Chapter 771: War Ignites on Tatooine

Galactic First Empire, Outer Rim Space, Arkanis Sector, Tatooine.

It was a vast and bright planet, like a shimmering topaz radiating a gentle halo into the cosmos. Above its rocky mantle and silicate crust, endless barren deserts stretched out—the primary hue of this world.

Just like Tatooine’s harsh environment, this was not a hospitable place. Rampant crime was the norm here, and even the capital, Bestine, was not spared. The planet’s security and economy were both in dire straits. Even after more than ten years since the Galactic Empire’s reformation, its control over Tatooine remained weak.

Even the Empire’s currency could not circulate normally here, and in many parts of the planet, the public trade of slaves still existed.

However, for that very reason, the chaotic and mixed nature of Tatooine nourished and concealed many gray industries.

Though the cityscapes here exuded an air of rustic poverty, even the Empire’s stingiest, most miserly tax officials—those Grendel-like penny-pinchers—were reluctant to come, seeing nothing worth exploiting.

Yet that assumption was wrong. On this planet, taverns, underground dance halls, black markets, casinos, gaming parlors, guilds, gangs, and brothels thrived. Anything imaginable could be found here. With the right connections, information from every corner of the galaxy—news, rare goods, or rumors—spread at incredible speed. There was no shortage of credits to be earned.

Of course, credits here were rarely legal. It all depended on how you used and laundered them.

Whooo—

The scorching wind battered the port of Mos Eisley, and the dim, reddish sky seemed to foretell the arrival of a sandstorm.

“Attention all residents of Mos Eisley—an extreme sandstorm is approaching. All passengers within the port are advised to close their hatches, secure their docks and landing pads, and evacuate open areas. Proceed to enclosed shelters…”

Through old, weathered loudspeakers that hadn’t been replaced in decades, a voice speaking Galactic Basic Standard repeated the sandstorm warning again and again.

The residents of Mos Eisley paid no attention.

They were born into this. Every year it was either a sandstorm or a burning sun—they were used to it long ago.

As for visitors to the port? Tch! No decent folk ever came to such a backwater.

Smugglers, fugitives, mercenaries, bounty hunters, gang enforcers, deserters—plus the Empire’s spies and the Rebel Alliance’s agents. Each and every one of them was a “talent,” a rogue of some kind. If you excluded those doing honest business, every other type of lowlife profession was represented here.

As wind and sand filled the air, inside a tavern-inn by the port, the thud-thud of sand beating against the glass didn’t affect the patrons’ mood in the slightest.

Dim lighting, flickering neon signs, and the constant rise and fall of rowdy chatter formed the scene’s backdrop.

The dirty and chaotic tables and chairs were scattered around. Alluring women and scruffy men moved between them, mingling with various alien species as they drank, laughed, exchanged gossip, and bragged about their adventures.

The sounds of clinking glasses and wild laughter filled the room.

Fugitives clustered in small groups—merchants arguing loudly, rowdy small gangs, carefree lone wolves, cold-eyed hunters watching from the corners—all together forming a small corner of the galaxy’s gray underworld.

“Those damned Rebels aren’t worth a damn. That battle on Hoth… I bet they lost every last bit of their reserves!”

A bald old man with a scruffy beard slammed his cup—made of some unknown material—onto the round table, his flushed face full of complaints. “Those Imperial grunts are like a pack of rabid hyenas on steroids. They’re cracking down harder every day.”

He had no political stance. He was just a war profiteer—smuggling to both sides and thriving in chaos. But once one side dominated, the business dried up.

“Damn the Empire, damn the Rebels! Can’t they fight properly for once? I’ve got a whole stockpile of smuggled goods gathering dust, and who knows if I’ll ever find buyers again.”

The outcome of the Battle of Hoth wasn’t a secret. The Galactic Empire’s overwhelming victory was heavily publicized, while the defeated Rebel Alliance made no convincing rebuttal at all.

It was evident—the Rebel Alliance had suffered a crushing defeat. Their ground forces were almost completely annihilated, Echo Base had fallen, and they were forced to retreat from Hoth. The Galactic Empire, on the other hand, had lost only a small number of vehicles and personnel.

Pouring himself another cup of Tatooine’s local moonshine, the old man—half drunk now—slurred his words with a lewd grin. “Ah, the beautiful, elegant, and clever Miss Adeline! Bring me another large platter of roasted Bantha meat! You know the deal—put it on my tab.”

The muscular bartender woman behind the counter, her face marked by tattoos and her figure far from matching any of those flattering adjectives, gave a perfunctory smile. Setting down a large mug of moonshine, she turned to the kitchen to place the order.

“Boss, since the Empire’s withdrawal, Hoth has become a goldmine. The surface is littered with wreckage from the war machines. Plenty of scavengers have already gone there, hauling back tons of salvageable components to sell on the black market. Word is, some of them struck it rich.”

