Late July 2002.
With Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones just weeks away from release, Lucasfilm finally flipped the switch on their full marketing machine.
July 27th. Raphael was kicking back in his Malibu villa, feet up on the coffee table, when his phone buzzed.
He checked the screen—Ari.
"Raphael, the promo package just dropped. You want me to drive it over, or should I shoot it to your email?"
Raphael glanced out at the bright California sun pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Email's fine. I'll look it over first."
"Roger that. But fair warning—this rollout isn't light. Your part's gonna be pretty damn big."
Raphael sat up a little straighter.
"What's that mean?"
"Lucasfilm switched tactics."
Ari's voice had that amused edge. "They're not going the usual big-budget, blanket-the-planet route. They're calling it 'Empire Strikes Back'—playing it smart, pulling back to strike harder."
Raphael blinked.
"Empire Strikes Back?"
"Exactly. Listen to this—"
Ari paused for effect. "They slashed licensed partners from eighty-five down to fifty. Promotional tie-ins? Cut from ten brands to just two."
Raphael straightened fully.
"They cut that deep?"
"Yeah. Laser-focused precision marketing now."
Ari explained, "Target audience flipped too. They're not chasing the hardcore fans anymore—those people are showing up no matter what. Now they're hunting the folks who got burned by Episode I… and—"
He dragged it out on purpose.
"And who else?"
"Women."
Raphael actually paused.
"Women?"
"Yep!"
Ari laughed. "You know what that means, right?"
Raphael already saw it coming.
"…Me?"
"Bingo!"
Ari was grinning through the phone now. "Lucasfilm straight-up said it: with the insane popularity you've racked up in the last year, pulling in female audiences is officially your job."
Raphael rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.
"So I'm just the pretty face now?"
"Hey, that pretty face prints money," Ari shot back, still laughing. "Anyway, check the email. We'll talk details when we meet up."
Raphael hung up and opened his inbox.
First message from Ari—attachments loaded.
He clicked the top one.
A poster.
Simple but powerful as hell: Anakin standing with his back to Padmé, close enough to touch, yet somehow a thousand miles apart. Anakin's side profile was tight, eyes stormy. Padmé stared at his back, her expression a mix of longing and heartbreak.
Tagline underneath:
"A Jedi shall not know anger. Nor hatred. Nor love."
Raphael studied it. The line nailed the movie's core conflict perfectly.
Anakin and Padmé's forbidden romance wasn't just a subplot—it was the spark that would ignite the entire prequel tragedy.
A Jedi who was never supposed to love… falling for the one woman he couldn't have.
"Not anger. Not hatred. Not love."
Three simple rules. Three nails in Anakin's destiny.
Raphael shook his head, impressed, and kept scrolling.
Next file: trailer concepts.
Lucasfilm had cut several versions—action-heavy, romance-focused, mystery-driven. Each one aimed at a different crowd.
Third file: charity premiere details.
"Global premiere set for August 16 in New York. Stars will walk the red carpet in full Jedi robes. All proceeds donated to children's charities."
Raphael raised an eyebrow.
Jedi robes?
He pictured himself in the classic brown cloak and decided it would probably look decent. Hell, with his build, anything hung right.
Fourth file: cultural push.
"Turn the line 'May the Force be with you' into America's second-most-popular greeting."
Raphael actually laughed out loud.
May the Force be with you.
In the Star Wars universe, it was a simple Jedi blessing.
In the real world, Lucasfilm was dead serious about making it a pop-culture staple.
And yeah—in his last life, it had absolutely happened.
Fifth file: commercial partnerships.
"Multi-year deal with Nokia—bringing Star Wars content to mobile phones for the first time. Fans can buy custom phone cases, download official logos, wallpapers, ringtones, and even a mobile game."
Raphael stared at the page, a little nostalgic.
2002. Cell phones were still basically bricks that could text and play Snake.
Nokia was already trying to turn them into entertainment devices.
Custom cases, wallpapers, polyphonic ringtones, mobile games…
Stuff that would feel quaint in ten years, but right now? Cutting-edge as hell.
