The sun was a blistering beast hanging low, burning the sky like a wound that wouldn't heal. The palace sat on the edge of town, a fortress of stone and iron, cold as a grave and twice as silent.
The streets were empty. No dogs barked. No children dared to play. The only sound was the soft scrape of boots on gravel — heavy, deliberate, echoing like a death march.
The Monster stood at the edge of town, coat pulled tight against the dry wind. His eyes, sharp as broken glass, scanned the fortress. His hand hovered near the weathered blaster at his hip, fingers twitching like a rattlesnake ready to strike.
He didn't rush.
No, this was a waiting game — a slow burn, like the calm before the gunfight.
The palace guards paced the walls, talking quietly, unaware their nightmare had already arrived.
With a low growl, The Monster stepped forward.
The first shot cracked like thunder, echoing through the dusty street. The guards dove for cover, but the Wookiee's blaster spat fire again and again, precise and unforgiving.
His electrostaff hummed to life, buzzing with raw power. He swung it low — a brutal arc that shattered bone and armor alike. When the butcher's knife came out, it was a merciless dance, cutting through the chaos with savage grace.
Each move was slow but deadly — a deliberate message written in blood and pain.
The townsfolk peered nervously from behind cracked shutters, knowing the legend was no ghost. The Monster was real. And tonight, justice would bleed.
The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched long.And somewhere inside that fortress, Overseer K'loren's fate was sealed.
Because when the last shot was fired, and the dust settled, the only sound left was The Monster's growl — low, victorious, and hungry for more.