The fires had long gone out, but the scent of ash still hung in the village air.
James sat on a worn stone step outside the hut, staring up at the twin moons. One was full and gleaming silver; the other, a smaller blood-red sphere, was just rising over the horizon. They reminded him of the binary stars from the Star Wars movies—but this was no Tatooine. There were no moisture farms here, only grit, survival, and blood.
Behind him, the voices of the elders rose in quiet argument. His name had come up more than once.
It hadn't taken long after the Skarn raid. The moment he struck back—even as a child—something changed. The tribe didn't ignore it. They whispered about it, eyed him differently.
And then there was what his mother had said.
"He is not a child. He is something else."
He hadn't forgotten. Not for a moment.
She found him after the meeting, stepping silently beside him like she always did—soundless as a dune shadow.
"Still awake?" she asked softly.
James nodded. "I couldn't sleep."
She sat down beside him, her scaled robes brushing the stone. Her eyes, those reptilian slits, glowed faintly in the dark.
"What did you mean… back there?" he asked, not looking at her. "When you told them I wasn't a child?"
She didn't answer at first.
Then she breathed, deep and slow. "When you were born, you didn't cry like the others. Your eyes opened too soon. You looked around the room—at me, at the fire, the ceiling—as if you already knew this world."
He blinked. "That doesn't mean anything."
"Oh, but it does," she said. "Among our people, the birth-sight is sacred. It happens once every few generations. It means the soul was borrowed from somewhere else. That you were… placed."
James turned toward her.
"You mean reincarnated?"
She nodded slowly. "There is no word for it in the tribe's tongue. But yes. That is what we believe. You were not born—you were returned."
The silence between them lingered.
He thought of Earth. His last life. The sterile white walls of the hospital. The buzz of the IV drip. His sister's hand in his. Her tears.
"I died once," he whispered. "In another world. A place with no Force. No aliens. Just… people."
Her gaze didn't change.
"I believe you."
That shook him more than he expected.
"You do?"
She smiled faintly. "You speak like an elder in a child's skin. You learn faster than anyone I've ever known. You wield the desert ghosts with instinct alone. And when the Skarn came, you didn't freeze. You acted."
"I was scared," he said honestly.
"But you moved through fear. That is what warriors do."
She looked up at the sky, her voice distant. "Our tribe is dying. One raid at a time. We are strong—but scattered. Survivors, not rulers. And we have no future unless someone gives it to us."
"You think that's me?"
"I know it is."
James swallowed hard. His throat felt tight. "I'm five."
She laughed softly. "Then we have a few years to get you ready."
The next morning, the whispers were louder.
James walked through the camp and felt the stares—some respectful, others cautious. A few of the older warriors looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide whether he was a miracle or a threat.
By midday, an elder approached. Her name was Ataka, the oldest in the village—her skin etched with scars and lines like canyon rock.
"You are to begin the warrior trial," she said, her voice dry and brittle. "If you are what your mother says, you must prove it."
James blinked. "Now?"
Ataka's gaze didn't waver. "No. When the moons cross. Seven days. Until then, you will train."
That night, James found a flat patch of earth beyond the canyon's edge.
He took the wooden staff his mother carved for him and began his drills.
Step. Thrust. Spin. Block.
Each move was imperfect. Clumsy. But he kept going.
[Skill Progress: Staff Combat – 12% → 14%]
[Breath Control – 28%]
[Basic Muscle Memory Level Up: +1 Agility]
He didn't celebrate the gains.
He just kept moving.
Overhead, the moons shifted slowly toward one another. The countdown had begun.
On the third day, he was approached by one of the older boys—Rulan. Eleven years old, nearly a head taller, and already a skilled spear thrower.
"You're not special," Rulan said, voice low. "You got lucky."
James met his stare. "Maybe."
"You're not a warrior. You're just a freak from the sky."
James didn't respond. The system chimed softly in his mind:
[New Skill Opportunity: Verbal Combat. Branch Path: Leadership → Charisma vs Intimidation]
He raised an eyebrow.
"You done?" James asked.
Rulan looked like he might swing.
Then, surprisingly, he walked away.
James didn't know if that counted as a win.
On the fifth day, the training became brutal.
Ataka herself oversaw it now. She handed James a weighted training staff—twice as heavy, and awkward to move.
"You will fight with this," she said. "Only when it feels light will you be ready."
James's arms burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop.
When night came, he lay beneath the stars, gasping, shaking, covered in dust.
[Skill Progress: Staff Combat – 32%]
[Stamina Stat Node Unlocked: +1 Endurance]
[Pain Resistance Unlocked (Passive)]
And deeper, more hidden:
[Threshold Skill Opportunity Detected: Force Body – 2% resonance. Condition: Emotional Pressure.]
James stared at that last one for a long time.
The Force was real. His system could tap into it.
But it wanted pressure—emotion.
He remembered his death. The pain. The helplessness. His sister's face.
And he clenched his fists.
"I will not be weak again."
The day before the moons crossed, his mother gave him something wrapped in leather.
A stone pendant—carved in the shape of a broken circle.
"Our people wore this in the old wars," she said. "It marks you as chosen. The tribe will see it and know."
James put it around his neck. It was heavy, but comforting.
"Will I pass the trial?" he asked.
She knelt before him and placed a hand on his head.
"You will survive it. That is enough."
The moons were touching when they gathered at the arena—a circle of scorched earth surrounded by standing stones, remnants of a time long past. The villagers stood in silence.
James entered with his staff in hand. His opponent was not a child—but a young warrior, seventeen and scarred from raids. A test of survival, not skill.
"Begin," Ataka called.
And the trial started.
James would not win by strength.
But maybe—just maybe—he could endure.
And after that…
He would rise.