READ THE Note:I usually write around 2,000 words per chapter, but now I release them in batches. So don't be surprised if a single release includes the content of 2 standard webnovel chapters. No complaints—you're just getting more at once.

Chapter 17 : Mandalorian Civil War 2 : Korda Six

Korda Six — war-torn, scorched, broken.

On one side of the battlefield, Jaster Mereel, battered and pinned, stood shoulder to shoulder with a younger, determined Jango Fett. The True Mandalorians were outnumbered, Montross's betrayal cutting deep. Blaster fire lit the rocky ridgelines as Death Watch forces, led by Tor Vizsla himself, began their final push.

"Jango, hold the left flank—buy me time to reposition!" Jaster barked, ducking behind cover. Jango nodded and sprinted, already pulling the pin on a thermal detonator.

Across the field, Tor Vizsla raised a hand. "This is it! Kill Jaster Mereel and end the True Mandalorians for good!"

The sky darkened. A blinding streak tore across the battlefield like a comet.

The impact hit the center line between both armies with enough force to send shockwaves across the canyon, sending bodies flying, dirt upheaved, weapons scattered. Both sides froze as dust choked the air.

A deep CLANK echoed. And from the crater… emerged the Armored Man.

Jin-Woo stood upright, steam rising from his exoframe, his presence heavy enough to weigh down every heartbeat around him. Purple energy flickered around his shoulders. His gaze swept both armies like judgment itself.

Jango blinked, stunned. "Jaster… did you hire the Armored Man?"

Jaster, just as confused, shook his head slowly. "I don't even know who that is…"

Then, from amidst the chaos, Tor Vizsla stepped forward. His jetpack cracked as he landed, yanking off his helmet to reveal a rugged, scarred face twisted into a smirk.

"I've heard your stories, Armored Man," Tor called out, his voice booming across the battlefield. "But this isn't your fight. That old relic over there's about to die by my hand."

He motioned toward Jaster, then looked back at Jin-Woo with a grin full of arrogance.

"Join me. Stand with Death Watch. We have the vision. With you, the Republic wouldn't stand a cha—"

A screech tore through the battlefield—followed by a chorus of CLANKS.

Bright golden lances of death rained down from above. Sentinel beams sliced through the air like divine judgment. Dozens of Death Watch and Kordan soldiers disintegrated where they stood—cut down without ceremony, without warning.

Tor Vizsla spun in horror. "COWARDS! You ambush us with machinery?!"

Jin-Woo slowly raised his head, eye visible beneath his exoframe's mask. "For a leader…" he said with complete calm, "you talk too much."

Tor's fury peaked. He ignited the Darksaber, its black blade humming with fury. "Enough! I challenge you, one-on-one! No tricks. No tech. Just you… and me!"

Jin-Woo chuckled softly, unheard beneath his helmet.

My armor is the only thing keeping this galaxy intact, he thought with amusement. If I took it off… you'd be fucked a hundred times over.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Jin-Woo's armored shoulder.

Jaster Mereel. He stepped in front of Jin-Woo, gaze sharp with firm conviction. "Jango told me briefly about your story… about what you did on the Invincible. But this," he gestured toward Tor with a nod, "this is my fight. My honor. Some of the surviving Death Watch—those not killed by your droids—are out there. Watching. If I win with your tech, it'll be damn near impossible to convince the rest of Mandalore that this was won with honor."

Jin-Woo's voice turned sharp, low. "Fuck off," he said flatly. "You're in my way."

Jaster blinked, surprised—but before he could respond, another hand rested gently on his shoulder.

Jango. The younger Fett stepped forward beside his mentor, not with aggression but caution. "Armored Man… be careful. Tor Vizsla isn't just a brute. He'll use every dirty trick in the book to win. He always has."

Jin-Woo tilted his head just slightly, eye narrowing beneath the shifting shadows of his helmet.

"Tor Vizsla should be the one worried," he said coolly. "Without my armor… there goes his chances of winning."

Jin woo stepped forward once more, unbothered by the tense stares of Death Watch remnants still hiding in the cliffs above. His voice carried with deliberate venom. "Leaders who talk too much... yeah, I mean you, Tor Vizsla."

Tor's expression tightened, lips curling in fury, but he held his tongue. Barely.

Jin-Woo gave a casual shrug. "Tell me, do you have a son? Someone named Pre Vizsla, maybe?"

The Mandalorian clenched his fists. "Coward! You threaten my family now?! Are you holding my son hostage?!"

