Chapitre 28: Gojo The Mercifull
4800 words ill post next wednesday
INT. MOS ESPA - ARENA - SPECTATOR SEATS - DAY
Watto sat perched on the edge of his seat, his wings twitching nervously. The roar of the crowd around him was deafening, but it did little to calm the storm of panic swirling in his mind. He had bet everything—three parts of his ships, two of his slaves (including that troublesome boy Anakin and his mother), and his entire reputation—all against Gojo Satoru, the so-called "Savior of Tatooine which he just now realized the rumors are true that gojo exist and he already confront him few times ( more like gojo don't give a shit too much about him and gojo only say what he need to say ) .
WATTO: "Oh, what have I done? Three ship parts ! Two slaves! Everything! I've practically gambled away my entire life! But it'll be worth it… right? Sebulba better not lose, or I'm a goner!"
He wrung his hands together, trying to keep his thoughts straight. Watto wasn't just thinking about surviving this bet; he was also dreaming of the rewards. If Sebulba won, he would not only get to keep everything he'd wagered, but he'd also gain ownership of the Lucky Despot—the most luxurious casino in all of Tatooine.
WATTO: "If I win this… I'll be the richest Toydarian on Tatooine! No, in the whole Outer Rim! I'll own the Lucky Despot! I'll be rolling in credits, and everyone will know Watto! The Toydarian who beat Gojo Satoru!"
He allowed himself a brief moment of daydreaming, picturing himself lounging in the opulent surroundings of the Lucky Despot, sipping on expensive drinks, and laughing at all the poor saps who ever doubted him. But then reality smacked him hard.
WATTO: "But if I lose… oh no, oh no, oh no! Gojo's gonna turn me into a floor mat! Three ship parts , two slaves… what was I thinking? The boy and his mother… I'll lose everything! I'll be nothing more than a story of what happens when you cross Gojo!"
Watto's wings fluttered erratically as he watched the racers lining up. Sebulba was his ace, his guaranteed win. But then there was Gojo, standing confidently with that boy, Anakin. Watto always called Anakin "boy," but now, seeing him with Gojo, he started to see the kid as a potential disaster.
WATTO: "C'mon, boy, don't let me down now! But if you do, and Gojo wins... No, no, Sebulba always wins! He's never lost! But if I do win… I'll be the first, the first Toydarian to ever beat Gojo Satoru in a betting game! No one's ever done that!"
His thoughts spiraled out of control. The idea of being the richest and most famous Toydarian was almost enough to calm him down, but the image of Gojo's calm, terrifying face kept intruding. Watto could feel sweat dripping down his back.
WATTO: "If I win… I'll be the richest Toydarian ever! The owner of the Lucky Despot! I'll be a legend! But if I lose… three ship parts , the boy, his mother… I'll be nothing, nothing but Gojo's next victim! Oh, why did I do this?! Why?!"
Watto was a mess of nerves, trying to balance his greed with the growing realization of just how badly things could go. His mind kept racing between the glorious rewards and the terrible consequences, and he couldn't decide if he was more excited or more terrified.
WATTO: "Okay, Sebulba, don't let me down… This is my one shot, my one chance to beat Gojo and become the richest Toydarian ever! But if you lose… I'll be a pile of scrap in the desert! And that boy… Oh, please, let me win!"
As the podracers roared to life and the race began, Watto's heart pounded in his chest. The stakes had never been higher, and he could only hope that this gamble would make him a legend rather than a cautionary tale.
EXT. MOS ESPA - ARENA - STARTING GRID - DAY
The starting grid buzzed with excitement as the podracers prepared for the race. Sebulba, standing next to Anakin, waved confidently to his fans, who erupted in cheers. A small pep band played enthusiastically as his supporters shouted his name, their voices mixing with the general clamor of the crowd.
Kitster, standing close to Anakin, was about to ask where his podracer was when he was suddenly interrupted by the sight of the massive Nue still flying above the arena, its ominous presence casting a shadow over the stands.
Just then, Shmi approached Anakin and wrapped him in a warm hug.
SHMI: (smiling) "I'm so proud of you, Ani! You really made the crowd go wild with that dramatic entrance!"
Anakin smiled at his mother's praise, feeling a sense of pride. But before he could respond, Shmi turned her eyes to Gojo, her expression a mix of motherly concern and dry humor.
