Jack had a month.
Thirty days to prepare before the Tithe-ship came to pluck him—and seven other unlucky bastards—from Sailor's Knot like crops ready for harvest. Apparently, the men were always taken first, a full two months before the women, though no one could explain why. Tradition? Strategy? Sadism? No one questioned it out loud.
Jack didn't care much for the why. He only cared about what he could do before that skyborne nightmare came knocking. And after some aggressive thinking and a lot of pacing, he settled on three goals—three things he *had* to do before he got dragged off to war.
**First:** knock the rust off his sword arm.
Jack had been training in historical European martial arts—HEMA—for nearly five years back on Earth. He wasn't some shining, noble knight or tournament champion, but he could handle swords, war hammers, daggers, and more with a hell of a lot more skill than the backwater villagers who'd never seen a real fight. He wasn't interested in teaching them; he wasn't a saint. He trained *with* them only to keep his own edge sharp, pushing his body until the ache in his shoulders dulled into something like comfort.
He didn't bother hiding the fact that he was better than them. The others noticed. They kept their distance.
**Second:** figure out what the hell Gal'le's blessing actually *did*.
He'd been told he had it—some mark from a god he'd never heard of—but that meant jack-all unless he could *use* it. Thankfully, the old woman—old Crow, as people called her, though Jack was pretty sure that wasn't her real name—had agreed to teach him. Or maybe 'agreed' was too generous. She just started showing up at random hours, smacking him with a stick and demanding he "feel the the pressen of Gal'les blessing." Whatever the hell *that* meant.
Still, if there was power in him, he was going to learn to use it. No way was he marching off into monster territory with a half-cocked blessing rattling around inside him.
**And third:** design his gear.
According to Crow, the enemy—things called the *Twisted*—came in every shape and nightmare imaginable. Giant bugs. Armored beasts. Screaming things made of smoke and bone. If he wanted to survive, he needed gear that was versatile. Specialized. Something that fit him like skin.
*skip*
The sword came first. That was obvious.
He had the most experience with blades, and swords were perfect: easy to carry, adaptable, deadly, and usable as tools in a pinch. With HEMA techniques like *mordhau* and pommel strikes, even a sword could crush skulls. And with *half-swording*, he could target the weak points in armor. Utility and lethality—he liked that combination.
But the real question was: *what kind* of sword?
An estoc? Too narrow. Kukris? Too short. Gladius? Same problem. Zweihander? Too big to lug around without looking like he was overcompensating.
Then it hit him: this wasn't about picking from a catalog. *Custom* meant *custom.* He could design the damn thing himself.
So Jack sketched out a hybrid—a fusion between a jian and a rapier. A straight, double-edged blade that transitioned halfway into a stiffer, thrusting point. It had the length and cutting edge of a jian, but with a proper, rounded handguard like a rapier's to protect his fingers. Balanced, deadly, and sturdy.
Next: ranged weapons.
He didn't want to deal with ammo shortages or misfires. So he settled on a *sling*—simple, silent, deadly in the right hands. Ammo was everywhere, and he'd practiced enough back home to use one decently. Bonus: it didn't break or jam.
Then, for armor-breaking or general brute-force needs, he added a battle axe. Compact. Reliable. Perfect as a backup or for dealing with anything that laughed at swords.
But weapons were only half the equation. If he wanted to stay alive, he needed *gear*—and clothing that didn't suck.
He wasn't about to get trench foot or cooked alive because these yokels made shoes out of twine and cheap lather. His steel-toed boots were staying. Non-negotiable.
As for the rest? He requested armor based on a *plague doctor* design—because, why not? It covered most of his pale, burn-prone skin (thanks, leucism), and it was surprisingly practical. Originally designed for long-distance travel, the outfit had removable layers of treated leather that helped regulate heat, repelled bugs, and kept out moisture. The long coat protected him from the sun and wind. And yes—it looked cool as hell.
Underneath, he requested *scalemail* armor. Flexible, durable, resistant to slashing, stabbing, and blunt trauma without turning him into a walking tank. It gave him freedom of movement and a decent chance of walking away from whatever nightmares were out there.
