Three standard years later.
The galaxy had moved on, but it never healed.
Slavery still lived in the shadows. Overseers still whispered commands. Chains still rattled beneath silver moons.
But now, they rattled in fear.
Because something was hunting them.
They called him The Monster.
Not a name chosen — a name earned. After the massacre on Taris, when he stalked through flame and ash with a blood-soaked baton and eyes like twin suns, survivors had no other word for him.
"He didn't fight like a man," they said."Didn't roar like a Wookiee.""He moved like a curse that learned to walk."
His old name was gone. Buried. Burned. He was no longer the lost soul from Kessel, or the reborn overseer trying to make sense of his second life. That man died with the chains he broke.
Now? He was rage. Memory. Punishment.
The Monster moved from world to world, tracking the last remnants of the Kessel slave empire. His baton, wrapped in hide from his first kill, was covered in tally marks — each one a sinner erased. His fur was stained near-permanently red near his maw, burned by the blood of those he'd devoured in his vengeance.
And yet, the Rebels still called him ally.
They didn't understand him — not really. But they knew one truth:
Where The Monster walked, chains broke.
In the belly of a Rebel stealth ship, he stood silently as the commander handed him a blood-splattered datapad.
"Overseer K'loren," she said. "Alive. Hiding on Zygerria. Still selling flesh."
The Monster didn't speak.
He growled, low and long, like thunder rolling over a graveyard.
"K'loren… dies last."
And then he turned to the darkness.The hunt was not over.
The blood was not done.