The best way to hide a single drop of water is not to seal it in an iron jar and bury it in a cellar—it's to pour it into the sea.
The White Knife River, the great trade artery of the North, linked White Harbor to Winterfell and passed through the domains of several powerful houses.
Countless villages and market towns lined its banks, connected by roads and alive with constant traffic.
So after leaving Evening Bell Town, Ethan and Kevin simply melted into that endless river of travelers and vanished.
Though pursuit no longer weighed on them, Ethan's physical condition steadily worsened as the days passed.
His breathing grew shallow and rapid.
Headaches, nausea, and dizziness struck in waves.
The nine gashes across his body began to weep blood and yellow pus.
Every step, every shift of weight sent fresh spasms through torn muscle. Each twitch brought blinding pain.
Ethan recognized the signs clearly: infection and spreading inflammation.
Without prompt treatment he would die.
He said nothing to Kevin about the agony. He simply insisted they keep moving—harboring a faint, half-formed hope: *If I really die here… maybe I'll finally go back to Earth?*
Why repeat the endless cycle of killing and being killed in this brutal world?
So Ethan endured in silence—until the morning of the third day after leaving Evening Bell Town.
Without warning his strength gave out.
He slid sideways off Old Man's back and hit the dirt hard.
Kevin leapt down instantly, dropped to his knees beside Ethan, cradled his head and called urgently:
"Teacher—what's wrong? Teacher!"
Ethan couldn't answer.
Kevin saw only a flushed face, ragged breathing, eyes rolling back—as though death were already closing in.
"Teacher—drink some water, just a little water…"
Kevin fumbled for the waterskin yanked out the stopper and pressed the spout to Ethan's lips.
Water dribbled uselessly from the corners of his mouth; he couldn't swallow.
"It's okay… you'll be okay…"
Kevin eased Ethan back onto Old Man's saddle lashed him securely with rope and turned the horse around.
The day before they had passed through a small village.
Kevin had wanted to take Ethan back—hoping to find a wandering hedge witch or woods witch who might help, or at least a bed where his teacher could rest.
They retraced their steps for over an hour.
Ethan's condition never improved.
He muttered incoherently in the saddle—words Kevin couldn't understand—each syllable spiking fresh terror in the boy's chest.
His father had once told him: countless brave soldiers died on battlefields from small wounds that looked harmless at first.
The symptoms matched exactly what Ethan was suffering now—relentless fever and delirium.
The thought that his teacher might slip away quietly filled Kevin's eyes with tears.
"Teacher—you'll get better. You will!"
Kevin clenched his fist wiped his face and urged the horses faster.
"Young man—is this your elder? He looks very ill."
At that moment a bald man in a plain gray hooded robe carrying a simple satchel stepped into their path and spoke.
Kevin eyed him warily.
The man met his gaze openly.
For a heartbeat their eyes locked—then Kevin noticed the small iron hammer pendant hanging at the stranger's throat.
Suspicion flipped instantly to hope.
"Are you a brother sworn to the Seven?"
The man nodded.
"I am Brother John—a blacksmith by trade now on a humble pilgrimage tracing the steps of my own teacher."
Kevin gave a small bow.
"My name is Kevin of House Turner from the Fingers. This is my master—Ser Lewis—and I am his squire."
Brother John glanced quickly at Ethan's condition.
"Your master appears badly wounded. I know a little of healing…"
"What happened?" he asked.
Kevin answered in a rush:
"A few days ago my teacher fought bandits while protecting a child. He took nine serious cuts. This morning he fell into a faint."
Brother John nodded stepped closer and carefully lifted Ethan's shirt to examine the wounds.
"If they aren't cleaned and treated properly fever sets in. If it worsens—he dies.
Your journey must stop here. If you keep going all you'll do is dig a grave for your master."
Hearing that his teacher might die Kevin's voice cracked with panic.
"Can you help us? My master has money—I'll pay!"
"We'll speak of payment later." Brother John gently closed Ethan's shirt and looked around. "First let's find a cool place for him to rest."
Under John's direction Kevin led the horses off the road to a flat grassy bank beside the White Knife.
They unloaded everything; John gathered branches while Kevin used blankets to rig a simple lean-to shelter.
Together they eased Ethan inside.