At the same table, a young man—part of the old man’s crew—pulled down his sand goggles and scarf, his tone eager.

“Hmph, getting greedy, are you? You need to live long enough to spend that money first.”

“Oh? Old Bowman, sounds like you’ve got some inside information, huh?” someone at the neighboring table—a smuggler who clearly knew him—raised a glass and called out.

“Yeah, come on, old man! Don’t keep the good stuff to yourself. This round’s on me—think of it as a friendly gesture,” another patron chimed in, joined by a chorus of laughter from the drunken crowd.

“Bah! A meal’s worth a few lousy credits, and you think that’ll buy my info? Scram! I don’t know a damn thing!” Bowman barked back, waving his hand dismissively.

“Che! Watch out, old man—someone’s gonna steal your woman,” another jeered, flipping him the finger.

No one truly expected the old codger to have any real connections. In these circles, everyone claimed to have “sources.” In truth, they were all the same—a bunch of drifters who survived on gossip and instinct.

And even if he did know something, who would reveal their hand in public? Those kinds of deals were made behind closed doors. Blabbing in a crowd only made people suspicious.

“The Battle of Yavin—sure, the Rebels won that one. They destroyed the Death Star, and for a while, things looked promising. But when the Empire finally got serious and launched their counterattack, the Alliance’s true weakness showed. Looks like we’ll be playing the role of obedient citizens for a long while yet.”

“Fine by me. Though, looks like some of our side businesses will have to go quiet for a while…”

“They say the Empire’s building an even stronger superweapon—one that can destroy entire planets, more powerful than the Death Star that wiped out Jedha and Scarif. Those Imperial bastards really mean to rule the galaxy forever…”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s just an Imperial smokescreen. The Alliance claimed they destroyed the Death Star’s construction site and all its schematics.”

“Ha! Like their word means anything. A weak rebellion has to exaggerate its victories just to keep morale from collapsing.”

The casual banter drifted aimlessly until, naturally, the conversation shifted to the topic of the Galactic Empire constructing another planet-killing weapon—a subject far more exciting to debate.

Everyone had their own opinions, each one insisting they were right.

Ding!

The bell above the door jingled, followed by the grating sound of metal and the heavy thud of boots. The noise abruptly cut through the tavern’s chaos, and the chatter died down.

This was the worst possible time to be out—the sandstorm outside was at its peak, and there were even rumors of Krayt Dragons roaming with the storm. Anyone walking in that weather was either insane or extremely dangerous.

Thud… thud… thud…

As the air circulator by the entrance spun up, shaking off the sand, a series of steady footsteps echoed—more than one person, moving in unison, like trained soldiers.

Every veteran in the room sensed it immediately. The newcomers didn’t belong to their crowd.

The tavern’s patrons froze. Hands drifted toward concealed blasters and rifles. Eyes flicked toward exits. No one moved hastily—but everyone was ready.

Cops? Imperial security forces?

Clatter…

The sound grew closer. As the curtain was lifted, the dim tavern light blended with the harsh glare from outside, letting them glimpse the figures at the door.

Instantly, the heavy tension that had gripped the air began to ease.

They weren’t Imperial stormtroopers in white armor. And they bore no six-pointed Bendu insignia.

In the Galactic Empire—where Tarkin Doctrine, Unificationism, and Human Supremacy were official military ideologies—every rank-and-file trooper bore that six-pointed sun emblem, save for those in intelligence or covert branches.

But these people—who were they?

The human and non-human patrons exchanged knowing looks and quiet chuckles.

The leader of the newcomers wore a crisp, iron-gray uniform—pressed, spotless, and distinct from the Galactic Empire’s standard-issue tunics. His collar and shoulder insignias were unlike any seen in the galaxy, his overcoat tailored, and his knee-high boots—though they had clearly crossed a sandstorm—remained immaculate. His chest glittered with ornate medals, gaudy and showy, exuding a smug sort of pride.

Behind him stood seven others—one adjutant without a coat and six soldiers clad in full-body exoskeletal armor of gray with black patterns and red highlights. The streamlined design, the alien weaponry so unlike that of stormtroopers, and the insignia of a twin-headed eagle and the symbol “≡][≡” all marked them as something entirely different from the Galactic Empire.

They were one of the reconnaissance squads dispatched from the forward outpost of the Sacred Selene Empire’s 23625th Inquisitorial Expeditionary Fleet.

Just as the patrons were observing them, the squad’s leader, Lieutenant Haywood Spike of the Imperial Auxiliary Forces, was studying Tatooine’s “local customs.”

He squinted. Too dark in here, he thought.

But then, that made sense. These scavenging hyenas of the gray underworld weren’t fond of the light—or perhaps didn’t want to be seen clearly.

