Meanwhile, in the arena below…
Jin-Woo stood still in the center of the wide, cracked battleground. His Revan-like armor glinted under the twin suns, cloak fluttering slightly in the dry wind. He watched with quiet indifference as the first wave assembled. Only a quarter of the full ten thousand had entered so far—about 2,500 bodies lining the opposite side of the field. Assassins. Mercenaries. Droids. Slavers. All armed to the teeth, some twitching with excitement, others mocking.
Jin-Woo tilted his head, then raised one hand.
With perfect sarcasm, his voice rang out—amplified just enough to be heard across the arena.
"Before we begin…" he said casually, "does anyone want to leave?"
The crowd laughed. Some booed. Up in the stands, more bets were placed, and chants of "KILL! KILL!" echoed from every direction.
One of the gang leaders among the front ranks, a scarred Trandoshan with dual vibroblades, sneered and stepped forward.
"Heh… bluffin' bastard," the Trandoshan growled. "Big words for someone who—"
His sentence stopped. Mid-breath. The Trandoshan's body jolted. He stumbled back, dropping his weapons. His yellow eyes went wide, trembling.
Because suddenly—he felt it. His heart… was missing.
With a wet, squelch, Jin-Woo pulled a still-beating organ from behind his back and casually dropped it into a small cloth bag at his waist.
Thump-thump… thump-thump… The pulsing could still be heard.
The Trandoshan stared in horror, his clawed fingers grasping at his chest—where there was no wound. No blood. Just the absence of something vital.
"H-Hey—!" he croaked, knees wobbling. "G-Give that back—return my—"
He collapsed.
But not before Jin-Woo stepped forward… and in one mocking gesture, slipped the still-beating heart into the Trandoshan's open hand.
The corpse twitched once. The arena went silent.
Then—screams erupted from the nearest lines. Soldiers backed away, panicked and confused.
A silence so deep, it swallowed the crowd's laughter, the ambient noise, even the wind.
Then—screams erupted from the nearest lines. Dozens of armed mercenaries began backing away, faces pale, weapons raised but trembling. A ripple of panic spread through the front ranks like a disease. Someone vomited. Another dropped their blaster and ran.
And Jin-Woo simply stood there. He lifted his right hand—fingers twitching in a familiar, almost ritualistic gesture.
There was a low, vibrating hum. The sky… dimmed. Then blackened.
In an instant, the sun disappeared from Tatooine's twin skies—snuffed out like candles in the palm of a god. Shadows lengthened unnaturally across the arena floor. The sands turned dull grey. The air grew cold. A storm of pressure built behind Jin-Woo's stance as he planted his feet. His voice came low, deliberate.
"When I was a kid ," he murmured, "on my old world… I saw it in a comic book."
He reached his left hand toward the sky, where no sun remained—only a swirling void that seemed to churn with oil-black tendrils.
"The All-Black Necrosword.. A sword made of living shadow… of death itself."
His eyes narrowed behind the mask. "I wanted my own."
Darkness snapped into shape around his hand like liquid iron. From the void above, something descended—slowly, silently.
A long, sleek, jagged blade took form—dripping with thick black liquid that hissed on contact with the sand. It pulsed once, as if alive. The blade itself was forged from condensed shadow mana and. The memory of a dead god.
Jin-Woo grabbed the hilt. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, the earth trembled. A pulse of black mana surged across the arena floor, cracking the stone and causing the first few ranks of soldiers to stumble back even farther.
He slowly raised the weapon, the black liquid running down the edge in slow, heavy drips—each one sinking into the dirt like it was rotting the ground beneath it.
"…I call it," Jin-Woo said, raising the blade into the air, "All Darkness Monarch Sword."
The sky howled. Echoes from beyond the grave. From the Void. From every realm that had ever feared the dark.
In the royal viewing box, murmurs spread like wildfire.
"What… what is he holding?" Gardulla muttered. "Where's the sun?!"
