Lott Dod's eyes twitched, his voice rising with a frustrated hiss.
"It's all lies! Just like Viceroy Nute Gunray said—this is baseless slander!"
But before Padmé could respond, another voice cut through the rising tension, commanding, and laced with military disdain.
"That Viceroy," growled Ranulph Tarkin, stepping forward from the ranks of the Republic delegates, "is the reason we lost our entire fleet during the Stark Hyperspace War."
He pointed directly at Lott Dod, his expression hard and furious. "And Joever Bideney—don't even get me started on that dumbass. I watched him Destroy troiken with that damn blast of his. You're lucky the Republic's gone soft. If it were up to me, you lot would be buried under sanctions, or better—dead."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some officials turned pale. Others murmured support.
Padmé said nothing. She didn't have to.
Lott Dod staggered slightly from the verbal blow, his lips parted in disbelief, but before he could protest again—
"Gentlemen," Chancellor Valorum finally interjected, raising a hand, his voice dignified but firm, "enough."
Valorum looked between them all, his expression one of calm authority.
"We are here to witness something extraordinary, not to reopen the wounds of old wars. What's done… is done. The Senate has already passed its rulings. Sanctions, guilt, innocence—all decided. So please…" he gestured toward the open skies. "Let us enjoy the parade. Let us honor the peace we do have. And cool ourselves… before we start new fires."
For a moment, there was quiet.
Then Lott Dod stepped forward with a smug look, his voice oily and confident.
"Then allow me to finish with a little open truth — since we're all here," he said, casting a glance at the gathered crowd. "I've already met the Armored Man."
A few gasps rippled through the delegation.
Mas Amedda, the Vice Chair, raised his staff and nodded. "The honor is yours, San Hill of Muunilinst. And you as well… Wat Tambor."
Valorum blinked. " what…?"
San Hill stepped forward, voice precise, laced with corporate smugness. "Citizens of Naboo. Representatives of the Republic. I give you a man whose existence proves we've entered a new age of advancement — a man who is the Armored Man…"
He motioned to a hooded figure behind him. "… Grievous."
The figure tore away his cloak with a dramatic flourish. A sharp hiss of air-pressure released as the plated armor beneath gleamed — durasteel and ceramic alloy reinforced by Techno Union precision. Four arms unfurled briefly before folding neatly back into two. His mask glinted like a fanged skull, and his glowing eyes flared.
A murmur surged through the crowd.
"That's him?" a senator whispered.
Wat Tambor raised a modulation box and spoke with mechanical distortion. "He was injured during a Jedi operation against locals. It was our innovation that rebuilt him — and in gratitude, he has chosen to align with us. The Techno Union gave the Armored Man a second life."
But Ranulph Tarkin stepped forward, his tone harsh, blunt.
"That's not the Armored Man," he snapped. "That's a fake. I was there on stark hyperspace war . I fought beside the real one. That thing—" he pointed at Grievous "—is a resurrected corpse in a mech suit."
The crowd rippled with uncertain tension. Some senators nodded. Others whispered.
Padmé's eyes narrowed. Her heartbeat quickened. This wasn't Jin-Woo's entrance. This wasn't his style.
And from the corner of her eye, she could see Sabe watching too — hand hovering over her concealed weapon, just in case.
Tarkin stepped closer, his voice rising.
"You want to play hero, Techno Union? Fine. But don't mock the man who saved my life just to sell your walking science experiment. That's not the Armored Man. That's a ghost you stitched together from bolts and desperation."
Mas Amedda's deep voice rumbled next, his staff tapping against the stone.
"You're mistaken, Tarkin. This is the Armored Man. Perhaps your memory has faded. He saved your life — from one of your flagships during the Stark Hyperspace War, did he not?"
Padmé's eyes scanned Mas Amedda… then San Hill, Wat Tambor, and finally Lott Dod.
I see it now, she thought. Jin-Woo… you set this up. You said the cards would reveal themselves. You were right. Every one of them… just walked into the light.
Grievous stepped forward, no lightsaber — not yet a general, still San Hill's loyal weapon.
"You dare doubt me, Tarkin?" Grievous snarled, voice hollow and venomous. "I saved your life. And you show me no gratitude? What kind of man lets himself be swayed by a child queen?"
The tension in the air was electric. The crowd murmured louder. The Jedi, watching from their perimeter, moved slightly — uncertain, alert.
Then—BOOM.
A loud, explosive guitar riff shattered the building silence.
"Shoot to thrill, play to kill…"
Every screen in the plaza flickered, cutting through the chatter and gasps.
A glowing screen appeared above the crowd in stylized letters:
YOU MISS ME?
Padmé's breath caught. Then she smiled, ever so slightly.
Almost late, Jin-Woo. But still on time. Thanks for defending me.
The song blasted louder, thunderous:
"Too many women with too many pills, yeah!
Shoot to thrill, play to kill,
I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will!"
A colossal ripple tore through the sky.
WHOOOOOOOSH—
A blinding flash burst high above the Theed parade grounds — and from hyperspace emerged a monstrous Eternal Fleet warship, casting its shadow across part of the city. Its angular, obsidian hull hummed with energy as it slowed to a hover.
All eyes snapped skyward.
KLUNK—KSSHHT — the central hangar door yawned open.
A single silhouette stood tall within the hangar — encased in a sleek, imposing black-and-violet exosuit, plating shimmering like obsidian .
He leapt. A streak of light tore across the sky — the figure descending like a falling comet.
BOOOOOOM—
The impact sent a shockwave rolling across the marble parade ground. The crowd staggered back — then froze.