SHMI: (to Gojo) "Next time, if you want to be Anakin's sugar daddy, we're going to need some regulations."
Gojo, being Gojo, simply gave her a thumbs-up, his trademark grin firmly in place, clearly unfazed by the remark. Shmi sighed, knowing better than to expect a serious answer from him.
As the excitement continued to build, Padmé approached Anakin. She leaned in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek.
PADMÉ: (softly) "You're carrying all our hopes now, Anakin."
Anakin blushed slightly, but before he could say anything, Gojo jumped in, his voice full of playful encouragement.
GOJO: (to Padmé) "Relax, Princess. Your prince here is going to win, and it's going to be so one-sided it'll be embarrassing."
Padmé shot Gojo a sidelong glance, a mix of amusement and mild irritation playing on her face. She mentally noted: Gojo is very, very veryyyyyyyyyyyy annoying.
Before Anakin could get too flustered by all the attention, Kitster, still curious, turned to him with wide eyes.
KITSTER: (eagerly) "But Anakin… where's your podracer? I don't see it anywhere!"
Anakin simply smiled, keeping his cool. With a quick, confident movement, he revealed a baton but didn't press anything yet. Instead, he casually remarked:
ANAKIN: "Tooru and idiot sensei have a lot of surprises. Let's just say this is one of them."
The group exchanged puzzled looks, their curiosity piqued, but they knew better than to question Anakin further. After all, with Gojo and Tooru involved, anything could happen.
As Padmé , shmi , and kitser moved a bit farther away, Sebulba, seething with anger, suddenly stepped forward and punched Anakin hard in the face, leaving a visible bruise on his cheek. The crowd gasped in shock, the joyful atmosphere instantly replaced by a tense silence.
SHMI: (gasping) "Anakin!"
Shmi's eyes flared with anger, her protective instincts kicking in as she stepped forward, ready to defend her son. Padmé, equally furious, turned sharply on her heel, her hand instinctively moving toward her concealed blaster.
PADMÉ: (angrily) "You'll pay for that, Sebulba!"
Sebulba sneered at them, his eyes filled with contempt. He leaned in close to Anakin, his voice dripping with malice.
SEBULBA: (in Huttese) "Che chuba bak chee uba chuba? Kee sa reeakauu, sleemo--!"
(English Subtitle): "Did you think I'd forget you, slave scum? I'll kill you right here—"
Before Sebulba could finish his threat, Gojo moved with lightning speed, grabbing one of Sebulba's legs and pulling him upside down with ease. Sebulba dangled helplessly, his bravado gone in an instant as he flailed in the air.
Gojo's eyes darkened as he looked at the now-panicked Sebulba. With a snap of his fingers, the entire arena fell into an eerie silence.
The arena was deathly silent after Gojo's finger snap. All eyes were on the scene unfolding at the starting grid. Sebulba dangled helplessly in the air, his earlier bravado completely evaporated as Gojo held him upside down with ease.
Gojo's piercing gaze shifted from Sebulba to the royal box, where Jabba the Hutt presided over the event. His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to it as he addressed the Hutt crime lord.
GOJO: (menacingly) "Are the rules still allowed to harm each other before the race?"
Jabba, who had been watching the scene with mild amusement, shifted slightly in his seat. The translator droid at his side clicked on, translating Jabba's guttural Huttese into Basic for all to hear.
JABBA: (in Huttese) "Dopa maskey na wermo... No bada tocheun cham cheepa..."
TRANSLATOR DROID: "There are no rules against it... but physical harm before the race is frowned upon by many."
Jabba's eyes narrowed as he considered the implications of what was happening. The rules were loose in the cutthroat world of podracing, and violence wasn't uncommon, but the way Gojo had easily subdued Sebulba was clearly beyond what anyone expected. He waved a hand dismissively, signaling his reluctance to get involved.
JABBA: (in Huttese) "Bargon u noa-a toke... kankee kung!"
TRANSLATOR DROID: "But as long as it doesn't interfere with the race... carry—"
Before the droid could finish, Gojo cut in, his voice unwavering and authoritative.
GOJO: (firmly) "Nah, until I'm satisfied. Add another five minutes, or there won't be any race."
The crowd held its collective breath, the tension in the air palpable. Jabba's expression hardened for a moment as he considered his options. He knew Gojo all too well—this was the man who had ruthlessly dismantled 600 of his soldiers with ease, the man who had made a binding vow that Jabba had witnessed firsthand. The thought of crossing Gojo, especially in such a public setting, was not something Jabba was willing to entertain.