And the mask? The beak had to go or be rounded down, and it was going to be part of a helmet. God knows that he didn't have many brain cells to spare.
A neck guard would probably be a good idea as well.
*This should do it,* Jack thought, standing in the hut, fingers still smudged with charcoal from his designs.
*Skip*
The training yard behind the elder's hut was little more than a patch of dry dirt and weeds, surrounded by stacked logs and wooden posts with faded bloodstains. The villagers called it the "proving ground." Jack called it a disappointment.
A dozen men stood in a loose half-circle, wooden practice swords gripped like clubs or, in one guy's case, like he was about to paddle laundry. Most of them were older teens or wiry young men, sweating under the sun, blinking dumbly in the heat. Their stances were wide and clumsy, like kids playing knight in the backyard.
Jack rolled his eyes and adjusted his own grip with fluid ease, letting the weight of the training sword settle comfortably in his palm. "All right," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the guy next to him to hear, "Let's see which of you wants to die first."
No one heard—except the boy, who glanced at Jack uncertainly. Jack winked at him.
"Pair off!" barked a grizzled instructor—a broad-shouldered man with a crooked nose and a cleft lip, apparently a former guard of a noble house. "One-on-one drills, like we practiced. Eyes up, weapons up!"
Jack strolled toward his opponent, a gangly kid with a peach-fuzz mustache and fear in his eyes. The boy held his sword in both hands, blade pointing straight forward like a fork at a buffet.
Jack didn't say a word. He just tilted his head, raised a brow, and smirked.
They circled.
The boy lunged first—of course he did. Wild and obvious, stepping too far forward. Jack didn't even meet the blow. He sidestepped, let the sword whistle past him, and tapped the kid on the back with the pommel of his own wooden sword .
*Tap.*
"Dead," Jack whispered.
The boy whirled, red-faced from frustration. "That doesn't count!"
Jack just gave him a theatrical shrug and raised both eyebrows, as if to say *Are you sure about that?*
Their next exchange was shorter. The kid over-committed again. Jack stepped inside his guard, shoved his shoulder against the boy's chest, and neatly disarmed him with a twist of the sword.
Jack caught the falling sword with one hand and threw it at the boy . "Let me guess, this didn't count?."
Some of the other villagers snorted. A few exchanged glances. One of them muttered something that might've been "lucky," and Jack turned toward the sound like a wolf catching scent.
"Oh, *you* want a turn?" he asked, voice full of indignation and and confidence . He beckoned with a nod of his head . "Let's go then."
The next opponent was burlier. Confident. But confidence wasn't going to save him from a broken nose .
Jack flowed around the first blow like water, ducked under the second, and rapped the man across the ribs—*hard*. The crack echoed. Moving back and readjusting his sword he thrusted up. And with a sickening crunch blade broke skin and cartilage.
Jack smiled, content with achieving his goal.
"You should've stayed home, fatty ," he muttered.
By the time they cycled through drills again, Jack was barely breaking a sweat. His body moved on instinct—point, pivot, strike, disengage. Each time he made a hit, he gave a theatrical little bow or twirl of his sword . Sometimes he'd dramatically mime a death gasp. Other times, he'd wag his finger like a disappointed teacher.
"Keep your elbows in," he whispered to one man, tapping his guard open with two quick strikes.
"Step with the swing, not before ," he said to another, slapping his blade down before the swing even started.
To a third, he offered nothing but a loud, condescending yawn after a painfully slow attack.
By the end of the week , no one wanted to spar with Jack anymore. Even the instructor pretended not to notice him lingering near the front.
Jack planted his sword in the dirt and leaned on it like a cane, watching the others stumble through practice forms with all the elegance of drunk goats.
"God help you lot when the monsters come," he whispered to himself with a grin.
Then, louder:
"Anyone want to try again?" he called, tone mocking. "Maybe this time you'll *almost* hit me."
Silence.
Jack chuckled and turned back to the post, swinging slowly and precisely—training for himself, not them. Let them huff and puff and bruise each other in the dirt.