Chapter 2: You Are The Chosen One

Who was Al Capone? The Scarface, king of Chicago's underworld with Sicilian blood in his veins, sovereign of the bootlegging empire, the roaring voice behind the Thompson submachine gun, the judge of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, and the finest sacrificial offering for the IRS to assert its authority.

Yet this man, the future legendary mob boss, could only silently swallow hard at the bizarre scene before him, trying to mask the dread rising within his heart.

His brother, the tall Italian, Ralph Capone, fared even worse. After mouthing wordlessly a few times, he shuffled over to where the barrel of liquor had been, his trembling hand reaching out to touch—only to grasp at empty air.

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with difficulty. Ralph looked back at his brother, forcing words from his throat: “This isn’t some magic trick...”

“This is the power of the Dark Force!”

Hollywood’s wildest plots continued to blend in chaotically. “Han Solo” was completely out of control, babbling without pause!

“A long, long time ago, some mastered a supernatural, omnipresent force—a mysterious power flowing in the shadows of all things: strong, pure, immortal!”

“This ultimate force of the cosmos is the Dark Force.” Han Solo’s voice took on a solemn, almost chanting grandeur. “Those who master the Dark Force call themselves Jedi, and they formed a noble order—the Sith!”

He flung his arms wide, his voice echoing as if from some ancient abyss:

“Peace is a lie.
Only desire remains.
Desire births strength.
Strength births power.
Power births victory.
Victory shatters chains.
Through the Force, we are free.”

It was a theatrical, melodramatic recitation, but this time, for Al Capone and Ralph Capone, there was no trace of scorn in their eyes—only an overwhelming confusion and terror before the unknown.

“For millennia, the Sith have dedicated themselves to guarding the dark world. Most of the time, we walk only with darkness. Only when the order of shadows collapses and the prophesied Chosen One appears do we emerge, guided by the Dark Force, to help restore the order of darkness!”

“The ancient prophecy foretold: With Prohibition comes, men’s desires will be crushed, but the Chosen One shall rule the night.”

“Fate is as clear as the stars, and the guidance of the Dark Force converges upon you.” Han Solo gazed at the incredulous Al Capone and proclaimed with solemn authority: “You are The Chosen One!”

The echo of “Chosen One” lingered in the air.

Ralph Capone’s look toward his brother slowly shifted from fear to a kind of burning fanaticism.

Al Capone struggled to suppress the absurdity rising in his chest, but the stranger’s words branded themselves deep into his ambition for power like a searing iron.

The vanished barrel, the mysterious power, the ancient creed recited like poetry—all lent weight to this outlandish prophecy.

He, a lowly street punk from poverty, was destined to be the Chosen One, the ruler of the underworld?

Even though he had clawed his way up to second-in-command of the Chicago Mafia, it still sounded utterly mad!

Han Solo’s eyes never wavered from Al Capone, watching—would he fall to his knees and pay homage? Or...

Al Capone drew a deep breath, and in a flash, whipped out his gold-plated revolver, aiming at Han Solo—three shots rang out, “bang, bang, bang!”

The gunfire roared through the enclosed cellar, deafening.

Han Solo didn’t budge, not a hair disturbed.

He simply stood there, gazing at Al Capone, his eyes as unfathomable as the deep sea, as bottomless as mist-bound abyss.

An invisible pressure mounted, layer upon layer.

Ralph Capone’s courage collapsed—his legs gave way and he fell to his knees with a thud.

Al Capone stood frozen, unable to move.

The silence that followed was absolute, more deafening than the gunshots.

“...Go...God...” Ralph Capone managed to choke out a few broken syllables, a whimper on the verge of suffocation.

The whimper broke the tension that was about to explode. Al Capone silently holstered his gun, lowered his head, and the defiance vanished from his eyes.

“I beg your forgiveness for my offense, honored one.”

All arrogance and violence melted away before this power that defied the laws of physics, like thin ice under a blazing sun—shattered and gone.

Han Solo’s breathing remained calm and measured, his head slightly bowed as he looked down at Al Capone. His voice, heavy as a funeral bell, struck at Al’s heart: “You know nothing of true power, Chosen One.”

“I forgive your ignorance this once. But if you dare offend again, the Dark Force will reveal to you the magnitude of your mistake.”

“Obey the guidance of the Dark Force, Chosen One.”

“The first step is to unleash this nation’s thirst for drink—let desire run rampant. The Dark Force will bring you an endless supply of pure, fine liquor.”

“The more the drinkers’ desires are satisfied, the stronger the Dark Force becomes, and the greater the help you will receive—until, at last, this murky world of shadows is restored to unity under your rule!”

...

Al Capone kept his head bowed until Han Solo’s figure disappeared behind the speakeasy’s secret door. Only then did he look up, meeting Ralph Capone’s gaze—half adoration, half lingering terror.

“My God, brother, how did you dare to shoot?!” Ralph Capone leapt up from the ground, too embarrassed to admit he’d nearly wet himself from fear.

Al Capone drew out a fresh cigar, lighting it and letting a slow stream of smoke escape his lips, as if exhaling the last of his terror.

“If what he said is true, a few bullets can’t hurt him. If he was just playing tricks, then let him die. If he survives, then I really am the Chosen One, and I shouldn’t be killed on the spot.”

Ralph Capone turned this logic over in his mind for a long moment before catching on, gazing at his brother with even greater reverence: “No wonder you’re the Chosen One!”

