Darkness.
That was all there was. No pain, no light, no fear. Just an endless, comfortable dark.
James Peterson had died quietly in a hospice bed at the age of thirty-eight, cancer having devoured what remained of his once-strong body. His final memory wasn't of pain or suffering—it was a sense of peace. Acceptance. He had closed his eyes, knowing there were no more tomorrows.
But then came something else.
A heartbeat.
Then another.
A rush of air, and then—
A scream.
It wasn't his.
The sound echoed through his being, pulling him out of the void like a hand dragging him from deep water. He couldn't see, couldn't move, but everything was too real to be death.
Cold air hit him, wet and loud and alive.
He screamed too.
He didn't understand what had happened until days—maybe weeks—later. Time blurred in the haze of infancy. Sounds were muffled, images abstract. But his consciousness was intact. Not fully alert, but more than a newborn should be. He had memories, feelings, and fragmented knowledge from a previous life, buried deep under layers of confusion and exhaustion.
And then one night, as his tiny body rested in a hand-woven cradle beneath a crude wooden roof, he heard it.
A voice—not from a person, but from inside.
[Welcome, James Peterson. Reincarnation successful. System initializing… Scan complete. Host species: Human. Location: Outer Rim, Planet designation—classified. Force Sensitivity: Low.]
A system?
He might've cried out if he had the ability. Instead, his baby body let out a weak, garbled coo.
[Skill acquisition method: practice-based. Basic action detected: breathing regulation. Breath Control: 2% progress.]
James blinked in the dark, dazed.
He was a baby again, on an alien planet, in a galaxy that—if he wasn't mistaken—was Star Wars.
But no. That couldn't be right.
It had to be a dream. A fever dream.
Until he saw his "mother." Her skin was light brown, smooth but scaled slightly at the temples. Her eyes were a bright green, vertically slit like a reptile's, and her voice had a soft, melodic tone. Not human. Near-human maybe. But definitely not Earth-born.
That was when the truth hit him like a blaster bolt to the chest.
This was real. This wasn't Earth.
And he was no longer James Peterson, terminal cancer patient from Seattle, Washington.
The village was small and worn, made from stone and bone and the wreckage of some long-forgotten starship that had crashed centuries before. The people were tribal—scarves, spears, beadwork, and weathered robes that reminded him more of nomads than the sleek, shining aesthetic of the Republic.
But what struck James the most was the sky.
Twin moons hovered overhead at night, pale and watchful, while the sun was a harsh, white-blue blaze that cast long shadows in the red sands. Creatures skittered and howled in the distance—some resembling oversized canines, others slithering shapes he only saw out of the corner of his eye.
And through it all, the system remained quiet.
Until his first real word.
At about nine months old, he managed to say "Ma."
His mother beamed. "Ma," she repeated, tapping her chest proudly. "Yes. Ma."
[Skill Gained: Speech (Basic). New Tree: Linguistics – Root Skill Unlocked.]
A soft chime echoed inside his mind, like a datapad activating.
And so it began.
By the time he turned three, James had learned two full languages—the native tongue of his adoptive people, and a trade dialect shared with desert caravans. His comprehension of the world sharpened. He understood the layout of their village: a collection of huts nestled around a half-buried structure made of starship debris, which served as their meeting hall and place of worship.
But there were other things too.
He began to feel... ripples. Subtle shifts in emotion from others. Slight pulls of intent. Sometimes, when his emotions spiked, things moved. Not much—a stone tumbling slightly, or a stick bending when he glared at it too long. Most villagers called it "the desert ghosts" and feared it. His mother whispered stories of "old blood" and "sky people" who once wielded invisible power.
James knew better.
The Force. He was Force-sensitive.
Low-level, yes—but the system didn't lie.
That made this all very real.
And it also meant he was living in the Star Wars universe.
The implications were staggering. He knew what was coming. The Clone Wars, the rise of Palpatine, the destruction of the Jedi, the Empire, the Rebellion...
But all of that was still decades away.
For now, he was just a boy on a backwater planet. Unknown. Unnoticed.
And that was good.
He had time.
At age five, the tribe elders summoned his mother. James had been playing with a carved stone toy shaped like a podracer when she returned, her face grim.
"We must prepare," she told him, sitting down beside him in their hut.
"For what?"
"The tribes to the east—Skarn riders. They come every few years. Sometimes to trade, sometimes to take."
James frowned.
"Take what?"
She looked him in the eyes.
"Children. Food. Warriors. Whatever they wish."
He said nothing, but inside his mind, the system responded.
[New Event Flag: Tribal Conflict Anticipated. System recommends physical training.]
[Tracking new practice node: Combat – Improvised Weaponry.]
He gripped the podracer toy tighter.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
That night, he went outside, far from the huts, to the edge of the canyon where the rock walls met the dunes. He found a sturdy stick, gripped it with both hands, and swung.
Sloppy. Unbalanced.
But he swung again.
And again.
[Skill Progress: 3% – Improvised Weapon Handling.]
He kept at it until his arms burned.
His small body ached, but he smiled anyway.
He was still weak. Still just a child.
But he had a system. A plan.
And knowledge—decades ahead of anything this world had seen.
He wouldn't stay weak forever.
Days passed. Then weeks.
The Skarn riders came.
Fierce warriors draped in black hide, riding scaled beasts with horns and jaws like metal traps. They roared into the village like a storm, demanding tribute.
The elders tried to negotiate.
It failed.
Fighting broke out.
James was too young to fight—but not too young to act. He snuck through smoke and screaming, found a corner where the Skarn had stashed their weapons. He grabbed a curved dagger from the pile.
He'd never used one before.
[Skill Detected: Melee Blade Handling – Initiating Skill Tree Mapping...]
One of the raiders found him.
Towering. Laughing.
James struck wildly.
It hit flesh.
Just a graze.
But it was real.
He was real.
The Skarn reeled back in surprise—and then fell, as a tribesman slammed a spear into his back.
James stared at the body.
He was five years old.
And had taken his first life.
[Combat Skill Progress: Melee – Dagger. Experience Gained. Level: Novice.]
[Stat Node Unlocked: Courage.]
[Branch Path Suggestion: Tactical Combat → Assassination Techniques (Locked)]
He didn't know what to feel.
He didn't cry.
He didn't celebrate.
But deep inside, a fire had sparked.
The Skarn were driven off, at a cost. Two huts burned. Four villagers died. One elder was taken.
Afterward, the remaining elders called a meeting. James sat outside, listening.
"We are too weak," one said. "Next time, they will take everything."
"Then we must leave," another whispered.
"No," said James's mother, stepping forward. "We must follow him."
All heads turned.
"To a child?" one scoffed.
"He is not a child," she said. "He is something... else."
And in the shadows, James stared at the stars.
He knew this was only the beginning.