Jin-Woo blinked slowly. "Nah. Just guessing. Hard to keep up with canon when half of it is fanfiction and the other half is Disney's retcon nightmare."

Tor barely processed the words—he was too busy glaring with bloodthirst.

Then Jin-Woo took a deep breath… and his exoframe began to retract.

Tor Vizsla sneered as Jin-Woo's armor began to peel away. "When I kill you, Armored Man—your armor will become the new symbol of the Death Wa—"

He didn't finish. Because then he saw it.

The armor collapsed inward like falling metal petals, vanishing into nothingness. And what stood in its place was not a man—not anymore.

The light around him seemed to bend. The air grew heavy, as if the atmosphere itself recoiled. What emerged from the shell of the exoframe was a towering being cloaked in a living shadow. A figure wreathed in flame-like violet hair, eyes glowing with hellish fire, two massive curved black horns jutting from his head.

Ashborn Form . He was five times the size of Tor Vizsla, his black armor like scales forged from death itself. A long, tattered shadow cloak flowed behind him like smoke from a funeral pyre. His Colossal black blade was unlike any weapon Vizsla had ever seen. And behind him, stomping forward from the swirling dark—his steed. A dark warhorse, its hooves leaving trails of flame across the cracked ground.

Jin-Woo's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "That was your mistake… chatty little leader."

His eyes locked with Tor Vizsla's. "My armor wasn't protecting me from you."

He stepped forward once more. "It was protecting you from me."

Tor Vizsla began to shake. Not just a little. His body trembled violently, his grip on the Darksaber faltering as his legs instinctively backed away. "What… what kind of beast—what kind of horrifying galaxy are you from?!"

Jin-Woo's face twisted into a calm smile. "Does a prey, have the right to ask questions of the predator?"

Then he looked—just for a moment—toward Jaster and Jango. Even they, warriors born and bred, couldn't hide their reaction. Their jaws clenched. Their eyes wide. Jango unconsciously placed a hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating very hard .

Jin-Woo smirked. "However," he said, "I'm in a good mood today. If you manage to Survive my blade… three times—I'll spare you."

Tor Vizsla's breath hitched. "Does a monster… even keep his word?"

SHHHHHRRRRAAAK—!A black slash tore through the air the moment he finished speaking. Not at Vizsla—but to his side. Ashborn's blade cleaved the distant mountains, carving through stone, trees, and earth like a dark guillotine. The shockwave alone turned the landscape into a crater. Entire hills fell. Valleys split open. A new scar carved into Korda Six—an unnatural rift of destruction now visible from orbit.

Jin-Woo exhaled, a faint trail of dark mist escaping his mouth. "What do you say, Tor Vizsla…?" he rumbled. "Shall I hunt you like a dog…?"

He took a slow step forward."Or fight me… like a man?"

Tor Vizsla's knees nearly buckled. But then he clenched his jaw, forced himself to breathe, and raised the Darksaber again. "If I die…" he rasped, "…will you spare my men?"

Jin-Woo's purple eyes narrowed. "That," he said, "depends entirely… on your performance, Tor."

Tor Vizsla's breathing was ragged, but his voice rang clear as he activated his holocommunicator, projecting a shaky blue light into the dust-choked air. "Remaining Death Watch… on me. Now. You've seen it. This monster—this thing—can kill us with a swing of his sword."

One by one, twenty Death Watch elite emerged from the shadows and ruins across the shattered cliffs of Korda Six, their jetpacks lighting up in streaks as they descended swiftly, boots crunching into the ruined earth behind Tor.

"Yes, Master Tor," one of them said, their voice heavy with conflicted loyalty and fear.

Tor Vizsla stood straighter, turning to face them all. "If I fail… if I fall today… tell my son—Pre Vizsla—that his father died honorably, defending the Death Watch from a walking calamity."

He cast a brief glance toward Jin-Woo, still standing like an executioner awaiting the nod.

Tor continued, "And you… you follow this monster's command until the day we can bolster our strength again. Do you hear me?"

"But Master Tor—" one Death Watch soldier stepped forward, his voice laced with desperation. "We can fight him together. If we strike at once, we can overwhelm—"

"Fool," Tor snapped, his anger voice of command. "Did you not see it? One swing of his blade changed the landscape. A new valley opened just from the air he cut. He is not a warrior. He is not a man. He is Monster ."

The soldiers stunned . Silence hung for a moment.

Tor's voice dropped. "Honor me… by surviving. And remember—when I die… do as he says. Death Watch will survive. We will return."

Without hesitation, each of the twenty Death Watch soldiers removed their helmets. They knelt in unison, placing their fists to their chests.