After a brief, tense pause, Jabba made the only logical decision. He nodded slowly, signaling his agreement.
JABBA: (in Huttese) "Chee uba yoote uba... Mompasee du wani tee wanga yo kou!"
TRANSLATOR DROID: "As you wish... The race will be delayed by five minutes."
A murmur rippled through the crowd as Jabba's decision was announced. The spectators, who had been on the edge of their seats, began to relax slightly, but their eyes remained fixed on Gojo and the still-dangling Sebulba.
The tension in the arena was so thick it could be cut with a knife—or in this case, a pencil. Without breaking his intense gaze, Gojo tossed Sebulba like a rag doll, sending him crashing into his own podracer. The sound of metal against metal echoed through the arena as Sebulba collided with the vehicle, his body slumping against the side.
With deliberate calm, Gojo pulled out a pencil out of knowhere. But this was no ordinary pencil—crafted from Beskar, it was as deadly as the sharpest blade in the galaxy. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Gojo approached the dazed Sebulba. ( somehow gojo has beskar pencil one of xander_zone forgot moments xd )
In one swift, brutal motion, Gojo drove the pencil into Sebulba's arm, pinning him to his own podracer. Sebulba let out a cry of pain, but Gojo was unfazed, his expression cold and unyielding.
GOJO: (calmly) "Can you speak our language?"
Sebulba, despite the pain, began to spew a string of curses in Huttese, his voice filled with venom.
SEBULBA: (in Huttese) "Kee chalya ki chwuy! Kee bara kooka—"
But Gojo wasn't in the mood for more of Sebulba's defiance. His eyes narrowed, and this time he shouted with a voice that reverberated through the entire arena, shaking the very air.
GOJO: (shouting) "CAN YOU SPEAK MY LANGUAGE?"
The force of Gojo's voice was like a physical blow, stunning the crowd into absolute silence. It was in that moment that the spectators, many of whom had heard of Gojo's reputation, fully understood why he was called the "Savior of Tatooine." This was no mere man; this was someone whose power and resolve were unmatched.
As if to underscore the gravity of the situation, the sky above the arena began to darken. A massive symbol materialized, radiating ominous energy—a black hole-like sphere or dark sun, the manifestation of Gojo's innate domain. The sight was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, and it hung in the sky like a harbinger of doom.
The crowd began to murmur in fear and astonishment as they gazed up at the symbol.
CROWD MEMBER 1: (whispering) "What is that? Is that... his power?"
CROWD MEMBER 2: (nervously) "It's like a dark sun... or a black hole. I've never seen anything like it."
CROWD MEMBER 3: (in awe) "No wonder they call him the Savior of Tatooine. He's not just powerful... he's something else entirely."
Sebulba, finally understanding the seriousness of the situation, whimpered in pain, his earlier bravado completely shattered. The dark symbol in the sky, combined with Gojo's terrifying presence, was more than enough to break even the strongest of wills.
Gojo leaned in closer to Sebulba, his voice returning to that calm, deadly tone.
GOJO: "Now, let's try this again. Can you speak my language?"
Sebulba, trembling and desperate, nodded frantically, finally understanding that he had no choice but to comply.
SEBULBA: "Y-Yes... yes, I can."
Gojo's expression softened slightly, but his tone remained cold and unwavering as he leaned in closer to Sebulba.
GOJO: (calmly) "Good. Now, I want you to make a choice."
Sebulba's eyes widened in fear and confusion as Gojo continued, his voice taking on a dark, almost methodical tone.
GOJO: "You can either pull the pencil out of your arm and prove you care only for yourself, or you can pull your arm off the pencil and show you're ready to die for your pride. Your choice. But know this—I will be the judge of that."
Sebulba froze, his mind racing as he tried to comprehend the impossible decision before him. The pencil, embedded in his arm, was both a lifeline and a death sentence. If he pulled the pencil out, he would free himself from the immediate pain, but at the cost of appearing weak and selfish. If he pulled his hand away, he would be accepting greater pain, perhaps even death, but it would be a stand of defiance.
The crowd watched in stunned silence, the dark symbol still looming ominously in the sky, casting a shadow over the arena. Time seemed to stretch as Sebulba hesitated, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.