Ignoring the predatory, suspicious stares from the tavern’s patrons, Haywood strode deeper inside. His gaze swept over the bizarre assortment of lifeforms before him.

Besides humans, there were one-eyed aliens and others with a thousand eyes; some covered in scales, some with fur; and even those whose rippling skin shifted patterns depending on their mood.

They raised their various drinking vessels—clawed, tentacled, or humanoid hands clutching cups of every shape and size. Their chatter was a chaotic blend of human and alien tongues.

Near the counter, in addition to several muscular middle-aged women serving as attendants, a tall insectoid creature lingered.

Using the newly downloaded translation module for Galactic Basic Standard, Haywood gestured subtly toward an empty spot at the bar.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said calmly. “I mean no harm. I’m just here to ask about someone—or rather, a certain… profession.”

He drew a cigarette from a metal case, placed it between his lips, and snapped his gloved fingers. A spark of violet light flared to life, igniting the tip. The servers widened their eyes in surprise, but Haywood simply exhaled a slow stream of smoke as he placed a stack of hexagonal Imperial Standard Credit chips on the counter.

The insectoid bartender’s antennae twitched. With a flick of its limb, the credits vanished. Payment received meant service rendered. It poured Haywood a glass of the bar’s finest aged liquor and rasped in a stilted, uneven voice:

“Who… do you seek?”

Haywood smiled faintly.

“Everything you know about the Jedi. That stack’s just the down payment.” He produced another pile of Imperial credits and set it down casually.

After all, it wasn’t his money. Since entering the Outer Rim, he’d “acquired” it from some unlucky pirates and street thugs who had tried to rob him. Spending it didn’t sting at all.

As for why they were still wearing their full uniforms during a reconnaissance mission—well, that had its reasons.

Disguises? They’d tried that. Civilian clothes of every kind, all in the name of blending in. But when the locals turned out to be “overly honest” and welcomed them with drawn blasters and hijacking attempts, subtlety quickly lost its appeal.

This was the lawless Outer Rim. Every pirate, bounty hunter, and criminal gang preyed on one another. Even after repainting and weathering their gunship to look worn and civilian, idiots still came knocking, claiming it was “their ship now.”

After repeated encounters—and firefights—they’d learned enough of this galaxy’s common knowledge, traced the evolution from the Republic to the Galactic Empire, and mastered the local language. So they decided: enough pretending. They’d show up as themselves.

As expected, humans were creatures of sight. The uniformity and authority of military attire evoked far more fear and respect than any ragtag disguise.

And besides, no one questioned their origin. The uniforms had presence—but not enough to draw unwanted attention.

Most locals simply assumed they were the private security division of some wealthy interstellar corporation, complete with custom-made attire and proprietary insignia.

Later, through a bit of luck—and the unfortunate demise of a bounty hunter who had crossed them—Haywood learned, via soul extraction, the locations of several bounty hunter guild outposts across the region.

Conveniently, Tatooine had a functioning Bounty Hunters Guild. Rumor also had it that traces of Jedi heritage lingered here. Reports confirmed that several Imperial Inquisitors had visited the planet on assignment before. That was precisely why Lieutenant Haywood and his reconnaissance squad had come.

“Bounty hunter Boba Fett has arrived on Tatooine. They say the cargo he’s carrying is a high-value fugitive captured by the Galactic Empire—someone who also happens to be the debtor of Jabba the Hutt, head of the interstellar smuggling cartel.”

“And this fugitive,” the insectoid bartender said while polishing the counter, “has a very close Jedi companion…”

“That’s all I can say. As an intermediary of the Bounty Hunters Guild, revealing too much about a client or contractor goes against our professional co—”

Clink, clink…

The crisp sound of credits hitting the counter interrupted him. Haywood, smiling faintly, tapped his gloved fingers against the bar as he produced another thick stack of Imperial Standard Credits.

“…” The insectoid fell silent for a moment—then quietly accepted the payment.

“They’re here, on Tatooine,” it said at last. “By now, that fugitive should have been transferred to Jabba the Hutt’s desert palace.” It slid a slip of paper across the counter. “If Jabba hasn’t already killed that poor debtor, Han Solo…”

This time, it even spoke the fugitive’s name aloud.

“Appreciated.”

Leaving the credits behind, Lieutenant Haywood signaled his squad to prepare to move out. He turned toward the door—only to halt when a leg suddenly stretched into his path.

“Hey, buddy,” drawled a rough-looking man lounging nearby, grinning broadly. “If you’re lookin’ for someone on Tatooine, you’ll need help. Even a strong offworlder like you needs locals. The desert folk have their own ways of surviving. My team can lend a hand—for a fair price.”

Haywood exhaled a soft laugh, blowing a thin ring of smoke.

How amusing.

Greed—it always blinded them.