"Long live the Death Watch. Long live the Death Watch," they said in solemn unity, the chant echoing like a dirge across the broken battlefield.

From the sideline, Jango Fett watched it all unfold, eyes tight behind his helmet.

"Jaster," he muttered quietly, "They're the bad guys… so why do I feel sympathy for them?"

Jaster Mereel kept his arms crossed, his own gaze locked onto the towering form of Ashborn Jin-Woo. "Because behind that armor…" Jaster said lowly, "isn't a man."

He narrowed his eyes. "It's a monster."

Jin-Woo stood amidst the cracked earth, his voice cold and resolute.

"Your goodbyes are usually for good people," he said calmly, gaze never wavering. "But I suppose when death comes knocking… people show their true colors."

Tor Vizsla raised his head, breathing heavily. "I'll assure you this, Armored Man—monster, whatever you are—I'll come back from this. And I'll come back as the winner."

Then, in one fluid motion, he launched into the air with a burst of fire from his jetpack, unleashing a wall of flame as cover. In the midst of the smoke, a wrist rocket fired—aimed squarely at Jin-Woo's chest.

The explosion struck— —but it did nothing.

Jin-Woo hadn't even flinched. The smoke cleared, and there he stood, unimpressed.

Then, without moving a single step, Jin-Woo lifted one clawed hand. Shadows curled like tendrils from his fingers as the gravitational pull of his Ruler's Authority activated.

Tor didn't even have time to react. He was yanked mid-air , spiraling downward as if gravity had multiplied by tenfold. He hit the ground with a thunderous crash, a crater blooming beneath him. The impact echoed loudly through the valley.

Dust and debris slowly settled around the motionless body of Tor Vizsla, coughing and wheezing. His chest heaved, and he winced—several ribs were definitely broken.

Jin-Woo stepped to the edge of the crater, peering down like a god judging a mortal.

"That was one," he said flatly. "Just a warm-up."

He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. "You've got two more."

Chapter 18 : Mandalorian Civil War 3 : My name is Ashborn. Satisfied ?

Tor Vizsla groaned from the crater, his body twitching as pain surged through his broken ribs. But still—still—he moved. Gritting his teeth, he activated his flamethrower in a sweeping arc, fire curling around his body in a wide radius, masking his next movement.

The ground beneath him cracked and erupted as a barrage of wrist rockets launched downward—blasting a hole into the dirt. In a desperate gamble, he dove in, burrowing through the crater with a mix of jetpack thrust and sheer stubborn will.

From behind Jin-Woo, the dirt exploded.

A shadow lunged from the makeshift tunnel—Tor Vizsla, rising with a scream of effort, hoping to bait the second strike. He wanted Jin-Woo to waste it. To commit too early.

But he forgot one thing. Jin-Woo didn't move. His steed did.

The dark warhorse snorted once, its flaming hooves cracking against the ground—then with a single monstrous kick, it struck Tor Vizsla square in the chest mid-air.

The sound of bone snapping echoed like a gunshot. Vizsla's body was hurled like a ragdoll, spinning through the air before crashing into the dirt five meters away, smoke rising from his armor.

A low groan escaped him. "Shit… my arms… broken…"

The Death Watch soldiers—hardened warriors all—stood paralyzed. Their leader was being torn apart, and they could do nothing. Some looked like they were about to cry.

Jin-Woo turned to them, his voice cold and disgusted. "You fascist fanatics… are you just going to stand there and watch your leader die? Heal him."

Without hesitation, the Death Watch scrambled into motion. Kneeling beside Vizsla, they began unpacking every medkit they had, injecting stims, applying sealant foam, anything to patch him back together.

Tor coughed blood, barely keeping his eyes open.

Jin-Woo stood there, arms folded behind his back like an executioner awaiting the final round.

"Get him on his feet," he said. "One more to go."

As the Death Watch scrambled to lift their broken leader, Jin-Woo raised a hand and desummoned his steed. The flaming horse dissolved into black mist, its presence vanishing like smoke in the wind.

"Final round," Jin-Woo said, voice heavy with amusement. "I'll let you come close to me."

Tor Vizsla, still shaking, flexed what was left of his working limbs. He checked his vision and winced—his right eye was blind, completely ruined from internal hemorrhage. His body was barely holding together, but he stood. Not from strength. From spite.

One of his men stepped forward, trembling. "Use us, sir. We'll carry you. Anything to help you escape from that… that thing."