GOJO: (interrupting sharply) "Come on! Make the choice! After five minutes pass, there's no need for any racing to occur anymore if you don't make a choice."
Sebulba's panic intensified as Gojo's words echoed in his mind. He was trapped, caught between survival and pride, and the pressure was crushing. He glanced down at the pencil embedded in his arm, blood trickling from the wound. His hand twitched, but he couldn't bring himself to act.
The crowd began to murmur, sensing the intensity of the moment. They knew Gojo wasn't bluffing—this was a man who meant every word he said, and the stakes had never been higher.
Sebulba's breathing grew more erratic as the seconds ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. He was paralyzed by indecision, the pain in his arm a constant reminder of the dire situation he was in. Gojo's piercing gaze bore into him, unyielding, merciless.
The arena clock ticked on, the minutes slipping away, and still, Sebulba hesitated, torn between self-preservation and the need to save face in front of the crowd.
Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, Sebulba made his choice. His hand trembled as he gripped the pencil, and then, with a guttural cry, he pulled his arm away from the embedded pencil. The motion was excruciating—his flesh tore, and blood splattered across the surface of his podracer. The crowd gasped at the gruesome sight, watching as Sebulba's arm was torn apart by the brutal action.
SEBULBA: (in Huttese, swearing and praying) "Kee boska tah... Kee boska tah! Ubo tooru chee fuhka chuba!" (Translation: "Mercy, mercy... gods, grant me strength to endure this pain!")
Sebulba's body shook from the pain, sweat pouring down his face as he struggled to stay upright. But he had made his choice, and he would stand by it, no matter the cost.
Gojo watched him with an unreadable expression, then extended a hand toward the injured Dug. Sebulba, his face twisted in pain, hesitated only for a moment before weakly reaching out to take the offered hand. The handshake was difficult, with Sebulba's wounded arm barely able to maintain the grip, but it was there—a sign of begrudging respect.
GOJO: (with a slight smile) "Great choice."
As if responding to Sebulba's decision, the ominous symbol in the sky slowly began to dissipate, the dark energy receding as Gojo's innate domain vanished. The crowd, which had been holding its breath, collectively exhaled in relief. The tension that had gripped the arena began to ease, replaced by a growing sense of admiration.
In the royal box, Jabba the Hutt watched the scene unfold with a calculating gaze. A slow, pleased grin spread across his face as he spoke, his deep, rumbling voice reverberating through the arena.
JABBA: (in Huttese) "Gojo... da pawa kee basak."
"Gojo... the merciful." in English.
The translator droid quickly relayed Jabba's words to the audience, but it was clear that everyone had already grasped the meaning. The crowd, initially stunned by the display of power, now erupted into cheers, their voices rising in unison.
CROWD MEMBER 1: "Did you see that? Gojo didn't just let him off—he made him choose!"
CROWD MEMBER 2: "He's powerful, but also merciful... a true protector of Tatooine!"
CROWD MEMBER 3: "No wonder he's called the Savior! He could've ended it, but he gave Sebulba a chance!"
The cheers grew louder, echoing throughout the arena as the spectators celebrated Gojo's actions. The relief was palpable, and the awe in their voices unmistakable. They had witnessed a man who wielded immense power, but who also understood the value of mercy—an enigmatic force that had chosen to protect their world.
As Gojo turned away from Sebulba, the crowd's admiration followed him. He had left an indelible mark on them, not just as a warrior, but as a leader who knew when to show mercy and when to demand strength. Jabba who doesnt like to lose even in mercifull way he said
JABBA: (in Huttese) "Mee stuka mi cha gee baatka ten mino wamma cha wor sen. Boonta Eve."
TRANSLATOR DROID: "I will add another 10 minutes for the racers to prepare themselves for the Boonta Eve Classic."
The crowd, although initially excited by Gojo's display, began to murmur softly among themselves. There was a subtle undercurrent of frustration; no one wanted to wait any longer for the race to begin. However, they knew better than to openly complain about Jabba's decisions.
CROWD MEMBER 1: (whispering) "Another delay? Jabba's just buying time."
CROWD MEMBER 2: (grumbling) "We've already waited long enough... but what can we do? He's Jabba."
CROWD MEMBER 3: (sighing) "At least the racers get extra time... maybe it'll make the race more interesting."