"The sky—it's gone black," Marlo the Hutt grunted. "Is this sorcery?!"
Even Jabba looked uneasy now, shifting his massive weight with a grunt.
Padmé stood frozen, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat. She gripped the railing as her voice cracked. "Morgan… did you know Jin-Woo could do this?"
Morgan didn't even blink. She calmly lifted a piece of the royal Lostbelt England cake from the silver plate in her lap, forked it with elegance, and gave a soft nod. "He probably created his own shadow power again."
Rey, still chewing beside her with a faint grin, added between bites, "Told you he's built different."
Padmé turned slowly to stare at them both. "…You're eating cake?"
Morgan cut another slice. "It's faury cake, actually."
Rey raised her fork with mock ceremony. "Blessed by the Queen of Lostbelt England herself."
The arena roared.
Another squad leader below—emboldened by fear, pride, or just stupidity—raised his blaster high and screamed, "CHARGEEE!!"
Hundreds surged forward. Armed to the teeth. Screaming. Firing.
Jin-Woo didn't move. Then, a smile—calm, chilling—curled under his mask.
He vanished. CLANK—SLASH—THUNK—BOOM.
A blur shot through the first wave, faster than light. In a blink, twenty bodies were severed—chests split wide, arms removed mid-swing, weapons falling before they could fire. Blood erupted in geysers as limbs tumbled through the air.
Jin-Woo reappeared behind the first line—mid-slash—his blade trailing black afterimages, the shadows lashing out like tendrils. His voice echoed, barely above a whisper.
"Heaven's Cloud."
He disappeared again.
FLASH. He reappeared in midair, bisecting three charging Trandoshans in a single Z-shaped strike. teleporting him instantly to the next enemy upon each successful blow. As long as his blade kept drawing blood, he could never stop.
Slash. Blink. Cleave. Reappear. Repeat.
Dozens died. Then hundreds.
Every time Jin-Woo landed a strike, he flickered out of space—teleporting behind another opponent before they could scream. The movement was so precise, so terrifying, it looked like a ripple of black lightning tearing through the battlefield.
One Rodian raised a rocket launcher—gone. His head was already on the ground before his finger reached the trigger.
A Gamorrean charged with a vibroaxe—cleaved in two. Jin-Woo passed through him like smoke.
A mercenary battalion opened fire in unison—but there was no one left to shoot.
Jin-Woo reappeared behind them, spinning once, his sword cutting a full circle through forty men at once. The blade dragged darkness behind it like a comet-tail of death, reducing everything it touched to torn armor and falling guts.
By the time the first thousand had fallen, the arena floor was an ocean of corpses—smoking, twitching, unmoving. Metal clattered. Screams died off. A thousand deaths... in under three minutes.
Heaven's Cloud had painted the sand in crimson.
And then— Jin-Woo stopped. Right in the middle of the killing field..
Back straight. Sword lowered.
The surviving combatants—still thousands strong—froze. Their feet skidded. Their formation shattered. No one advanced.
They didn't understand. Why had he stopped?
He could've killed all of them in minutes. But now?
He just stood there. From the royal box, Padmé gripped the rail, whispering, "What's he doing?"
Morgan didn't even look up from her plate. "Letting them feel it."
Rey smirked. "Letting them think they have time."
Below… the killers hesitated.
Some raised their weapons. Some looked toward Jabba's box.
Some even dropped to their knees and started begging.
But Jin-Woo had already felt it.
A pulse. The quiet chime in his mind.
Zantetsuken: Level 4.
Fully charged. He lifted the All Darkness Monarch Sword, its edge glistening with liquid shadow, and made one swift blow through the air.
SHHHHRRRRKKK—
Space itself cracked. The air howled.
Then—another slash. Faster. Heavier.
THWOOOMMM.
The atmosphere warped—like reality had been folded into a blade.