“My brother is the Chosen One—the king of the world, ha ha ha!” The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. Ralph burst into a rough laugh, his hollow, crocodile-like eye sockets seeming to tremble.

Al Capone chuckled too, taking a fierce drag on his cigar, the tip glowing red in the gloom—like the ambition swelling in his chest.

“Wait a minute, our liquor wasn’t returned!” Ralph’s laughter cut short as he glanced around the empty cellar and suddenly remembered.

...

“Now I have my startup capital!”

Having already left the underground bar and made sure he wasn’t being followed, Han Solo looked at the barrel of liquor and three bullets in his spatial backpack, deeply aware of the hardships of initial accumulation.

He didn’t know whether his predecessor’s family had always been poor or if his cheap father had drunk them into poverty. Other than a house, Logan had no assets to his name.

In America, you’re not even fit to be a person without money.

He turned his hand, and the bullets appeared in his palm—he could still feel their heat.

The system was professional. As a “bootlegger” lurking in the shadows, survival skills were a must.

—As long as your reflexes are quick enough, you can even stash bullets in the spatial backpack.

That’s the principle, but when facing bullets for real, the heart always skips a beat.

Fine. Al Capone’s trigger-happy madness had once again stoked Han Solo’s deep-seated aversion to American lunacy.

A frosty smile curled Han Solo’s lips.

Forgive Al Capone’s offense? Like hell!

This debt—he’d remember it well.

Of course, until he’d squeezed out every drop of value from the man, the “Chosen One” persona would remain intact.

—And judging by that burning ambition in his eyes, Han Solo was sure he could supply him with oceans of liquor and it would still sell out instantly.

Yes, the “Chosen One” persona was truly useful!

With that thought, Han Solo stepped into Irish Mob territory.

...

“You are The Chosen One!”

With an almost identical performance, Han Solo stood before Donal O’Connor and solemnly declared.

...

What, do I look like an easy mark?

Donal O’Connor, of course, didn’t recognize his poor little cousin’s disguise. He was speechless.

When someone said they could provide a steady supply of bootleg liquor, he’d been half-convinced and agreed to meet.

He never expected the man to launch into a spiel about “Jedi Knights” and the “Sith Order,” babbling about a “Chosen One” like some cultist.

Damn it, are con artists so bold these days they try to scam gang bosses?

Donal was about to blurt, “You son of a beach, are you looking to die?” when the words stuck in his throat—

With a wave of Han Solo’s hand, five thousand gallons of liquor appeared out of thin air.

What the—!

Donal instinctively took a step back, his eyes going wide as saucers!

Han Solo stood with hands behind his back, inscrutable: “This is the Dark Force!”

Donal looked at Han Solo, then at the stack of barrels. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward and laid a hand on one—solid to the touch, and the rich aroma of liquor unmistakable.

He pinched his thigh hard, nearly yelping in pain.

It was no illusion!

Donal’s gaze changed.

So, this was no charlatan—this was...a real god?

And he—he was actually the so-called “Chosen One”?!

As if a mysterious power truly surged into his body, blood rushed hotly to his shiny forehead. Donal, a Great War veteran who’d returned to become a boss, was so excited his voice cracked: “Ha ha ha! I knew it! I survived the big guns in the war, I was born for greatness!”

Han Solo’s mouth twitched.

“Boss—no, Master—I want to learn this! The Dark Force! It’s too cool!”

Donal’s first reaction wasn’t to draw a gun, but rather, as the Chosen One, to master such an incredible power for himself.

Han Solo relaxed slightly, keeping up the act, his gaze deep and soul-piercing: “Only by embracing darkness, never marrying, never fathering children, and shunning all earthly pleasures can one grasp the true essence of the Dark Force.”

“But you, Chosen One, have your mission. You will wear the crown of the underworld and be anointed with endless glory!”

“Your journey begins with the Dark Force gifting you ten thousand dollars’ worth of fine liquor. When you use this wine to ignite the endless desires of drinkers, the Dark Force will always be with you!”

“I understand!” Donal rubbed his hands together, trying to make his voice sound sufficiently grave. “I am destined to shoulder this heavy responsibility!”

Upon hearing “never marry, never father children,” his desire to learn the Dark Force evaporated completely.

—The O’Connor line must not end with me!

And realizing the liquor wasn’t a free gift, any lingering doubts vanished.

“Master, this is my offering.”

Suddenly quick-witted, Donal prepared ten thousand dollars in cash at record speed, packed it in a small case, and presented it with both hands.

How could he not be quick? Ten thousand dollars was the pre-Prohibition value—now, even the most honest bootleggers could sell for three times that price.

He’d heard it loud and clear: so long as he didn’t dilute or cheat, the Master didn’t care how much he sold it for.

Han Solo casually waved a hand. The briefcase vanished into thin air, leaving Donal only slightly regretful.

Such power truly inspired envy.

But thinking that this great power would eventually serve his ambitions, Donal was content.

And as he pictured his coming conquest of the underworld, hot blood surged to his heart once more.

“Master, rest assured, I will do everything in my power to honor the supreme Dark Force!”

Donal stood, hands on hips, as if he already saw the chaotic streets of America and greedy gangs groveling at his feet, and couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

“Hahaha! The first step to conquering the underworld—crush those Italian bastards to the south!”

Han Solo’s mouth twitched again at this two-for-one deal.

If that’s how you want to play it, things are about to get very interesting!