After suffering over half their forces in casualties, the Galactic Empire's army soldiers and desert stormtroopers finally chose to surrender to the vastly outnumbered Spartans.
Faced with enemies who moved like gods of war, their resistance was utterly futile, like ants attempting to shake a towering tree.
Neither concentrated suppressive fire nor desperate charges could make the slightest dent in the eighty-plus Spartans.
Even if a lucky shot did land, the limited blaster bolts were completely incapable of breaching the Mjolnir energy shields—let alone posing a real threat.
Cut off from reinforcements and communications, the Imperial troops realized that continued resistance would only result in meaningless death.
Die or surrender—those were their only remaining options.
And between the two, surrender was the only rational choice.
After all, in the face of such cold and ruthless opponents, the will to live far outweighed allegiance to the corrupt and decaying Galactic Empire.
As the final gunshot faded into silence, the entire farming community was plunged into an eerie stillness.
The air was still thick with smoke, and the sand was littered with Imperial corpses and shattered equipment—silent testament to the brutal battle that had just taken place.
Half of the Spartans, under the command of 104 Fred, were methodically guarding over six hundred disarmed Imperial army troops and stormtroopers.
These prisoners sat numbly on the ground, their expressions blank and eyes lifeless, as if still trapped in the terror of moments before.
The Spartans remained vigilant. Around the farming community, they quickly constructed a rudimentary defensive perimeter, their figures moving swiftly across the sand as they set up watch lines and fire positions.
Although the area had temporarily calmed, the Spartans' long shadows stretched across the sand, their helmeted eyes constantly scanning for potential threats.
The captured Imperial soldiers sat silently, awaiting an unknown fate.
Meanwhile, the Spartans transmitted an encrypted request to the Valiant-class super-heavy cruiser in orbit, calling for "transport services."
Until the transport fleet arrived, their mission was simple: secure the prisoners and complete the designated search operation.
And that search operation was to locate the Lars family and ensure their safety.
At that moment—
John, accompanied by Red Team members 087 Kelly, 058 Linda, and 092 Jerome, arrived at the Lars family farm.
Compared to the other farms, this one was particularly spartan.
Only a single white yurt-like structure stood on the surface, alone and exposed, as if it might be swallowed by the desert at any moment.
However, beneath this unassuming structure lay an entirely different world.
Standing at the edge of a pit near the yurt, John and the others peered downward, where a vast underground space came into view.
At its center lay a carefully designed courtyard, surrounded by what appeared to be moisture condensation units, slowly rotating and providing the underground oasis with a precious water source.
There were also a variety of crops growing here, the lush green in stark contrast to the desert's barrenness.
Clearly, the underground facility was more than ten times larger than the lone surface structure—like a hidden paradise buried beneath the sands.
.
Beneath his helmet, John's gaze lingered briefly on the underground courtyard, then he activated his helmet's pulse scan function to probe the farm's layout.
Pulse waves rapidly spread across his HUD, outlining the underground complex.
Complex passages, hidden rooms, and various functional zones appeared on the scan like a detailed 3D map.
"They're here, John."
Cortana's voice echoed in John's helmet. With her cue, a blinking yellow marker appeared in the radar display at the top-left corner of his HUD—indicating the designated target.
There was a note of certainty in her voice, as if she had predicted this outcome from the beginning.
John gave a slight nod, his gaze locking briefly onto the yellow marker—the most critical objective of this operation.
His thoughts briefly flashed back to a few days ago, when Sigismund, the legendary warrior known as the Emperor's Champion, had said: "If you can withstand ten of my strikes, I'll assign you the vanguard mission to raid Tatooine."
Sigismund had kept his word, entrusting them Spartans with the most vital part of the battle—attacking the farming community where the Lars family lived.
That trust weighed heavily on John's shoulders.
Recalling their journey over the past few days, vivid images replayed in John's mind.
During the warp voyage, the warriors of the Imperial Fists frequently approached them for "drinking" and "sparring." On the surface, it was to foster understanding, but in truth, it was a unique form of respect.
Those towering Astartes, their armor etched with scars, used their own ways to express recognition of the Spartans.
Even the Elven kin often visited, sharing shipboard knowledge and occasionally teaching ancient combat techniques.
All these moments caused John and the other Spartans to develop a deep respect and fondness for the Imperial Fists.
However, John didn't realize that the Imperial Fists had ulterior motives behind those gestures.
In truth, it was the Space Wolves who were known for drinking and fighting—but the Imperial Fists were doing so with "purpose."
Both Primarch Dorn and Sigismund hoped to keep this promising Spartan unit within their Legion.
Even though the Spartans, being a prototype force, would eventually be reassigned by the Imperium's high command after the unification war, the Imperial Fists wanted to leave a lasting impression—to lay the groundwork for future cooperation.
But right now, John had no time for those thoughts.
He refocused on the task at hand.
After receiving Cortana's confirmation, he issued a command over the comms channel:
"Red Team, stay behind. Linda, Kelly, come with me."
"Yes, Master Chief."
The remaining three Red Team members remained on the surface to maintain security, while John, Linda, and Kelly moved forward, descending directly into the underground courtyard.
THUMP, THUMP!
