Kevin understood immediately. He crawled inside the wooden frame, lay flat on the ground, and stretched his arms and legs to test the space. Only after confirming that the structure provided proper shelter did he dare believe this was the sleeping hut Ethan had built just for him.
He crawled back out, stood up, and bowed gratefully.
"Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Ethan Cole."
Ethan smiled and waved him over. "Come on—follow me."
This time Ethan led Kevin deeper into the forest. Using his sword, he harvested tall, thin blades of grass while Kevin gathered armfuls and carried them back.
Sitting cross-legged on the ground at camp, Ethan demonstrated how to weave the grass into thick mats. Under his patient guidance, the two of them worked together until they had produced two sturdy straw mats—perfect for roofing the hut.
Once the open ends of the frame were covered, Kevin finally had his own small, dry nest in this remote wilderness. No more waking up in the middle of the night to rain dripping on his face.
In the days that followed, Ethan took Kevin to the shore to gather food, they labored side by side, and Ethan continued learning the local language from him.
Thanks to his enhanced memory, Ethan picked up fluent Westerosi—with a distinct Fingers Peninsula accent—at a startling pace.
His original plan had been simple: learn the language from the boy, teach him in return, and provide meals as informal tuition.
What he hadn't anticipated was how exceptionally good Kevin was in the water.
The boy wasn't just skilled at fishing—he was a strong diver too.
The very day after Kevin regained consciousness, Ethan's diet upgraded from one daily pot of seafood soup to whole, fresh-caught sea fish—fish Kevin brought in himself.
Whole fish were far easier to cook, tasted better, had superior texture, and dried much more conveniently for travel.
Ethan tried fishing alongside him once or twice. But having grown up landlocked, he could barely swim in a river, let alone dive. He quickly gave up his fleeting dream of becoming the next Pirate King.
Saving a life is momentary; building trust is long-term.
Kevin always went out fishing alone, yet they shared every meal. At first it felt fair enough—once or twice—but after several days Ethan began to feel uneasy.
He was a fair-minded person, both toward others and toward himself.
It didn't sit right with him to use his greater height and strength to sit idle while someone else did all the hard work and then enjoy the results without contributing.
Should he pay Kevin in gold coins?
No—the fish weren't worth that much. If he started handing over gold, how many fish would the boy have to catch just to "repay" the debt?
Yet at the moment Ethan was so poor that all he had left *was* money…
While he was still puzzling over how to balance their exchange fairly, Ethan noticed something else: Kevin watched his daily sword practice with obvious fascination.
During these weeks of food gathering and environmental adjustment, Ethan made it a habit—after every full meal—to take his weapons down to the beach and drill forms.
Kevin would quietly follow, find a shady spot on the sand, and sit watching in silence.
So… perhaps he should teach the boy a few self-defense techniques?
Seeing the mix of eagerness and hesitation on Kevin's face, Ethan walked to a nearby large tree, selected two straight branches, and lopped them off with a single clean stroke of his sword.
After trimming them roughly, he tossed one at Kevin's feet.
Kevin stared down at the stick, then up at Ethan, utterly confused.
Ethan said simply, "Come here. I'll teach you."
Kevin stood awkwardly, stammering, "I'm sorry, Mr. Ethan Cole—I didn't mean to spy. I'll go back to camp right now."
But before he could turn, Ethan stopped him.
"Go back for what? I'm going to teach you how to use a sword."
Ethan gave the branch a casual twirl, executing a clean, flowing flourish.
Kevin's eyes widened. He pointed at himself in disbelief. "Me…? You're really willing to teach *me* swordsmanship?"
Ethan nodded, walked back toward the open beach, and called, "Come on!"
After a few light exchanges of blows, Ethan had already gauged the boy's level: solid fundamentals, impressive natural strength for his age and build, but very little real combat experience and extremely rough technique.
Considering Kevin was only fourteen—the second son of a minor landed knight—it was actually quite respectable.
After all, Ethan carried the combat memories of slaying tens of thousands of humanoid and monstrous foes across countless dungeons and raids. His experience and instincts were on an entirely different scale from any ordinary teenager.
After several one-sided sparring sessions (carefully controlled beatings of the child), and based on Kevin's own strong preference, Ethan decided to pass on his two-handed swordsmanship.
The teaching method was straightforward:
For the first two days Ethan organized his techniques into clear, repeatable routines and drilled them into Kevin through pure memorization.
Once the boy could perform each sequence instinctively, Ethan began teaching application—how to adapt those same moves fluidly in live combat.
At first Kevin struggled with the approach.
Ever since he could remember, his father John Turner had taught swordplay by tossing him a wooden blade and pitting him against Lannold. The two boys would beat each other black and blue; afterward their father would offer corrections.
That was the traditional Westerosi way. Kevin admired Ethan's elegant "sword dance," but he couldn't help thinking: in a real fight, no one performs a choreographed routine before the blades clash.
Ethan's only reply was calm and firm:
"I'm your teacher. Just listen to me."
Kevin pressed his lips together but asked no more questions. He simply threw himself into the drills.
After two days of mastering the simplest routine, Ethan decided to spar for real—to stoke the boy's motivation.
Under Ethan's deliberate guidance, Kevin was astonished to discover that the movements he had labored to memorize flowed naturally in combat, as smoothly as a river finding the sea. And those same moves proved far more effective than the flashy tricks he had once tried to invent on his own.
Completely convinced, Kevin began practicing the routines voluntarily.
Every day—aside from essential chores—he drilled sword forms until he forgot to eat or sleep. If Ethan hadn't stepped in to stop him from overtraining, the boy might have unknowingly damaged his own body.
Ethan wasn't surprised by the sudden fervor. From their conversations he already knew: as the second son of a very minor knight, Kevin had never been exposed to any advanced martial tradition.
Yet Westerosi culture still demanded that he earn his own honor through arms.
Without this shipwreck, Kevin's most likely path would have been to follow his uncle into mercenary life—drifting between the Free Cities and beyond.
With luck he might survive a few battles, earn coin, spend it all in taverns and gambling dens, then wake up broke on a tavern floor waiting for the next contract.
With bad luck he'd die nameless in his first real fight, stripped of gear by enemies or comrades, and left in the wilderness for wild dogs.
Meeting Ethan had opened a different door—one that might actually let him rewrite his predetermined fate.
At the very least, a skilled sellsword stood a better chance than a mediocre one.
So during their time on that lonely stretch of coast, Kevin's two-handed swordsmanship improved visibly.
Meanwhile, through long conversations with the boy, Ethan learned a great deal about Kevin's homeland—and about the world he had been cast into.
He finally understood the true nature of the continent he now inhabited.
This land was called Westeros. Most of it belonged to a single realm known as the Seven Kingdoms—seven great regions whose lords all swore fealty to the king who sat the Iron Throne in King's Landing.
The current king was Robert Baratheon. Roughly a decade earlier he had allied with House Stark of the North, overthrown the previous monarch, and—with the backing of the great houses—crowned himself King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
The great lords swore loyalty to the king and received his protection in return. Each of them, in turn, had their own sworn vassals.
Layer upon layer of oaths, layer upon layer of fealty—a classic feudal pyramid.
On Earth, Ethan thought, this system most closely resembled China's Spring and Autumn period or medieval Europe.
Kevin himself came from the very bottom rung of the nobility: the landed knightly class.
Yet in Ethan's private opinion, the battle-shy John Turner seemed far more like a village headman than a true knight.
So didn't that make Kevin… the village headman's foolish second son?
The thought made Ethan burst out laughing.
Kevin—practicing nearby—froze mid-swing. "Sir? Did I do something wrong?"
Ethan snapped back to the present, quickly hid his smile, pretended to flip the fish on the fire, and said casually,
"No, no—it wasn't you. Your form is perfect. Keep going."
"Sir" was the title Kevin had spontaneously begun using for Ethan.
In the boy's eyes, Ethan—with his exceptional martial skill, tall and handsome bearing, magnificent gear, and courteous manners—could only be a knight from one of the wealthy southern houses.
Ethan, of course, knew perfectly well he wasn't from any noble family. But explaining his true origin was impossible—and he was too lazy to try—so he simply let the misunderstanding stand.
Kevin nodded seriously. "Yes, sir."
"No—the power here is too soft. Put more force into it!"
"Yes, sir!"
After more than half a month of dedicated training, Kevin had finally internalized the core routines of two-handed swordsmanship.
What remained was the long, grinding work of deconstructing those forms, adapting them to real combat situations, and making them his own instinctive reactions. That could not be rushed.
Meanwhile Ethan had achieved fluent conversation in the Common Tongue of Westeros.
More advanced vocabulary and nuance would come only with time and wider social exposure—something that required patience.
So it was time to move on.
On the morning of the seventeenth day after Kevin awoke, Ethan carried his full "Lightbringer" plate set to the edge of camp.
Under Kevin's wide-eyed, envious stare, he asked,
"Kevin—have you ever helped your father don his armor?"
"Yes, sir—yes I have."
(Only twice, but it still counted… right?) Kevin felt a tiny pang of guilt.
"Come help me put this on, then."
Since stripping it off at the beach weeks earlier, Ethan had rarely worn the full suit.
Even when hauling heavy loads he merely draped pieces loosely over his body.
It worked for camp labor—but not for a serious overland journey.
Once Kevin had finished securing the final strap on the back of the breastplate (under Ethan's careful direction), the boy stepped back and asked in awe,
"Mr. Ethan Cole… are you one of King Robert's own guards?"
"Hm? Why do you think that?" Ethan asked, genuinely curious.
"Your armor is so magnificent. I've never seen anything so beautiful *and* so strong."
Ethan smiled. "Have you seen many suits of armor?"
Kevin nodded eagerly. "Once I went with my father to Coldwater for the knighting ceremony of Lord Corbray's son. None of the knights there wore anything half as splendid as this."
The transmog set Ethan had chosen was one of the most sought-after looks for Alliance Paladins and Horde Sunwalkers in the current patch of World of Warcraft.
Countless players had farmed raids day and night to complete it.
Even so, Ethan had never gotten the most iconic shoulder pads—a regret that still stung.
After a moment's thought he answered,
"I'm not one of the king's personal guard. Just an ordinary soldier. Though I *used* to lead a warband."
Kevin hadn't considered that possibility. His eyes widened. "A warband in the Free Cities?!"
"No—much farther away than the Free Cities. So far I can't even find my way back."
Ethan clearly didn't want to dwell on the topic, so he changed it.
"By the way—do you know roughly where we are right now?"
Kevin shook his head. "Not exactly. But if I had to guess… we're somewhere on the eastern coast of the North. If we keep following the shoreline south, we should eventually reach White Harbor—the place where my uncle and I boarded the ship."
Ethan adjusted the final straps until the armor sat comfortably.
"Good. Then south it is. Everything packed?"
Kevin nodded. "Yes, sir. Five water skins, three bundles of dried fish."
"Finish breakfast, then we move out."
"Yes, sir."
After their last seafood breakfast, Ethan—now fully armored—stood on the riverbank staring at the little cave that had been his home for nearly a month. He remained silent for a long while.
"Sir? What are you looking at?"
"Nothing. Let's go."
With that he shouldered his sword and dagger.
Kevin pushed the loaded handcart piled high with supplies, and the two of them set off southward.
The handcart was something Ethan had built from memory: sturdy wooden wheels wrapped in thick straw rope for crude shock absorption.
The water and food pouches were Kevin's handiwork—large sheets of fish skin sewn together with thin leather thongs, seams sealed with glue boiled from fish swim bladders. They held water perfectly unless boiling liquid was poured inside.
Still, the water had to be consumed and refilled at every clean source; otherwise bacteria would quickly take hold.
With pre-packed food and water, they had far greater route flexibility.
From the camp onward they traversed cliffs and treacherous river crossings, always keeping the coastline in sight—no matter how rough the path became.
50 Power i unlock new fucking chapter😅