He thought of his own Nokia 8250—blue screen, Snake champion—and shook his head.
Last file: expectation management.
Or, more accurately, self-deprecating damage control.
"Official response to possible negative reviews: 'Hey, relax—it's just a movie.'"
Raphael read it twice… then grinned.
Brilliant.
He knew Episode I had split fans hard. A lot of old-school fans hated it.
Instead of fighting the backlash or going silent, Lucasfilm was choosing to laugh at itself first.
"Relax—it's just a movie."
Once you said that, critics lost their ammo. And it lowered audience expectations, so people actually enjoyed it more.
Raphael leaned back on the couch and reread the whole package.
Then he fired off a text to Ari:
Seen it. When do we start?
Ari replied instantly:
August 5th in New York. One full week of press before the premiere. Get ready.
Raphael typed back:
Jedi robes and everything?
Ari: Yep. You're gonna look good in them.
Raphael shook his head, set the phone down, and stared out at the ocean.
Twenty days.
Attack of the Clones was about to hit theaters worldwide.
Anakin Skywalker—his Anakin—would be in front of audiences for the first time.
He felt a flicker of real excitement.
Not about the red-carpet photos.
Not about "May the Force be with you" becoming a catchphrase.
Not even about strutting down the carpet in full Jedi gear.
Raphael was a simple guy at heart.
He only cared about one thing: the box office.
He vaguely remembered Episode II made a little less than Episode I in his last life—something like six hundred and fifty million worldwide?
Episode I had cleared over a billion.
If his version couldn't at least match or beat that… his ego was gonna take a hit.
So he set his private targets:
$700 million = passing grade.
$750 million = solid.
$800 million…
Yeah, dream on.
---
That night, after thoroughly wearing Jessica out until she passed out with a satisfied little smile, Raphael figured he'd sleep like the dead.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again…
"What the actual fuck?"
He rarely cursed in Chinese anymore, but this deserved it.
He was standing in a classic Chinese courtyard—gray bricks, dark roof tiles, winding stone paths, ancient pines leaning against rock formations. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood. In the distance, water trickled softly.
He looked down.
Gray coarse cloth robe. Hemp sandals. Straight-up ancient peasant clothes.
Raphael blinked hard.
Another dream world?
He scanned around and spotted a group of people gathered by a large pond. Black and white stones the size of bowling balls floated on the water. Several men in flowing robes used long metal poles to push the pieces around with elegant, deliberate moves.
Go?
He stepped closer.
Then his brain caught up.
In the center stood a slim, middle-aged man in a dirty-yellow robe. Sharp features, arrogant posture, eyes like blades.
Long Sky.
The assassin from Hero.
Raphael's gaze swept the rest of the group.
The seven experts holding the poles—Qin Palace's top swordsmen.
And half-hidden behind a pillar in the distance… a black-clad figure.
Nameless.
Raphael took a slow breath.
He was inside Hero—Zhang Yimou's masterpiece.
Warring States period. Qin on the verge of conquering everything. Assassins Long Sky, Broken Sword, Flying Snow, and Nameless, each with their own agenda.
And somehow he'd been dropped right into the middle of it.
Before he could process more, Long Sky stepped forward into the open courtyard.
The seven experts lowered their poles and rose, eyes locking onto him.
"We've followed you for days," the lead expert in blue robes said, voice low and cold. "Now we take you in. Draw your silver spear and prove your identity!"
The standoff crackled in the middle of the courtyard. Off to the side, a blind old man strummed a guqin, the notes tense and haunting.
The fight was about to explode.
Raphael stood at the edge, mind racing.
He remembered the scene: Long Sky fights the seven experts, then lets Nameless kill him on purpose—to help the bigger plan against the Qin Emperor.
But now…
Raphael moved.
He flashed forward in one smooth step, inserting himself directly between Long Sky and the seven experts.
Everyone froze.
Long Sky's silver spear stopped mid-air. The seven swords paused. A dozen pairs of eyes snapped to him.
"Who are you?" the lead expert frowned, scanning Raphael up and down.
Raphael ignored him.
He turned to face Long Sky.
"I want to fight you. One match."