On an ice-covered planet, the biting cold seeped through the Mandalorian’s armor, sharpening his senses. As a foundling adopted by the Mandalorians, he had long forgotten his birth name and was now known simply as “Mandalorian.” The tracker in his hand blinked insistently—his target was inside the cantina up ahead.
As the door swung open, a flurry of snow blew in. Patrons stared at the bounty hunter in his battered Mandalorian armor, a testament to the countless life-threatening encounters it had endured. A Hutt, notorious for bullying the locals, eyed the armor greedily—it was worth a fortune. Strutting up to the bar, he falsely accused the Mandalorian of knocking over his drink. The cantina owner, eager to avoid trouble, quickly offered a replacement.
Ignoring the provocation, the Mandalorian swiftly dealt with the troublemaker. A nearby Mythrol, whom the Hutt had been harassing, scrambled to his feet to offer thanks—only to freeze under the cold, T-shaped visor of the Mandalorian’s helmet. The Mythrol was his bounty target. Even an offer to buy him a cruiser couldn’t sway the hunter. Capturing targets for credits was his code, just like never removing his helmet in front of others.
With his trusted pulse rifle slung across his back, the Mandalorian entered the Bounty Hunters' Guild. The noisy hall fell silent as all eyes turned to him—he was the only one who consistently brought in multiple high-value targets. Greef Karga, the guild leader, oversaw the unloading of carbonite-frozen bounties from the Razor Crest and quietly offered him a special mission.
This job came with no puck—details were to be discussed in person, and the reward was too substantial to refuse. Equipped with the credential chip from Greef, the Mandalorian made his way to a secluded alley. He knocked on a heavy door, and a TT-8L/Y7 gatekeeper droid scanned his chip before granting him entry. Inside, he was met by four stormtroopers. Since the fall of the Empire, its military had fractured into mercenary bands and warlord factions—their worn armor spoke of hard times.
Also present were Dr. Pershing, who wore a clonetrooper insignia on his sleeve, and a white-haired client whose name the Mandalorian didn’t bother to learn. The upfront payment was a bar of beskar steel stamped with the Imperial emblem, with a full container waiting upon completion. This rare metal offered unparalleled protection, even against lightsabers, and was essential for crafting Mandalorian armor. The mission was highly confidential—no puck, only a tracker. The chain code provided only the last four digits, indicating the target was 50 years old. Limited intel, but enough for a hunter of his skill.
With the beskar in hand, the Mandalorian descended into the covert, a sanctuary for surviving Mandalorians. The Mythosaur sigil overhead symbolized their enduring culture, unbowed by Imperial oppression. The forge that shaped beskar remained active. This amount of metal could make a new shoulder plate, with scraps left to help foundlings—a cause close to his heart, for he too was once a foundling here.
Piloting the Razor Crest, he arrived on Arvala-7, a muddy planet where the ground squelched underfoot. Almost immediately, a blurg—a tall, fish-like bipedal creature with sharp fangs—charged at him. Caught off guard, the Mandalorian was seized by the arm and shaken violently.
Just as another blurg closed in, two magnetic grenades took down both creatures. An Ugnaught farmer named Kuiil, riding a domesticated blurg, had come to his aid. Kuiil offered help because the “asset” he sought was heavily guarded by Nikto mercenaries. Countless hunters had come for it—none returned alive. Whoever could take it away and bring peace to the region had his support.
Only blurgs could traverse the muddy terrain. Mounted on a tamed blurg and guided by Kuiil, the Mandalorian reached a camp nestled in a valley. His tracker led him inside. Peering through his rifle’s scope, he spotted an IG-11 assassin droid already storming the camp. With its rotating head and torso, it fired in all directions while advancing—a formidable rival.
Someone else had the target’s tracker. Rushing down into the valley, the Mandalorian struck a deal with the droid: work together and split the reward. But the IG unit had a critical flaw—when overwhelmed, it would initiate a self-destruct protocol. Pinned down by Nikto heavy fire, the Mandalorian urgently stopped the droid from blowing itself up. He directed it to draw enemy attention while he flanked the gunner, neutralized him, and commandeered the laser cannon. A few well-aimed blasts later, the camp was cleared.
Using the cannon to blast open a sealed door, the Mandalorian followed the tracker into a chamber. It led him to an egg-shaped incubator—inside was a small green creature with large ears and dark, curious eyes. It didn’t look fifty years old. This must be a species with an extended lifespan. As the IG droid raised its blaster to execute the child, the Mandalorian fired first, destroying the droid. He would not allow a child to be killed—even if it was a fifty-year-old infant.