatures," he said quietly. "More than people give them credit for. Brutal when they need to be… but if you treat 'em right, they can be… loving." He gave a slight smile. "Even gentle."