Still, in a den of scavengers and hyenas like this, flashing wealth was bound to draw such attention. Their hunger for profit outweighed any wariness they might have felt toward his uniform. Predictable.

“You’re not qualified,” he said coldly.

The corner of his mouth curved in faint mockery. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray, stepped around the ragtag mercenaries, and continued toward the exit.

“Hey! Pretty boy—what’s that supposed to mean?!”

The largest of the group, a burly man encased in full armor, slammed his palm against the table and rose with a snarl.

“Don’t think a few magic tricks and some fake stormtroopers make you tough! I was taking bounties before you even—”

BOOM!

A deafening blast cut him off. The tavern’s wall exploded outward. The armored man’s upper body crumpled forward, his torso shredded open, intestines spilling across the floor as he collapsed at Haywood’s feet, twitching before going still.

Haywood shrugged. “One glance tells the story. The government forces of your world… truly lack deterrence.”

Whirr… zap…

The flash of red energy from raised blasters reflected in his eyes. Haywood smiled again—coldly, eerily.

“So be it. Grace and civility mean nothing to the scavengers who haunt these dark corners. Only bullets and death will remind you—mercy doesn’t mean permission to overstep.”

His gaze swept the bar. All around, patrons had drawn weapons. Before him shimmered faint ripples of his personal energy shield.

He sighed lightly—and then brought his arm down in a sharp gesture.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Blood sprayed across the tavern. Two gunmen—those who had fired first—were torn apart instantly. One’s head burst like a melon; the other’s chest detonated, sending his skull and half his shoulder spinning through the air.

Mistaking Haywood’s reconnaissance squad for the stormtroopers they vaguely resembled—that was their final and fatal mistake.

Though not as formidable as Astartes warriors, the Imperial Auxiliary troops were far from the kind of rabble composed of bounty hunters, mercenaries, and smugglers who dared to challenge them.

Tat-tat-tat!

The intense heat of the laser rifles engulfed the loudest cluster of mercenaries. They had barely managed to fire a few rounds before the high-energy beams riddled them with holes. Those unlucky enough to be struck by the auxiliary model boltguns were blown apart in bursts of crimson and smoke—blood and flesh flying everywhere.

A bounty hunter clad in partial Mandalorian steel armor charged straight for Haywood’s adjutant, assuming him to be the weakest point since he lacked an exosuit.

But in the next instant, the bounty hunter froze in disbelief—as the “unarmored” adjutant swung a single punch that sent him crashing into the wall. Without hesitation, the adjutant drew a monomolecular blade from his belt and slit the man’s throat cleanly.

Bang! Bang!

Outside, the auxiliary soldiers of the recon squad burst through the tavern doors, blowing apart the reinforced metal frame. Some wielded chainswords, roaring like unleashed beasts as they stormed into the panicked crowd of bounty hunters.

The buzzing of chainswords filled the air. Flesh was shredded; blood misted the room. The stench of iron and gore permeated everything. The tavern itself seemed to tremble, on the verge of collapse.

The floor had turned a deep reddish-brown, slick with blood and strewn with mangled limbs. The air hung thick with a metallic fog. Tables and chairs were draped with unrecognizable body parts. The screams, gunfire, and explosions that had filled the tavern moments ago were gone—leaving behind a silence so thick it felt monstrous.

Only the terrified cries of a few survivors who hadn’t drawn their weapons broke the stillness.

Oh—and the pitiful groans of the wounded, clutching their shredded bodies. Their suffering didn’t last long; the auxiliary soldiers kindly finished them off with clean shots.

“We worked together nicely, didn’t we?”

Lieutenant Haywood looked toward the bar, where the counter was pockmarked with shrapnel holes. Behind it stood the terrified insectoid bartender and a trembling middle-aged waitress.

“The stupidity of others won’t interfere with our… pleasant arrangement.”

“Y-yes! Of course!”

The insectoid nodded rapidly, its head bobbing like a pecking bird.

Haywood turned toward the door. “Good. Then get back to work. I’ll be paying a visit to Jabba the Hutt’s desert palace… let’s hope you didn’t lie to me.”

“Sir,” his adjutant asked as they stepped outside, “should we perform a soul extraction to verify? The Galactic Empire’s control over this sector may be weak, but such noise will surely draw attention from the Tatooine garrison—”

“Let them come.”

Haywood walked on, the blazing desert winds swirling around him. “We’ll anchor a Starpoint here on Tatooine. Intelligence collection is complete. Once reinforcements arrive, we’ll have everything ready for a full-scale assault. As for the Jedi—this is the only credible lead we’ve found. We’ll take the chance.”

He glanced down at the slip of paper in his hand, his gaze fixed in the direction marked—the location of Jabba the Hutt’s desert palace.

“Either way,” he murmured, “it’s just one more step down the road.”

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