Heavy impacts echoed through the hollow underground space, announcing their arrival.
In the blink of an eye, the trio stood firmly in the courtyard.
They immediately swept their surroundings, confirmed no immediate threats, and proceeded along the route marked by Cortana.
Pulse scans and motion detection continued sweeping across their displays, rendering every detail of the space.
Before long, they reached the heavy metal blast door of the underground shelter.
The gate was thick and solid, its surface weathered by time, clearly built by the Lars family in anticipation of extreme emergencies.
Kelly stepped forward to inspect the structure and locking mechanism, then turned to John.
"Master Chief, shall I breach the door?"
Her stance suggested she was ready to act.
.
John didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped up to the door, activated his external speakers, and spoke in a deep, calm voice:
"Owen Lars! We are members of the Human Empire. We're here to ensure your family's safety—we mean no harm."
His voice echoed through the underground space. But when the echo faded, only muffled sounds of whispering could be heard from within, as if people were debating.
John and the others waited for a moment, but the Lars family still gave no response.
Seeing no reply, John gave Kelly a nod—signaling her to proceed.
Kelly adjusted her position and angle, then suddenly lunged forward, her right fist slamming into the blast door like a cannonball—
BOOM——!!! A thunderous crash rang out as the seemingly impregnable metal door crumpled like paper under her strike.
The door, along with parts of the wall and threshold, collapsed from the force of her punch, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.
Through the dust, Kelly's figure loomed tall—like a true god of war descending.
Immediately, John and Linda moved in, leaping past Kelly and into the shelter.
There, they came face-to-face with the person repeatedly mentioned in Intelligence reports—the descendant of Universe-17's "Chosen One," Luke Skywalker.
!!
Luke stood frozen, stunned by the sudden breach and the sight of these two-meter-tall Spartans. His expression was a mix of fear and awe.
In his eyes was not only terror but also a glint of uncontrollable excitement, as if the adventures and battles he had long yearned for were finally unfolding before him.
But now that it was real, a complex blend of regret and thrill appeared on his face—as if questioning whether he was truly ready for such a reality.
Still, Luke forced himself to remain composed.
His eyes flashed with determination as he stepped forward to shield his visibly frightened Aunt Beru behind him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Uncle Owen.
His movements were slightly clumsy, but they radiated a quiet, undeniable courage.
Owen gripped his crude blaster pistol tightly—so small and powerless in his hand compared to the armored giants before him.
Even after witnessing the fierce battle above, he knew this weapon would be useless against these warriors in Mjolnir armor—at best, a toy.
Still, Owen did not lower his weapon. His finger remained on the trigger, knuckles white with tension, his gaze firm and wary as he tried to protect his family.
Beru clutched Owen's sleeve, trembling slightly from fear, her eyes filled with worry.
The tension in the shelter instantly spiked.
John's gaze lingered on Luke, then slowly raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture toward Owen.
Then his voice came through the external speaker again:
"Owen Lars. We're here to ensure your family's safety. Please trust us. This war has spread across all of Tatooine, and your safety is our top priority."
Owen's brows furrowed, and he said nothing. The deep lines on his face seemed even harsher under stress. His wary gaze flicked between the Spartans, as if trying to determine whether their words were trustworthy.
Seeing Owen still not lowering his weapon, John added, this time with a note of urgency:
"We understand your concern. But time is short—we must leave immediately. And for your safety, we're prepared to use force if necessary. Please do not resist."
His words echoed through the shelter, hammering at the last line of resistance in Owen's heart.
Owen's gaze shifted between John and Luke, and at last, he slowly lowered his blaster.
The motion was hesitant, but filled with reluctant acceptance.
In that moment, Owen understood—no matter how much he wished to live in seclusion, the Skywalker family's fate was now inseparably tied to the war engulfing the galaxy. Escape was no longer possible.
Seeing this, John turned without hesitation and began walking out of the shelter, issuing an order as he went:
"Linda, Kelly. Escort the targets to the surface."
"Yes, Master Chief," both replied in unison.
They moved quickly, flanking the Lars family—especially the uneasy and curious Luke—and followed John to the surface.
As the three Spartans and the Lars family exited the underground farm and returned to the surface, their helmet radars indicated an approaching signal from the incoming transport fleet.
Soon—
The transport fleet descended onto the center of the farming community, their engines' roar echoing across the desert and kicking up waves of dust.
Hatches opened, and Terminators and clone troops swiftly took over the Spartans' duties, escorting all prisoners into Luna-class transport shuttles.
At the same time, Luke, Owen, and Beru Lars boarded a Pelican dropship under elite clone escort.
John and his team also boarded three separate Pelicans.
But unlike the rest of the fleet, once their hatches closed and the transports lifted off into the sky, the Pelicans carrying John's team diverged from the main group, escorted by a Vulture III gunship and three Banshee fighters.
The transport fleet ascended, clearly heading for the Valiant-class cruiser in low orbit.
John's group, however, maintained altitude at ten kilometers, heading straight for Tatooine's largest and most prosperous city—
Mos Eisley.
After all, having Spartans return after only one mission would've been a bit of a "waste," so John's team would now assist the main force in rapidly capturing Mos Eisley.
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Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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