The subterranean air of Ricmore's Regal Repository hummed with the faint vibration of machinery. Hector Von Ricmore leaned over his workbench, adjusting the delicate wiring of a newly crafted wrist-mounted grappling launcher. The soft glow from his cybernetic eye illuminated the piece as he worked, his concentration unbroken.

The faint clank of beskar boots against durasteel broke his focus. He looked up, surprised to see a formation of Mandalorians clad in shimmering silver and blue armor, their visors glinting under the glow of the repository's lighting. At their head stood Declan Roark, the legendary founder of Clan Vizsla, his imposing presence amplified by the intricate design of his helmet, its side attachment adorned with a miniature holoprojector.

Hector straightened, his yellow eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Von Ricmore,” Roark’s voice echoed, reverberating through the space like the rumble of a distant starship engine. “You have brought honor to Clan Vizsla, not through words, but through actions—and credits.”

Hector stepped out from behind the workbench, his black cloak swaying as he moved. “I... I wasn’t expecting visitors. What’s the occasion?” Von Ricmore's last several months were spent in a blur of conflict with Clan Fero and he had hardly taken the time to keep up with internal Clan politics.

Roark tilted his helmet slightly, and the honor guard stepped forward in unison. One of them carried an ornate box engraved with the sigil of Clan Vizsla.

“For your service,” Roark continued, “for earning two million credits in the name of Clan Vizsla, we bestow upon you the title Ad Vizsla, a name shared only by the most loyal and resourceful among us.”

Hector’s expression softened, the weight of the moment settling over him. “I’m honored, but I didn’t do it for recognition. The Clan’s prosperity benefits us all.”

“Humility is the mark of true greatness,” Roark replied. The holoprojector on his helmet activated, casting a shimmering blue image into the air. Members of Clan Vizsla across the galaxy appeared, their forms flickering as they tuned in to witness the ceremony.

The honor guard presented the box to Hector. He hesitated before taking it, his hands steady despite the swirl of emotions within him. As he opened the lid, a clan coin gleamed within—a small, unassuming token, its monetary value insignificant, but its symbolism priceless. The Vizsla emblem was embossed on one side, and the words "Credits, not words" on the other.

“You join the likes of Kenath Zoron, Vynn Salm, Rulvak Qurroc, Mako Henymory, and Ikarri Itinen,” Roark said, his tone solemn. “From this day forward, you are Ad Vizsla.”

Hector bowed his head, the coin clutched tightly in his hand. “I will uphold this honor, for the Clan, and for the legacy of Vizsla.”

Cheers erupted from the holoprojector, voices of Clan Vizsla uniting across light-years in celebration. As the sound faded, Hector’s eyes gleamed with newfound resolve. He looked to Roark, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Now, is there something I can sell you?”

Roark chuckled softly beneath his helmet. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be worth every credit.”