Tor raised his left arm, what little strength he had left curling into a fist. "Don't you dare," he muttered. "This is my fight. My ending."

With his broken arm barely able to lift the Darksaber, he began walking—limping—toward Jin-Woo. Step by agonizing step, he closed the distance. Ten meters. Five meters .

One meter. Now face-to-face with death, Tor Vizsla stood barely tall enough to reach Jin-Woo's chest in his Ashborn form.

Breathing raggedly, Tor let out a raspy laugh. "Monster…" he wheezed. "Say your name. I want to remember it when I win. The name of the bastard who pushed me this far."

Jin-Woo blinked once, fucking crazy, he thought. You're about to die and you're still throwing slang like you've already won.

He sighed. "As for your courage…" Jin-Woo said, lifting his gaze just slightly, "I'll give you that much."

His voice dropped lower. "My name is Ashborn. The one who rules the dead. Satisfied?"

Tor grinned through bloodied teeth. "Yeahhh… satisfied."

Jin-Woo exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around his massive black blade. One last swing. He stepped forward and slashed.

Tor Vizsla moved with every ounce of his remaining strength, arms trembling as he raised the Darksaber to block. He wasn't aiming to overpower the monster. He only needed one thing.

Just change the trajectory—just one moment… just…

A sound that should have been impossible. The black blade of the Darksaber—ancient, forged by the first Mandalorian Jedi—shattered on impact. A cascade of fractured light and sparking energy burst into the air .

Tor's eyes widened as he felt it. The realization.

His torso separated from his legs, blood bursting beneath the split. as his upper half collapsed onto the dirt, rolling slightly.

Jin-Woo stood tall, his sword humming with residual darkness, his expression unreadable.

"You were right," Jin-Woo said at last, walking up to what remained of him. "You could change the trajectory. Just enough. With the right reinforcement… something like my exoframe."

He glanced toward the trembling Death Watch soldiers in the distance.

"But I was wrong about one thing. You're an egotistical, fascist bastard… but you still cared for your men. That's what saved them."

Tor Vizsla's mouth curled upward faintly—just enough for a grin. Then his eyes slowly shut. And he died with a smile.

The battlefield was silent—save for the low hum of broken gear and the heavy breathing of survivors. The Death Watch stood frozen in the aftermath of Tor Vizsla's death, gazes fixed on the towering figure who had felled their leader with a single, final stroke.

Then one voice broke the silence. "Long live the new leader of Mandalore."

Another joined in. "Long live the new leader of Mandalore!"

Voices echoed across the ravaged field, until it became a unified chant, repeated with growing fervor—until all remaining Death Watch were shouting in unison, eyes locked on Jin-Woo.

But Jin-Woo simply raised a hand. "Enough."

The chants died immediately .

"For now," Jin-Woo said, his tone steady, "you'll work under Jaster Mereel."

Confusion swept through the ranks. Some exchanged glances, others furrowed their brows.

One of them stepped forward. "But… you defeated our Mand'alor. By our code, that makes you—"

"I know what your code says," Jin-Woo interrupted. His gaze swept over them, glowing faintly beneath his helm. "But let me ask you something…"

He took a step forward. "You still want to beat me, don't you?"

Silence. Then, slowly… a few heads nodded.

"Then take refuge under someone you can trust," Jin-Woo said. "A man like Jaster. Someone who won't exploit your weakness. You selfish fascists followed a man who at least died with conviction… but your path forward will require more than ego and blood."

The Death Watch lowered their heads in unison. "Yes, new leader," they murmured.

Jaster stepped forward, still processing the weight of what had just happened. "What should I call you now?" he asked carefully. "Armored Man… or Ashborn?"

Jin-Woo let out a low exhale and, with a flick of his hand, his black exoframe reformed around him—encasing his monstrous form in steel once more.

"Armored Man," he said flatly. "Unless you want the title The One Who Rule the Dead following me around on every Republic channel. We already have enough problems with Joever Bideney causing galactic hysteria with his Bideney Blast."

Jaster blinked, then chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're right about that."

Jin-Woo stepped forward through the settling dust, his eyes drawn to the shattered remnants of the legendary Darksaber—the once-feared black blade now nothing more than a broken hilt and cracked kyber core.

He bent down slowly, picking it up with one hand, inspecting the ruined weapon with mild curiosity. Then, without a word, he turned toward the Death Watch remnants and tossed it toward one of the surviving members. The hilt clattered at the soldier's feet. A moment later, Jin-Woo reached into his storage and pulled out a glowing, bled red kyber crystal—its aura pulsing faintly with raw, unstable power. He threw that next.