Dust settled.And there he stood. The Armored Man. The real one.
"Cause I shoot to thrill, play to kill, Yeah "
His Proto-Didact Exoframe hissed and locked into place, steam venting from the shoulders. Purple light coursed through the armor's joints. His fists clenched once.
Above him, hundreds of Sentinel drones hovered into formation — fanning out like a great mechanical halo.
He slowly raised his head, the mask gleaming. His voice rang out, amplified, commanding:
"DID YOU MISS ME?"
The crowd erupted. Cheers, screams, and deafening applause echoed across the city. Civilians lifted their hands in celebration. Soldiers stood at attention. Even the Jedi couldn't help but stare — many of them stunned.
Sabé smirked. Padmé? She laughed.
Ranulph Tarkin stepped forward, eyes wide, and shouted like a man seeing a legend reborn:
"Now that's the real Armored Man!"
And behind them, Mas Amedda's face went pale.
Lott Dod took a step back.
Grievous said nothing. But his breathing hitched.
The crowd roared again, the wave of celebration turning into a tidal swell of belief.
Behind the chaos, Mas Amedda's face turned pale. His fingers gripped his staff a little too tightly. Wat Tambor's modulator clicked uncertainly, and San Hill froze like a creature cornered in a dark room.
Mas Amedda's voice trembled as he tried to recover the stage.
"He is… I mean… is he the Armored Man? Perhaps just a very… dramatic poser—"
A barrage of jetpacks descended in formation — armored figures dropping from the sky with ruthless precision.
They landed with perfect Mandalorian discipline — and instantly the crowd gasped again.
The True Mandalorians.
At the front: Jaster Mereel, bold and scarred, his blue-and-gold armor gleaming under Naboo's sun.
Beside him, younger, calmer, yet deadly: Jango Fett, his T-shaped visor pointed straight at Jin-Woo.
Jaster stepped forward, a grin in his voice.
"Armored Man. Good to see you again."
Jango gave a respectful nod, his tone cool and confident.
"Been a long time."
Another figure approached from the crowd — graceful and sharp.
Duchess Satine Kryze, robed in blue and green , arms crossed, eyes teasing as she regarded the black-armored titan before her.
"Still trying to hoard more beskar, are we?" she said with a smile. "You're predictable."
Behind her, Bo-Katan shoved her way forward with a smirk of her own.
"Hey! Your droids keep mining faster than our entire guild. At least share the tech this time, huh?"
The moment shifted. The crowd didn't cheer this time — they watched, listened. For them, this was the ultimate confirmation. The Mandalorians—the real ones—recognized him. That was all they needed to know.
The Armored Man stood still, masked, exoframe gleaming, sentinel drones hovering silently above him like a divine court.
His voice crackled through the amplifier, calm and unreadable.
"Where's Pre Vizsla?"
A sudden blur. A red-colored Darksaber whirled through the air toward Jin-Woo.
He sidestepped it smoothly, letting it strike the marble just beside his armored boot with a loud spark.
A figure stepped forward from the Mandalorian crowd, helmet removed, eyes burning with personal fury. Pre Vizsla.
"I missed you too," Jin-Woo said coolly, without turning his head.
Pre Vizsla's face twisted. "I still haven't forgotten… how you destroyed the Black Kyber Crystal my father carried. And he died believing that stone was the future of Mandalore."
Jin-Woo finally turned toward him, steps slow and heavy .
"So you want to challenge me? Here and now?" His voice was even. Cold. "Not that I'd mind."
Pre Vizsla scoffed, gripping his red-hued Darksaber before lowering it slightly.
"No. Not today. We still honor tradition… even if it burns. One day, we'll challenge the Mand'alor himself. But not now. Not here."
From the crowd, armored figures emerged — silent until now — Death Watch operatives who had blended in as civilians and spectators. They moved with precision, forming up beside Vizsla and Bo-Katan. Then, all together, they dropped to one knee and raised their voices like a unified thunderclap:
"Long live the Mand'alor. Long live the Mand'alor!"
The crowd gasped. Murmurs erupted like a wave across the square.
"Wait… he's the Mand'alor too?"
"He led the Mandalorians?"
"First The fake armored man , now this… who is this man truly is ?"
Duchess Satine stepped forward, folding her arms, her voice dry as sand.
"Surprised? You should see how wildly he negotiates. Makes even our most radical warlords seem like schoolteachers."
Bo-Katan rolled her eyes and muttered, "I don't even like him, sister."
Her glare flicked toward Jin-Woo. "Too smug. Too clever. And don't get me started on how his droids keep out-mining us."
Satine arched a brow at her. "And you followed him here."
Bo-Katan looked away. "I said I don't like him. I didn't say I don't respect him."
She gave a slight nod toward Jin-Woo. "That bastard's earned it."
San Hill leaned toward Grievous, his voice barely a whisper through clenched teeth.
"Let's get out of here while the crowd's distracted. We've lost the moment."
But Grievous, still raw, still impulsive — and not yet under Count Dooku's leash — stepped forward instead, fists clenched and voice cracking with broken radio.
"If you're the real one… then where were you when we needed you, huh?! Where was the hero when the galaxy burned?!"
Jin-Woo didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
He stepped once toward Grievous and spat back, full of disdain.
"Did I say I was a hero? What the fuck, man." He raised a brow. "I'm a mercenary. A damn good one. You want the truth? Ask the duchess."
Satine sighed and stepped forward, arms crossed.
"He's selective. Ruthlessly so. And you'd do well not to provoke him. Because if he decides to flip the board—"
She turned toward Grievous. "—you won't even realize the game's over."