While the crowd voiced their thoughts in hushed tones, there was no real dissent. They understood that Jabba's word was final, and although they were eager for the race to start, they were willing to wait a bit longer. The tension that had gripped the arena earlier was beginning to dissipate, replaced by a sense of anticipation for the upcoming event.
EXT. MOS ESPA - ARENA - SIDE OF THE ARENA - DAY
After the intense confrontation with Sebulba, Gojo strolled over to where Shmi, Padmé, Kitster, and Anakin were gathered at the edge of the arena. The group watched him approach, a mixture of admiration and concern etched on their faces.
Shmi stepped forward first, her expression softening as she addressed Gojo with a warm smile. "Gojo, you handled that well. I can't thank you enough for standing up for Anakin."
Gojo shrugged off the gratitude with casual ease. "It's nothing. Just making sure he knows his place."
Padmé, standing beside Shmi, couldn't help but smile at Gojo's nonchalant demeanor. "You've certainly made an impression on the crowd... and on us."
Kitster, grinning from ear to ear, chimed in with excitement. "That was so wizard, Gojo! You really showed Sebulba who's boss!"
Gojo chuckled, the tension from the earlier encounter now a distant memory. His gaze shifted to Anakin, who had been watching him with wide, grateful eyes. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, Gojo cut him off with a sudden, playful command.
"Let me see your teeth," Gojo said, his tone light but with a hint of something more.
Anakin hesitated, aware of the bruise on his face and the gap where one of his teeth had been knocked out by Sebulba's punch. Reluctantly, he opened his mouth, revealing the damage.
Gojo leaned in, inspecting Anakin's teeth with a critical eye. "Hmm... a bruise and a missing tooth. Maybe I should go decapitate him now," he mused, his voice calm but carrying a deadly edge.
The group reacted instantly, their concern palpable as they realized Gojo might not be entirely joking.
Shmi, ever the protective mother, placed a gentle hand on Gojo's arm, her voice steady but firm. "Gojo, no. It's over. Anakin's fine, and we're all safe."
Padmé stepped closer, her voice soothing as she tried to calm the situation. "You've already done enough. The crowd saw what you did. Sebulba's been put in his place."
Kitster, his usual enthusiasm tempered by nervousness, added quickly, "Yeah, Gojo, let's not start anything else. We've got a race to win!"
For a moment, Gojo's intense expression remained, his piercing gaze flickering between the concerned faces around him. Then, with a deep breath, he let the tension slip away, his features softening into a smirk.
"Alright, alright. I'll let it go—for now," Gojo said, his tone returning to its usual playful confidence.
After the tense moment passed, Gojo, his smirk still in place, casually waved his hand. In an instant, the air around them shimmered, and a majestic, ethereal creature materialized beside him—a Round Deer, one of Gojo's shikigami. The creature stood tall, its serene presence exuding a calming aura that immediately began to soothe the lingering tension.
The group watched in awe as the Round Deer lowered its head, its antlers glowing softly with a warm, healing energy. With gentle, deliberate movements, it approached Anakin, and the glow around its antlers intensified, bathing the boy in a soft light.
As the healing energy enveloped Anakin, the bruise on his face began to fade rapidly, the swelling disappearing as though it had never been there. But the Round Deer's abilities went beyond simple surface healing. The gap where Anakin's tooth had been knocked out started to fill in, new bone and tissue regenerating at an astonishing rate. Within moments, a brand new tooth had formed, perfectly replacing the one he had lost.
Anakin blinked in amazement, running his tongue over the smooth, new tooth, hardly able to believe what had just happened. The pain and discomfort were completely gone, replaced by a sense of wholeness.
ANAKIN: (in awe) "It's like nothing ever happened... I even have my tooth back!"
Padmé, who had been watching the process with wide eyes, let out a soft laugh, the tension finally breaking. "So this is the 'mobile hospital' you were talking about earlier," she said, her tone light and teasing.
Shmi, her earlier worry now replaced with relief, smiled warmly at Gojo. "It's incredible... you really do have a way of handling things, don't you?"
Kitster, ever the enthusiast, grinned up at the Round Deer. "That's so cool, Gojo! I've never seen anything like it!"
The group's mood lifted as they watched the Round Deer complete its healing work. The earlier tension dissolved completely, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and shared humor.
PADMÉ: (still smiling) "Well, I have to admit, that's quite the useful trick to have up your sleeve."
GOJO: (grinning) "It comes in handy. And besides, we can't have our star racer looking anything less than perfect, can we?"
