The inside of the ancient hut was cloaked in a pungent haze of smells. The sharp tang of dried medicinal herbs mingled with the rich, earthy scent of tanned leather, layered beneath a strangely sweet floral fragrance drifting from a squat, flickering candle at the center of the room. Its glow barely touched the wooden walls, casting shadows like creeping vines across carvings so faded they might've been older than ink.
Jack stepped inside cautiously, boots muffled by the thick, uneven pelt covering the floor. His eyes tracked the old woman as she hobbled across the space with practiced familiarity. She moved like a collection of disjointed parts trying not to collapse in on themselves—each step accompanied by an audible chorus of crackles and pops.
She lowered herself onto a worn carpet with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who'd been old longer than most people had been alive.
Jack hesitated only a moment before dropping down beside her. The floor wasn't comfortable, but it was warm, and he didn't want to seem ruder than necessary—*not yet anyway*. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
*This has to be the elder of Sailor's Knot,* he thought.
"So," Jack said, skipping any formalities, "what'd you want to talk about?"
He didn't bother with pleasantries. He was tired, confused, and sore in places he didn't know he had. No way was he going to sit through some ceremonial small talk.
The old crow didn't answer at first. She just smacked her gums, leaned forward, and raised a bony finger so skeletal it looked like it could snap off in a stiff wind. Then, she jabbed it in his direction like an accusation.
"You're not from here," she said, eyes narrowing to slits.
Jack blinked.
"No shit," he muttered. "I came here with the broccoli siblings."
The woman's face twisted into something that might've been disgust. She spat onto the pelt beside her and scowled.
"No," she snapped, "not from this *world*, you dung-brained child. You are from *Terra*, aren't you? The books Nari brought back two weeks ago had old Imperial script in them— only used by your people and nobles. Your clothes are machine-made, not grown or woven. And on top of all that…" Her voice lowered, crackling like dry wood catching fire. "You carry the *blessing of Gal'le*, you blind fool!"
Jack blinked again, this time slower. "I understood, like… half of the shit you just spewed."
"The books are in English," he added flatly.
*is she already senile?* he thought.
A loud *smack* echoed through the hut as the old woman slapped her own forehead hard enough that Jack was surprised her skull didn't cave in. She let out a sharp exhale, exasperation pouring off her like steam.
*Annie wasn't this slow to pick things up,* she thought sourly. *Didn't she tell me her world had stories and Books about this?*
"You don't need to pretend," she said, waving a hand in surrender. "It's rare, but not unheard of. In my two hundred years on this archipelago , I've met *one* other Terran. We have rules for this kind of thing."
"Fuck you're old."
Jack huffed a laugh, then scowled as she continued without missing a beat.
"Once the Tithe-ships arrive, someone will explain this world to you properly. I'm not the one for speeches. But I *am* here to ask—no, *beg*—you for something."
Jack raised a brow, curiosity breaking through the sarcasm. "Then Beg."
The old woman's expression grew serious, a gravity settling into her sunken features like the weight of history behind her words.
"I want you to volunteer as tribute for our village," she said plainly. "It would benefit you, greatly. You see, you're not bound by the current tithe cycle. But in five years, you *will* be. That means conscription—forced enlistment, without choice or privilege. However…"
She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small metallic badge. Its surface was scratched and weathered, but the engraved ten-pointed star still gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
"If you offer yourself now," she went on, "I will use my old rank as a One-Star soldier to recommend you. And with your blessing—*Gal'le's* blessing—you will be most likely be granted the same rank. You'd start as something most people *never* achieve."
Jack stared at the badge, his pulse quickening.
Ever since he was little, he'd dreamed of joining the Marines. He'd listened to his grandfather's war stories with stars in his eyes and imagined a future painted in camouflage and medals. That dream had died the moment he'd been spat into this weird fantasy word of monsters and purple smoke—but now… this was something close.
A replacement. Maybe even better.
"And what the hell does 'One-Star' even *mean*?" Jack asked, more out of due diligence than doubt.
The old crow chuckled—dry and papery, like leaves rattling in the wind.
"It means," she said, holding the badge up between her fingers, "you are worth ten common soldiers. It means special treatment. Personalized equipment. Unique assignments. People will know your name."
Images flashed through Jack's mind—heroes, legends, even the sci-fi soldiers he'd idolized as a kid. Super soldiers, elite squads, badass loners fighting impossible odds.
*Fuck yes,* he thought. *I get to start as a super soldier?*
He grinned wide, cocky and bright.
"All right," Jack declared. "You've got yourself a deal."
He didn't see the faint glint of mischief in the old woman's milky eyes—or the subtle curl of her lips as she turned away.
He'd just been tricked.
He didn't truly know his worth.