At a quiet rooftop restaurant nestled among the ivory domes of Theed, the atmosphere was oddly peaceful—contrasting the roaring cheers still echoing from the distant training ground. Clone Jin-Woo sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, . Across from him, Qui-Gon Jinn lowered the holopad that had streamed the entire duel, his expression a rare mix of astonishment and contemplation.
"I must say…" Qui-Gon murmured, eyes still lingering on the paused final frame—the Armored Man's Excalibur Proto pressed against Yoda's throat, the Grandmaster's lightsaber hovering at Jin-Woo's neck in return. "That sword… Excalibur Proto, as he called it. a priceless artifact."
Seated nearby, Morgan raised an eyebrow, her hands folded calmly under her chin. She said nothing for a moment, letting the silence sit between them like tension in a drawn bow.
Then, her lips curled just slightly.
"What do you expect?" she said coolly. "Of course it's priceless."
She reached for her drink but didn't sip it, eyes glinting faintly with unspoken pride.
"It's ranked EX. Anti-World. The kind of weapon you only see in myths when the planet itself needs correcting."
Qui-Gon's gaze sharpened. "Anti-World? You're saying that blade isn't meant for armies… but for concepts. For eras."
Morgan didn't confirm or deny it.
She only leaned back slightly, expression unreadable.
Clone Jin-Woo gave a short exhale that might've been a laugh. "She's just had too much caf. Or she's drunk on her own brilliance again."
Morgan shot him a look, but didn't bother replying.
Qui-Gon rubbed his beard thoughtfully, his gaze drifting between the two. "The Armored Man said the sword chooses its wielder. So… hypothetically, if someone is truly worthy—can they lift it? Can anyone become what he is?"
Clone Jin-Woo tapped the rim of his cup, the light clink echoing over the quiet rooftop. "If the Armored Man's in a generous mood… and if he's being himself, sure. You're free to try. The sword will answer. It always does."
But at that moment, the holopad beside him flickered to life. A live broadcast cut across every public channel in Theed.
A Twi'lek reporter's voice crackled through, urgent and breathless. "Breaking news! The Armored Man has just planted Excalibur Proto into the stone courtyard near the Royal Palace. And this is confirmed—he declared: 'Whoever can lift it may wield it. The sword is yours.'"
She paused, then added with rising disbelief, "There is also another trial, called The Armored Man's Great Adventure. It will open soon—exclusively for Naboo and Gungan citizens. The reward will be… different."
Qui-Gon leaned forward, eyes wide. "He actually did it…"
He turned toward Morgan slowly, suspicion creeping into his voice. "You forged that sword. I know you did. So tell me—what's the criteria? Even someone like me… is there a chance I could qualify?"
Morgan tone was calm, steady, and absolute.
"You can't," she said flatly. "Not you. Not 99.999999 percent of anyone in this galaxy."
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. "That sounds… arrogant. Like the sword is reserved only for the Armored Man himself. Even though you're the one who forged it."
Morgan leaned back, folding her hands over her knee as her gaze drifted toward the skyline. "Maybe. But at least it's quiet here. No one to sneak up and eavesdrop. And I'm not surprised you didn't go snitching to everyone about Jin-Woo either," she added coolly. "The one sitting beside me right now is still Jin-Woo. Call it a double, a clone—it doesn't matter. You kept his secret. So I'll return the favor."
"Do you have any idea how powerful Jin-Woo actually is? His very existence overrides all qualifications for Excalibur Proto."
"And for anyone else in this galaxy? Being kind… being a good person… that's not enough."
Qui-Gon sat quietly for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then he asked slowly, "Are you saying… Jin-Woo—"
Clone Jin-Woo interrupted, sitting a little straighter. "Although my real self isn't here, you can talk to me as if he is. I still share a conscious link with him. Everything I say… is as if he's speaking."
He tilted his head slightly. "Tell me, Qui-Gon… have you ever glassed a planet with your power alone?"
Qui-Gon's face remained still, but his silence was telling. Finally, he shook his head. "No. And I'm certain even Master Yoda hasn't."
Clone Jin-Woo nodded slowly. ". I can. That's what Anti-World capability means. I don't like doing it. I don't need to do it. But if I had to…"
Qui-Gon's deadpan didnt pay attention jin woo seriously . "You're bragging now. That's you talking… Jin-Woo, as yourself."
Clone Jin-Woo leaned back again, one gauntleted hand resting lazily on the table's edge. His tone didn't change.
"I'm being honest. This galaxy—this era—it's stagnant. Rotting under old rules, old systems, old power. I'm the strongest in it. And everyone's about to find out what that really means."
Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, eyes thoughtful. "I won't ask about your disguise or the persona you wear. I've chosen not to dwell on that. But Morgan…" He turned to her directly. "You said earlier that being kind or being a good person isn't enough. Since you're the one who made that sword—elaborate."
Morgan didn't hesitate. "I'm going to skip the usual Jedi Order screwups. You already know them."
Qui-Gon gave a quiet grunt. ". Servants of the Senate. I know."
Morgan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then let's talk standards. Let's say the sword is your test. A myth forged into steel. Let's say you walk up and it does judge you."
She leaned forward just slightly, her voice low and steady. "Ask yourself, Qui-Gon… could you do what Arthur Pendragon did? Knight of Sky Silver, chosen by the Lady of the Lake, who led tens of thousands across battlefields soaked in blood. Not for conquest. Or politics. But for justice—pure and blinding and heavy."