Igniting his own Vectivus lightsaber—a long, obsidian-black blade that roared to life with a deep, chilling hum—Jin-Woo spoke with the weight of command behind every word.

"Give that broken hilt and this red kyber crystal to his son… Pre Vizsla."

The Death Watch stood frozen, listening intently.

"When the boy is worthy," Jin-Woo continued, "I'll allow him to challenge me for the right to claim my black kyber crystal. If he wants it—he'll have to take it from me himself."

One of the Death Watch stepped forward and bowed, clutching the broken hilt tightly to his chest. "Yes, new leader. We will remind him of this loss. One day, he will defeat you."

Jin-Woo gave a rare smile—just faint enough to be unsettling. "I look forward to it."

He turned his gaze back to the group, the air around him still dense with his terrifying presence.

"But for now," he said firmly, "as the defeated, you will support Satine Kryze's leadership. Publicly. Silently. Even if you despise her ideals, you'll back her until the day you gather enough strength to invoke the right to challenge me again."

He let that settle before finishing. "This penalty… applies for the next twenty years. Understand?"

The Death Watch all dropped to one knee, raising fists across their chests in salute. "Yes, new leader."

Inside the Mandalorian carrier, the air was thick with the heavy silence of survival. The engines hummed low, a calming drone compared to the chaos that had unfolded earlier. Jin-Woo stood near the observation deck, arms folded, his dark armor gleaming under the faint lights. Behind him sat the remnants of Death Watch, quietly seated, their loyalty sealed in blood and fear.

Jaster Mereel leaned back on a bench beside Jango, both of them battle-worn, their armor Burned of the previous battle but their spirits oddly stable.

"What a crazy day…" Jaster muttered, exhaling deeply.
"I lost most of my men, one of them betrayed me, and I rule as a substitute leader… and somehow, I'm still alive. But tell me—what is your goal, Armored Man?"

Jin-Woo didn't turn to face him. His voice was neutral. "Business. I want twenty percent of all beskar metal from Mandalore's mining operations."

Jango let out a short breath of amusement. "Go ahead and take it. I've seen what you can cut—but the melting process? That's the difficult part. Beskar doesn't yield easily."

Jin-Woo's helmet shifted slightly as if amused. "Don't worry about that. I've got plenty of cards up my sleeve."

He then turned around fully, addressing the Death Watch in a low, commanding tone.

"Death Watch," he said, voice clear and cold, "if someone—anyone—asks who the Armored Man really is… or suspects anything more…"

He raised a finger slightly. "You may describe my true appearance. But my name… and my title… are secrets."

He gave a small smirk beneath his mask. "Mystery is fun. And a little chaos makes the galaxy more interesting."

The Death Watch soldiers, even the wounded among them, nodded without hesitation. "Yes, new leader."

Jango Fett removed his helmet, his face hardened by battle yet humbled by respect. He looked directly at Jin-Woo, or rather, the Ashborn standing silently like a living myth.

"Ashborn," Jango said solemnly, "I'm indebted to you. You saved the true Mandalore—my mentor—and what remains of the True Mandalorians. I will be forever in your debt."

Jaster chuckled, the tension broken just a bit by his worn voice. "Even if you're indebted, Jango, all you'll probably end up doing is scrubbing that dark horse of his."

Jin-Woo didn't laugh, but the smirk was evident under his helmet. "No need for that," he said. "This is what I wanted anyway."

He stepped closer, . "Jango, if you ever return to bounty hunting—which you will, because life changes people—I want you to send me the details of every contract you get. Especially the important ones."

He paused. "There may come a day… when Count Dooku stops being the Jedi everyone admire. When he becomes something darker—Darth Tyranus. If that day comes, I won't ask you to assassinate him. But I will need you to help set the board."

Jango furrowed his brow. "I don't think I'll become a bounty hunter that soon… but you're right. Life can turn people. As for Dooku… I've only heard good things. Are you really saying he'll fall that far?"

Jin-Woo's voice dropped with quiet amusement. "Twenty years from now, if I'm right, I'll laugh and welcome you as my personal bounty hunter."

Jango's lip tugged into a grin. "But if I'm right—if Dooku stays true—you'll teach me that ability of yours. The one that makes you the one who Rule the Dead."

Jin-Woo said nothing for a moment. Then his helmet retracted partially, revealing only his mouth. Without hesitation, he spat onto his palm.

Jango did the same. They clasped hands, a gentleman's pact sealed not with politics or ceremony, but with blood, spit, and honor.