The remaining fighters—those still on their knees, those reaching for mercy, those frozen in fear—never even saw it.
A barrage of invisible slashes rained down. Each strike followed the last in an instantaneous cascade, cleaving through armor, flesh, and space-time alike. Bodies didn't fall. They were simply erased—dissolved into vapor, their existence shredded into raw particles.
Only dust. Fine, gray, lifeless dust, spiraling where men had once stood.
The arena floor—just moments ago thick with bodies—was now silent. Flattened. Empty. Like nothing had ever dared oppose him.
Jin-Woo exhaled once. The All Darkness Monarch Sword dissolved into black mist, curling back into his shadow.
And above him, the sky—still cloaked in unnatural darkness—slowly began to shift. The twin suns of Tatooine pierced through once more, as if released from a suffocating grip. Light returned to the world.
But the people… didn't cheer. They screamed.
"Kill him! KILL HIM NOW!"
"This masked devil must DIE!"
"DIE, DIE, DIE—!!"
The chants became rabid. Maddened. Citizens, criminals, even off-worlders leaned over the edge of the stands, howling for blood like possessed animals. The bloodlust surged like a fever.
In the royal box, Ziro the Hutt sneered, slamming one slimy fist on a hidden panel built into his throne.
A section of the arena wall opened with a loud hiss. From the shadows emerged a tall figure—armor black and violet, soaked in desert grime, two picador spear on her back, a scatter blaster at her hip. A Nautolan. Cold-eyed. Ruthless.
Caij Vanda Sr. Mother of the future Caij Vanda,
Behind her marched five thousand troops—a personal army of mercenaries, ex-slavers, rogue droids, and bloodthirsty exiles, all armed to the teeth. Blasters charged. Rockets armed. Shields active.
Caij Vanda Sr. stepped forward, grinning under her helmet as she raised a gauntleted hand toward Jin-Woo.
"Hey," she said casually, "how about you die like the crowd says?"
She drew both picador spear .
"Let me have my payout. You've killed enough. Time for someone to cash in."
Jin-Woo remained perfectly still.
Then… he spoke. The air vibrated—deep and wrong—as his voice echoed in the ancient tongue of the Sith, a language forbidden to be heard by most minds. Each word carried death. A resonance that didn't pass through ears—but through bone.
The sound alone cracked the arena walls. The ground trembled.
And [Force Draining] began.. a cataclysm. Jin-Woo's power reached out with a voice like Nihilus, fusing the Force Drain and Sever into one unnatural surge. The Force screamed.
A wave of absolute annihilation. The sky pulsed red.
The sands burst upward in geysers. And then—
Half the army—2,500 souls—turned to dust. Ash. Gone.
The other half screamed in agony as their midichlorian taken from them , their nerves raw, their minds frayed.
Caij Vanda Sr. staggered. . Her body buckled.
And her left arm disintegrated—flesh and armor peeling away into the void, like it was never there.
She fell to her knees, gasping. "My… arm—!! MY ARM!!"
But Jin-Woo didn't stop. He moved—faster than any eye could follow.
One moment, he stood still. The next, he was among them—a blur, a black wind.
The remaining mercenaries, bounty hunters, and gladiators—those not already turned to dust—began screaming, running for their lives.
But it was too late. Jin-Woo raised one hand, his fingers cracking with dark energy as black lightning sparked between his knuckles.
"[Force Lightning.]"
Thunder cracked.
A spear of shadow-lightning exploded from his palm and tore across the arena floor. It didn't arc—it consumed, turning bodies into charred skeletons, then into ash. Over a hundred men were vaporized in a single, branching strike. Their weapons melted mid-air. Their screams were swallowed by the roar of raw power.
In the chaos, one fighter—shaking, blood on his lips—shouted in panic.
"He's… he's a Jedi!"
Another, half-crushed beneath debris, shrieked louder.
"A Jedi!? Jedi don't do this—that's the devil! Chaos itself wearing skin!"