"Could you bear that weight? Could you sacrifice a friend, a brother, your own happiness—if it meant the world would be saved?"
"Because that's what being worthy means. Not kindness. Not smiling at refugees. It means doing the ugly, irreversible things… and still holding your soul steady."
"You want the sword to choose you?" she said finally. "Be ready to bleed for people who'll never thank you. Then be ready to do it again."
Qui-Gon finally exhaled. "That's a cruel road," he said. "For Arthur… and anyone else."
Morgan gave a small shrug. "Maybe. But funny enough… there is someone in this galaxy who could at least shake it. Not lift it—yet—but shake it hard enough to make the real Jin-Woo, the one in that armor, just a little nervous."
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. "There is? Who?"
Morgan didn't answer directly. She only let her gaze drift toward the skyline, then toward the direction of Satine Kryze's position .
"Not now," she murmured. "But maybe… if fate is kind and he survives long enough… he might even snatch it away."
Qui-Gon followed Morgan's gaze for a moment, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"…Then I'd be proud," he said quietly. "If my apprentice truly had that strength… that would mean he's ready to carry burdens even I never could."
He slowly stood from his seat, adjusting the edge of his robe.
"I take my leave," he added with a respectful nod. "It seems this conversation has been… fruitful."
Clone Jin-Woo didn't shift from his seat. His voice carried with firm calm. "Qui-Gon. What stays here… stays here. Don't be a snitch. Not even to Obi-Wan."
Qui-Gon gave a light smile and responded as he turned. "I'll do just fine. You have my word."
Without another word, he stepped away from the rooftop, heading down the narrow stairwell that led toward the plaza. Toward the Excalibur Proto — the myth sword now embedded in stone like a legend waiting to be retold.
Morgan leaned back, swirling her drink absently. "So… the Shadow Monarch's power overrides all rules, huh?" she said with an amused tilt of her head. "Just as I expected."
Clone Jin-Woo let out a breath through his nose, unmoved. "You planted part of your Transfiguration Monarch power into the sword anyway. If I swing it at full force, it'll cleave space itself."
Morgan set her cup down and held out her hand with a faint flick of her fingers. "Headpat. For reward."
Clone Jin-Woo didn't resist. He raised his hand and gave her a silent, matter-of-fact headpat.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
At the Theed courtyard near the Royal Palace, a large crowd had gathered—citizens, nobles, off-world guests, and even a few Jedi observers. All eyes were fixed on the stone pedestal at the center, where Excalibur Proto stood embedded, its hilt glowing faintly in the sunlight. The blade shimmered like a star caught in metal.
One after another, brave civilians had stepped forward. Young, old, warriors and wanderers—each placed their hands on the hilt with hope in their eyes.
None had succeeded.
Now, it was the Mandalorians' turn.
Pre Vizsla cracked his knuckles with an exaggerated flourish, rotating his arms as if preparing for battle.
"Alright," he said, stepping toward the pedestal. "Time to show this myth what real Mandalorian willpower looks like."
Bo-Katan, arms crossed, stood just behind him with an unimpressed look.
"Leader," she said flatly, "please don't embarrass yourself."
From the sidelines, Duchess Satine called out politely, her voice light but teasing. "Good luck with your effort, Pre Vizsla."
Jaster Mereel, standing not far from her, turned his head slightly and murmured in response, "You shouldn't cheer them on, my Duchess. They'll become wolves again once their ten-year leash is over."
Satine didn't flinch. Her eyes remained on the sword. "I still believe in my pacifist, Jaster."
Jango Fett, arms folded near the back of the Mandalorian delegation, remained silent, but his thoughts stirred as he watched Pre Vizsla approach the sword.
Kind people… they're often just sheep among the wolves.
Pre Vizsla rolled his shoulders, stepping forward with all the pride of a man who believed history was waiting for him. He planted both hands on Excalibur Proto's hilt.
"Come on, you stupid sword," he muttered through gritted teeth, straining to lift it. "What makes you choose him over me, huh?"
The sword didn't move.. Vizsla growled. He wasn't done. He activated his jetpack. The rockets flared to life, thrusting downward with raw power as he tried to wrench the blade free with brute Mandalorian force. Dirt kicked up, flames licked the edges of the pedestal, and the crowd began to murmur—half in disbelief, half in restrained laughter.
A child's voice piped up from the front. "That's cheating! He's using his jetpack!"
Up in the elevated seating,
Ranulph Tarkin crossed one leg over the other and muttered dryly, "The myth sword is probably just deciding how dramatically to humiliate this man."
And then it happened.
With a mechanical sputter, Vizsla's jetpack suddenly detached—launching into the sky like a rogue missile. It spun once, twice—
BOOM. It exploded in midair, sending sparks and black smoke drifting lazily above the courtyard.
Pre Vizsla stumbled back, coughing, cape slightly singed.
Bo-Katan didn't even blink. "That's why I said not to embarrass yourself, Leader," she muttered.
From the back of the Mandalorian crowd,
Jango Fett let out a quiet scoff. "So much for the acting leader of Death Watch. The same man who's been leashed by the Armored Man."
Pre Vizsla spun around, still panting. "Then why don't you try it, Jango? Let's see you do better!"
Jango just tilted his head slightly, voice calm. "I know my worth. And I'm no hero—that sword doesn't call for men like me. I'm just a soldier of the True Mandalorians… or maybe the one who takes Jaster's place, if he ever kicks the bucket."
Jaster Mereel chuckled behind his helmet. "Same here. Just a normal Mandalorian. That blade isn't meant for the likes of us."