The firepit burned low, throwing long shadows across the faces gathered around it.
The full council sat on carved stumps and makeshift chairs—Grum, Wess, Linae, Jakel, Mira. Around them, the rest of the settlement watched in quiet rings. No one worked. No one slept. They waited.
Toren stood in the center.
No podium.
No system prompt.
Just the truth.
"I wasn't born here," he said.
Heads tilted.
"I wasn't even born into this galaxy. I was… brought here. Or sent. I don't know how. But ten years ago, I woke up in a child's body, with a memory that didn't belong in this world."
He explained the system next.
Not as magic. Not as prophecy.
As machinery. Interface. Algorithms with goals he hadn't written, tasks he hadn't chosen, and a learning curve that still scraped him raw.
He talked about the Force. The holocron. Val Orris.
About the skills he now possessed—and how they scared him.
He ended with one sentence.
"I don't want to rule you."
A beat.
"I want to build with you."
Silence.
Wess scratched his beard. "I don't care if you're a god or a glitch. You got us food. Power. A shield against monsters. That counts."
Grum grunted, "Long as you bleed when stabbed, you're one of us."
Linae looked skeptical—but nodded.
It was Jakel who stood.
"The boy lied," he said. "But he told the truth after. That's worth more."
He raised a hand.
"Vote."
Hands went up, one by one.
All but three.
Not perfect.
But enough.