Jabba's gaze lazily rolled over to Jin-Woo, the Hutt's thick fingers pausing his turn on the Dejarik board. A long, wet exhale escaped him as he began to speak in deep, rumbling Huttese.
The protocol droid, standing at attention, translated in perfect Galactic Basic:
"The Great Jabba wants to know why you killed four of his guards."
Jin-Woo tilted his head, his masked voice dry.
"They looked at me the wrong way," he said. "And tried to kill me. Which, to be clear, was a terrible idea."
Jabba stared. Blinked once. Thought quietly to himself.Crazy fucking fool.
Jabba rumbled again in Huttese. The protocol droid translated.
"The Great Jabba wants to know… are you truly willing to make an enemy out of him?"
Jin-Woo didn't answer with words.
Instead, he reached—not with his hand, but with his will. His shadow mana twisted, curling invisibly toward Jabba's massive frame, but his voice never rose.
It slid into Jabba's mind like a whisper. No translator. No delay. No filter.
You and I can speak without a protocol droid, Jin-Woo said directly to Jabba's soul. So let's skip the slow translation.
Ten-second delays are annoying.
The guards shifted. The Weequay player slowly backed away. No one could hear what Jin-Woo had just said—but everyone could feel the shift in atmosphere.
And to answer your question, Jin-Woo said, still speaking soul-to-soul, are you all fast enough? Fast enough to scratch me before you're crucified on pikes and burned to steak for the smell of it?
Jabba went quiet. His massive eyes blinked once. Slowly. A low, rumbling vibration rolled in his chest.
Then, in a deep, guttural tone, he asked: "Chuba koota… ?"
The protocol droid translated nervously. "The Great Jabba wants to know… are you sure?"
Jin-Woo smiled behind his mask. The grin didn't reach his eyes.
"Give me a reason," he said.
Jabba's booming laugh rolled through the chamber. "Ho ho ho ho ho!"
The ground seemed to tremble with each guttural burst of amusement. A few guards relaxed—barely—but the air remained tense.
The protocol droid stepped forward again, translating with mechanical precision.
"The Great Jabba says: He likes you. He finds your boldness… entertaining. He says one day you could become his personal bounty hunter."
Jin-Woo didn't move. Didn't answer right away.
The droid continued. "Also, you've shown interest in the Twi'lek dancer. Jabba says that can't be arranged—she doesn't belong to him. She is Now owned by his uncle, Ziro the Hutt. Jabba is simply holding her until Ziro retrieves her."
Jin-Woo exhaled slowly behind the mask.
"Then how about we make a bet?" he said calmly. "A game. Since I'm a crazy fool who pulled this stunt… right?"
That got Jabba's attention. The Hutt stopped chuckling. His eyes narrowed again—thoughtful now. He rumbled a few deep, gurgling phrases in Huttese.
The protocol droid tilted its head, processing. "The Great Jabba asks: What Bet you offer ?"
Jin-Woo didn't break eye contact.
He reached behind him—into the cold silence of his own shadow—and pulled free a sleek, silver capsule glowing at its core. With a casual flick of the wrist, he tossed it forward.
The coaxium capsule clinked once before rolling to a stop in front of Jabba's dais.
The Hutt's massive hand slithered forward, snatching it up. His eyes narrowed as he inspected it closely—recognizing the subtle pulse of raw hyperfuel. Extremely volatile. Extremely valuable.
Jabba grunted with interest.
Then, without warning, Jin-Woo pulled something heavier from the abyss of his shadow—a tightly-packed black case, sealed with mag-locks and humming with faint containment fields. He let it drop with a metallic thud on the floor.
"That," Jin-Woo said flatly, "is ten kilograms of refined coaxium. Stable. Certified. Enough to power a Capital Ship for two jumps."
He took one step forward, his masked face tilted slightly.
"So here's the bet. My ten kilos of coaxium… against that dancer." His eyes slid toward the Twi'lek—just now being led in, still adorned in her shimmering chains, hesitant and silent.
"And you'll throw in twenty thousand peggats. Plus three favors. Standard Hutt contract—call and claim. One per favor. No delays. No rewrites."
Jabba let out a deep hrrrumph, his eyes narrowing as he glanced toward his protocol droid.
The golden droid tilted its head, gears clicking as it processed.
"The Great Jabba says… that's too generous. He counters with this: the dancer, seven thousand peggats, and three favors. Final offer."
A brief silence followed.
Jin-Woo didn't hesitate. "…Deal."
The moment the word landed, the tension in the room shifted like smoke caught in a vacuum.
Jabba gave a low, satisfied chuckle, the coaxium capsule now rolling slowly in his palm—already calculating the wealth, the bribes, the leverage this transaction would buy.
"The Great Jabba accepts," the protocol droid announced.
Jabba then spoke again in a series of low, gutteral Huttese phrases. The protocol droid paused, then translated clearly:
"The Great Jabba now asks—what game do you wish to gamble with?"
Jin-Woo didn't flinch. His voice was flat, confident.
"The game is a death match," he said calmly. "You send your armed men—twenty of them—into the arena. And I face them alone."
Jabba's eyes gleamed with growing amusement. He rumbled again, deeper this time.
"The Great Jabba says he likes your suggestion," the droid translated. "But he proposes a twist. Instead of twenty… he wants to use thirty."
Jin-Woo slowly raised his hand and gave a slow shrug.
"Make it a thousand," he said, voice never rising. "Hell—make it two thousand. I'd be honored if you threw ten thousand men at me. That might actually make this entertaining."
The room fell dead silent.
Bounty hunters along the walls exchanged sharp glances. Mercenaries shifted. Gamorrean guards grunted low. Some of them, for the first time, visibly took a step back.
Is this man insane? That was the only thought echoing in the minds of nearly everyone watching.
The Twi'lek dancer—still standing to the side, the one Jin-Woo had bargained for—spoke up, her voice trembling but filled with disbelief.
"Are you out of your mind?" she said sharply. "No one can fight that many. Not even a Jedi could survive that."
Jin-Woo turned slightly toward her, raising a single gloved hand and pressing two fingers to where his lips would be behind the mask.
A silent signal: Quiet. I'll claim you soon.
Then, he turned his gaze back to Jabba—ready for the answer.
Jabba leaned forward, the mountain of his body shifting with a heavy breath. His eyes, wide and gleaming with twisted glee, locked onto Jin-Woo.
And then—for the first time—he spoke in Basic. The Hutt's voice was deep, slurred, but unmistakably clear.
"This is the only time I want to speak your language… and alright, crazy man. Let's make the biggest bet in the world."
The room reacted with disbelief. Gasps. Silence. Even the protocol droid froze for a moment, stunned that Jabba had chosen to speak directly—no translations, and filters.
Jin-Woo gave a slow nod, his mask glinting in the low chamber light.
"Then lead me to the slaughter," he said without hesitation.
Moments later, the roaring din of Mos Espa's Grand Arena greeted him.
The arena was massive—stone walls wrapped in ancient banners, cracked seating stands packed with all walks of Tatooine's worst: mercenaries, slavers, crime lords, bounty hunters, and more. The air was hot, thick with dust and expectation.
Jin-Woo stood at the center of it all. Alone. Cloaked in his Revan-like armor. Unmoving.
Up in the observation booth, Jabba the Hutt leaned forward, slithering toward a massive microphone surrounded by audio projectors and vox-amplifiers. His rumble echoed across the arena as the protocol droid translated, voice clear and booming.
"The Great Jabba says: Today is a glorious day. A fight to be remembered."
The crowd began murmuring. "A once-in-a-lifetime spectacle… A one-versus-ten-thousand battle!"
The stands erupted into cheering, laughter, and disbelief.
"The man standing in the center of the arena," the protocol droid continued, pointing toward Jin-Woo, "has agreed to face ten thousand armed challengers. All at once. A death match."
The audience leaned in as the droid paused—letting the weight of the moment sink in.
"The Great Jabba offers 3,000 peggats to any who participate—if this lone fighter falls."
From the royal viewing box, high above the chaos, Padmé Amidala stood frozen—her hands gripping the railing so tight her knuckles paled. Her eyes locked on the lone figure at the center of the arena. Jin-Woo. Just standing there, unmoved, as the crowd howled for blood.
"…Morgan," Padmé breathed, voice sharp with disbelief, "Jin-Woo is going to die. He's going to fight ten thousand people—"
She turned—only to stop mid-sentence.
On the velvet-draped table behind her, Morgan had laid out an ornate blanket and summoned an elegant silver tea set, now calmly pouring herself a cup. Beside her, Rey sat cross-legged, already helping herself to a slice of cake carved from a towering dessert layered with violet frosting and pale golden layers.
"Grandma," Rey mumbled between bites, "what's this called again?"
Morgan's eye twitched. Her expression didn't change—still cold and composed—but a vein just barely popped on her forehead.
"I told you," she said through clenched teeth, "don't call me that. I'm six thousand years old, not senile."
Padmé blinked in absolute confusion. Rey took another bite anyway.
"But you're the Queen of England's Lostbelt, right? You make queen cake. Royal stuff. That means you're—"
"It's faury cake, you philistine," Morgan snapped, snatching the serving knife. "Has passed down through my court for centuries.."
Padmé stomped forward, arms flailing.
"HEYYYY! Are you two even paying attention?!" she shouted. "Your husband is about to die! He's going to fight ten thousand armed men! Do you not realize what that means?!"
Morgan took a slow, bored sip of her tea.
"They should've brought an entire continent if they wanted to appease him," she said . "Ten thousand is... cute."
Rey glanced toward Padmé and patted the seat beside her on the thick royal blanket.
"Come with me," she said casually, brushing a crumb from her cheek.
Padmé hesitated, frozen in place.
Her thoughts spun violently in her head. Am I the weird one here? she wondered. Is this what being close to Jin-Woo does to people? Am I slowly losing my mind too?
Rey held up a forkful of cake, smile gentle.
"Have some faury cake," she said. "It helps with the screaming."
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
In the royal box, Jabba the Hutt sat flanked by Ziro the Hutt and two other members of the Hutt Clan—Gardulla the Hutt and Marlo the Hutt. Their massive, sluglike forms crowded the luxurious seating, each surrounded by their entourage of attendants and protocol droids.
Ziro leaned over to Jabba, his heavily painted eyes narrowing with curiosity as he rumbled in Huttese, "
The protocol droid standing beside them immediately translated, its mechanical voice echoing through the golden-lit box:
"Who do you favor to win, Jabba?"
Jabba let out a low, rippling chuckle—his great belly quivering with the motion. He replied in Huttese,
"
The droid quickly followed:
"The masked man, of course. I've placed one hundred million Republic credits on him."
Then, unexpectedly, Jabba leaned forward, his voice switching to slow, slurred—but clear—Basic.
"I want that dancer," he said. "The Twi'lek the masked man desires. I'll put another 2.5 million Republic credits on the line."
Ziro's painted lips curled into a smile, the jeweled piercings around his mouth glinting in the sunlight. His yellow eyes narrowed with a predatory gleam.
"Well, well… you speak the human language surprisingly well," Ziro said with a teasing lilt. "I'll put her up. Shame I have to part with her."
But behind that oily smile, Ziro's mind whispered far darker thoughts.
There's no way I'm letting her out of my grip. She's still a virgin. Prime, untouched. Her value hasn't peaked yet. That Twi'lek is mine. Mine forever. A jewel in my collection, never to be sold. And that masked man? Tch. He looks strong now—but in a few minutes, he'll be nothing but paste beneath ten thousand blades.
Ziro leaned back, sipping from his jeweled goblet as the drums in the arena began to pound louder.
His smile remained. But deep down, he already planned to break the rules.