Anakin, now fully healed and more confident than ever, nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Gojo Sensei. I'll make sure to win this race for all of us."
Gojo's grin widened as he looked down at the boy. "Where are the batons that Tooru gave you?" he asked, his tone hinting at something more.
Anakin reached into his belt and pulled out the sleek batons that Tooru had given him. Gojo's eyes gleamed with approval as he watched Anakin hold them up. Without hesitation, Gojo extended his hand over the batons, imbuing them with his cursed energy. The batons glowed faintly, a subtle, yet powerful energy now coursing through them.
As the energy settled into the batons, Gojo leaned in closer, his voice taking on a serious tone. "I've given you the way to not just win this race, but to set a record—the fastest time these streets have ever seen. You better win, or I'll never accept you as my disciple, even if you somehow discover cursed energy within yourself."
Anakin looked up at Gojo, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and determination. This was more than just a race; it was a test, a challenge from the man who had shown him what true power looked like. For a moment, Anakin's gaze locked with Gojo's, the intensity of the sorcerer's Six Eyes reflecting back at him.
With newfound resolve, Anakin clenched his fists around the batons, his voice ringing out loud and clear. "I'll win this race, Gojo Sensei! And I'll do it faster than anyone ever has! I'll prove to you that I'm worthy—worthy to be your disciple!"
The conviction in Anakin's voice reverberated through the group, and even Gojo felt a surge of pride at the boy's unwavering determination. He straightened up, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
"That's the spirit, 'Potential Man.' Show them what you're made of," Gojo said, his voice filled with both encouragement and a hint of challenge.
Bonus
EXT. MOS ESPA - ARENA - SPECTATOR SEATS - DAY
In the crowded spectator seats, Watto perched anxiously, his small wings twitching as he tried to keep an eye on the chaos below. The moment Gojo had grabbed Sebulba and pinned him with that pencil, Watto's heart had nearly leapt out of his chest. He watched, wide-eyed, as Gojo dealt with Sebulba in a way that was both terrifying and methodical.
As the events unfolded, Watto's mind raced. The image of Gojo calmly stabbing Sebulba, forcing him to make that impossible choice, sent chills down his spine. This was no ordinary man—Gojo was a force of nature, and Watto was suddenly very aware of the monumental mistake he might have made by challenging him.
Sweat beaded on Watto's forehead, and he started muttering under his breath, trying to convince himself that everything would be fine. "Sebulba always wins... yes, yes, he'll pull through... he has to! There's no way he can lose... not now!"
But the more he muttered, the less convinced he became. His muttering grew louder, more frantic, as he began to rock back and forth in his seat. "Come on, Sebulba! You've got this! Just a little miracle, that's all we need! Win this race, you stubborn Dug!"
As the tension in the arena continued to build, Watto's anxiety reached a fever pitch. Suddenly, he couldn't contain himself any longer. He shot up from his seat, his wings flapping wildly as he started shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Sebulba's gonna win! I'm telling you, it's a miracle in the making! He's gonna show that Gojo who's boss!" Watto's voice cracked as he hollered, his words more desperate than confident.
The nearby spectators turned to stare at him, their expressions ranging from confusion to annoyance. Watto's outburst had disrupted the tense atmosphere, and now all eyes were on him—but not in a good way.
One spectator, a gruff-looking alien with a deep frown, leaned over to his companion and muttered, "What's with this guy? He's acting like a lunatic."
Another spectator, clearly irritated by the disruption, shot Watto a disgusted look. "Can someone shut him up? We're trying to watch the race, not listen to his delusions."
Watto, too caught up in his own frenzy, didn't notice the growing disdain around him. He kept shouting, his voice cracking with panic and hope. "Sebulba will win! He has to! It's a miracle, you'll see!"
The crowd around him began to groan in frustration, some shaking their heads in disbelief at Watto's antics. A few spectators even started to move away from him, not wanting to be associated with the crazed Toydarian.
Despite the mounting disdain from the crowd, Watto was too lost in his desperation to care. His eyes remained glued to the arena, his hopes pinned on the slimmest of chances that Sebulba could somehow pull off a miracle. But deep down, even Watto knew that the odds were stacked impossibly high against him.
And so, as the race was about to begin, Watto continued to shout and flail, his voice a desperate plea that cut through the air, drawing the disgusted gazes of everyone around him.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone