Watersplitter was a tiny settlement, barely marked on any map. To reach the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, one first had to take a small boat to White Harbor in the North, then board a merchant ship for the crossing.
To return to Pentos before the mission deadline, the only available vessel was a merchant ship called the *Lady Rose*.
According to her itinerary, after reaching Essos she would stop at Braavos before continuing to Pentos—currently the Second Sons' main base.
The crossing cost two gold dragons per person.
If uncle and nephew were willing to help with odd jobs aboard, the price could be reduced by half a gold dragon.
Thomas was furious at the captain's initial demand. His nephew was strong, hardworking, and efficient—how could half a gold dragon possibly be enough? It should be at least one!
After fierce haggling, the final agreement was reached: Thomas would serve as ship's guard—doing no regular labor except stepping in if pirates appeared—while Kevin would work as an ordinary sailor, handling chores alongside the crew.
In exchange, Kevin's fare was halved.
Having grown up beside the sea, Kevin was no stranger to boats, but this was his first time aboard a proper deep-water trader capable of carrying thousands of stones of cargo.
So when the boatswain tossed him a rag and told him to scrub the deck, Kevin agreed cheerfully—and even volunteered to climb the mast and clean the crow's nest.
His uncle Thomas merely grunted, "The more you do, the more you eat. As long as you earn your keep, fine by me."
Days passed. Seasons turned—at sea they blurred together.
After leaving White Harbor and passing Oldtown, there were no more worthwhile ports along the western coast.
The merchant ship's hold was packed solid with cargo. The temporary passengers—the Turner uncle and nephew—were relegated to sleeping among the barrels of wine.
What is it like to lock a mouse inside a rice jar?
Unable to resist temptation, Thomas accidentally pried open a barrel of golden Vale vintage with his dagger, drank his fill in secret, then clumsily resealed it.
Unfortunately the captain—experienced and sharp-nosed—still caught the faint scent of wine on him. In the end Thomas was forced to buy the remainder of the barrel for one gold dragon (the landed price in Braavos).
A few cups each day emptied the barrel steadily. By the time Thomas finished it, the *Lady Rose* had left the northern shores of Westeros and turned east across open water.
But fate is fickle.
One noisy dawn, Kevin jolted awake from violent rocking.
He sat on the cargo-hold floor, dazed, watching terrified crewmen rush back and forth between deck and cabins.
Thomas—snapped awake—grabbed his sword and barked at his nephew, "Stay here. Don't move!"
He charged onto the deck, seized an old sailor by the collar, and roared over the storm, "What's happening?!"
The old sailor shook him off. Rain plastered white hair to his forehead. He bellowed back, "Are your eyes just for pissing? Storm's here—pray to whatever gods you've got!"
With that he plunged back into the gale, joining the others in wrestling the billowing sails.
A dozen heartbeats later a whipping rope caught him and yanked him overboard. He vanished into the black water.
Thomas stared wide-eyed, swallowed hard, then fled back to the hold. He pried open three wine barrels with his sword, overturned them, and let the precious vintage flood the deck in a heady aroma.
Once the barrels were empty he hammered the lids back on—though the violent rolling and his trembling hands made the seals imperfect.
Seeing his nephew still staring blankly, Thomas snapped, "Idiot! Find nails!"
Kevin snapped out of it, rummaged in a wooden crate, and handed over a fistful of finger-length iron nails.
Thomas used his sword hilt as a hammer and quickly sealed the empty barrels.
Then he gathered rope from the deck, lashed the barrels together in pairs, tested the knots, dragged Kevin over, and bound his nephew's chest and waist securely to one barrel.
As he worked he muttered curses: "Damn it… that's why soldiers keep coin in banks. Damn it, I've still got a hundred gold dragons sitting in the Iron Bank… damn it, damn it!"
Once Kevin was secure, Thomas tied himself to the second barrel. He turned, looked straight into his nephew's eyes, and said quietly,
"Live, boy."
It was the first time Thomas had ever shown real concern for him.
Before Kevin could fully register the weight of the words, the *Lady Rose* gave a final, wrenching groan. A tearing sound split the air. The ship broke in two.
A wall of seawater roared in, sweeping cargo—and men—into the abyss.
Supported by the barrels, Kevin bobbed on the surface, miraculously avoiding the worst of the debris. Even so, the raging storm battered him senseless.
In his muddled mind only one thought survived: *Live. I have to live.*
Clinging to that single instinct, Kevin fought to keep his face above water, letting the barrel bear his weight so he wouldn't drown in this cursed sea.
The effort exhausted him completely.
As the rain slowly eased, Kevin lay limp across the barrel, letting the current carry him wherever it wished, until hunger and fatigue finally dragged him under.
He had no idea how long he drifted in darkness.
When awareness returned, Kevin was astonished to find himself on solid ground, covered with dry grass and leaves.
Beside him a campfire crackled. A helmet rested over the flames, sending up a mouthwatering aroma.
Just as he tried to shift closer to the warmth, a deep male voice spoke from behind him in an unfamiliar tongue.
Kevin turned.
A young man with black hair and black eyes emerged from the forest carrying a large bundle of branches. He grinned warmly.
After dragging the half-drowned boy back to camp, Ethan had gathered dry grass and leaves, spread them beside the fire as bedding, laid the boy down, and built up the flames to warm him.
He cleaned the day's catch from the fish basket, diced it with his dagger, added water to the helmet, and set it to stew. Then he went back into the woods for more firewood.
When he returned, he saw the boy stirring toward the fire.
"Hey—careful not to knock the pot over," Ethan called gently.
The boy heard the voice, turned, and stared warily.
Ethan didn't mind. Though he had pulled the stranger from the sea, they were still unknowns to each other.
He would have been just as cautious in the boy's place.
To ease the tension, Ethan deliberately walked around to the opposite side of the fire so they faced each other directly.
He dropped the firewood, squatted, picked up his homemade long wooden spoon, stirred the helmet stew, scooped out a piece of fish with some broth, and ate it.
*Mm. Taste and seasoning both solid.*
He took several more bites. Only when he noticed the boy swallowing hard did he smile slightly and offer the spoon across the flames.
"Here. You must be starving."
The boy hesitated, then accepted the spoon. He reached in, scooped a full ladle of soup into the wooden bowl Ethan had set out, added a few small pieces of squid leg, and ate slowly.
Anyone who has ever been truly hungry knows: when there is *nothing* to eat, the pain dulls. But the moment even a single bite enters your mouth, craving explodes.
The boy was no exception. After swallowing two octopus tentacles he set the spoon down, lifted the entire helmet, and gulped the broth straight from it. Only after tilting his head back to lick the last thick drops did he reluctantly set the helmet down, stand, place his right hand over his heart, and bow deeply.
He said something in a language Ethan didn't understand.
"???"
Ethan blinked, utterly lost. *Wait—no way. The classic transmigrator universal-language cheat wasn't granted?*
He sighed, glanced heavenward, then waved for the boy to sit again.
Pointing to himself, he spoke slowly and clearly, imitating the boy's earlier accent as best he could:
"Ethan Cole."
The boy paused, then repeated carefully:
"Old One?"
"Ethan Cole."
"Eh…than… Cole?"
Ethan gave a resigned nod. Foreigners struggle with Chinese names even on Earth—let alone someone from another world. Close enough.
Seeing the nod, the boy brightened. He pointed to himself.
"Kevin."
"Kevin?"
The boy looked mildly surprised. The stranger's pronunciation was almost perfect—even carrying a faint trace of the Fingers accent.
If this black-haired man hadn't lived in the Fingers, then he must have picked up the language impossibly fast just from hearing a few words.
But if he *had* lived in the Fingers, why didn't he already speak the Common Tongue?
Deciding to test further, Kevin spoke more formally:
"Kevin Turner, of House Turner, from Coldwater in the Fingers."
"Kevin Turner, of House Turner, from Coldwater in the Fingers,"
Ethan repeated flawlessly.
Afterward he shook his head and pointed at the campfire.
"Fire?"
"Fire."
Ethan then pointed at a leaf.
"Leaf."
"Leaf."
They continued like that—Ethan learning word after word—until the shadows had shrunk to noon. Only then did he realize the sun was high and they needed shelter before nightfall.
He stood, walked to his cache, and retrieved his short sword and miner's pickaxe.
Kevin tensed instantly when he saw the weapons.
He relaxed slightly when Ethan simply handed him the pickaxe—but he still had no idea what came next.
Ethan didn't bother explaining with words. Instead he chose a relatively high spot at the forest-riverbank boundary and scratched a rectangle into the dirt roughly the length of Kevin's body.
After gesturing for a while, he pointed to eight spots along the two long sides of the rectangle and mimed digging.
"Hole. Dig."
Kevin understood. He hefted the pickaxe and dug a small hole at one of the marked points.
Ethan nodded approval, then gestured: *I go forest—trees. You—dig holes.*
He picked up his sword and walked into the woods.
Kevin watched the stranger's figure disappear among the trees, puzzled.
*If he wanted to kill me and bury the body, why dig small holes on the sides? Why not one big pit in the center? Is he… planning to take a shit?*
*Wouldn't the forest be easier?*
Kevin frowned, couldn't puzzle it out, and decided not to overthink.
The man had dragged him from the sea and fed him. He wasn't likely to murder him after exchanging a few words.
Unfamiliar with the land, penniless, and with nowhere to run, Kevin shrugged and got back to digging.
While he worked he heard steady chopping from deeper in the woods.
Just as he finished the last hole, Ethan returned—dragging several arm-thick tree trunks lashed together with vines.
"Finished already? Let me check."
Ethan squatted, poked a finger into one hole, frowned at the depth, and gestured: "Deeper. This deep."
Kevin nodded and kept digging.
Meanwhile Ethan untied the vines, lined up the trunks—each about a man's height—then used his sword to strip branches and leaves with swift, precise cuts.
Kevin stole glances while he dug.
He watched the black-haired man wield the sword with fluid, effortless power. Arm-thick logs parted in a single clean stroke.
In memory, his older brother had once secretly taken their father's sword to chop firewood—claiming he wanted to "feel the weight" for future battles.
Lannold had been soundly whipped for it.
Afterward their father had told both boys: "A sword is a weapon. It is expensive. Wood is harder than flesh. If you lack control the blade will rebound and cut you."
"If you don't want to die young and stupid, remember: use an axe for trees—use a sword for men."
Kevin had taken those words as gospel for years.
But watching Ethan now, he couldn't help wondering whether old John Turner had been lying.
How else could this man named Ethan Cole handle a blade so effortlessly?
He had no way of knowing that although Ethan's short sword currently appeared as the unremarkable "Azure Song," its true form was Twilight's Fang—a top-tier one-handed weapon from a 25-man heroic raid in Azeroth.
In balance, sharpness, and craftsmanship it stood at the absolute peak—far beyond anything a Fingers blacksmith could dream of forging.
Combined with Ethan's enhanced strength, wielding it felt as light and natural as using a kitchen knife.
Before long, nine long, smoothly peeled poles lay ready.
Ethan set eight of them into the holes Kevin had dug, crossed the thinner ends in pairs, then laid the longest pole across the forks as a ridge beam.
After lightly binding the joints to hold the shape, Ethan waved Kevin over.
"Go in. Lie down. Try it."
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