Once the patient was settled Brother John sent Kevin to fetch river water and boil it.
He himself disappeared into the nearby woods returning shortly with a double handful of leaves flowers and stems.
After the water boiled John cleaned the wounds once more crushed the herbs with a smooth stone mixed them into a thick paste applied it generously and rebound everything with clean cloth.
Next he brewed the remaining herbs into a thin broth let it cool and carefully spoon-fed it to Ethan.
Soon after the first sips Ethan's breathing eased noticeably—slower deeper more even.
Brother John bent close listened to Ethan's chest for a long minute then told Kevin:
"We've given emergency treatment but your master is still in poor condition.
We need to get him under a proper roof soon so he can rest properly.
I'll go back to the road and see if any wagons pass. Perhaps someone kind will give you a ride. Stay here and watch over him."
Brother John lifted the hem of his robe and climbed back to the highway leaving Kevin alone beside Ethan—swatting away clouds of mosquitoes.
After a while Ethan's eyes fluttered open.
He saw Kevin kneeling anxiously beside him and managed a weak bitter smile.
"I fainted again…"
Kevin looked down at his teacher—pale sweat-soaked breathing shallow—and felt fresh grief rise in his throat.
"You should have let me stay with you back then."
"It was all to get you out safely. My mistake. I'll finish it myself."
"What you did was too dangerous. Charging into an enemy den alone with just a sword… that's too…"
Realizing his tone was too sharp Kevin softened immediately:
"…not exactly the wisest plan."
Ethan gave a faint sigh.
"Yes… but what else could I do? Stay in the city a few more days—observe analyze plan slowly?
From a pure combat perspective that's correct…
Watch the stronghold for two days learn their routines map entry and escape routes wait for a dark windy night slip in silently kill the target slip out. Who knows how long it would take them to even realize their leader was dead.
But I couldn't wait.
I was afraid that once the anger cooled I'd discover I'm actually cold-hearted… and a coward.
I was afraid that once calm I'd start asking myself whether it was really worth it—risking everything to avenge a boy I'd only known for a few hours."
He turned his head to look directly at Kevin.
"Do you think it was worth it?"
Kevin thought for a long moment.
"I don't know. But my father always said that defending justice and protecting the weak is a knight's creed—something worth giving your life for."
Ethan nodded slowly.
"Your father raised you well."
He didn't tell Kevin that the Longfish boss's final words—before the blade opened his throat—had been a gasped question:
"Do you know Ser Gadley…?"
Ethan continued hoarsely:
"Actually—even while I was doing it and even after I succeeded while hiding underwater from the guards—I kept asking myself the same question: was it worth it?"
"Teacher… what answer did you find?"
Ethan met Kevin's gaze steadily.
"I still don't have one.
Because true justice has no price.
So the question 'is it worth it' never really applies."
He turned his face back toward the wide blue sky and murmured almost to himself:
"Everyone carries their own version of justice.
What seems worthless to me might be priceless to you.
But beating an innocent child—who worked honestly just to feed himself—to death… simply to rob someone else's property…
that is not justice in any time or any place."
"Perhaps to the lords it's a trivial matter.
The killer pays a fine—or pays nothing at all.
With the right connections the city watch quietly closes the case: 'suicide' or some other convenient lie.
Jimmy was an orphan—no one would investigate.
He came into the world quietly… and left quietly…"
"No.
The world should not be like this.
Good people should not die because they are kind and honest while the cruel and shameless live long.
Murderers and arsonists should not sit in high seats while those who build bridges and mend roads are forgotten without a trace.
This world should not be like this.
Being human should not be like this…"
As he spoke Ethan's face flushed darker.
His mind clouded.
His words slipped from the Common Tongue into Mandarin—Chinese that Kevin could no longer understand.
Kevin reached out touched his teacher's forehead.
It burned like fire.
He soaked a cloth in cool water laid it across Ethan's brow and whispered:
"Teacher… rest now…"
Ethan still muttered in delirium:
"It shouldn't be… it shouldn't be…"
A long while later Brother John returned.
He told Kevin he had flagged down a potato wagon.
The driver was willing to carry Ethan to the next village—for ten copper stars.
Kevin paid one silver stag one copper star and fourteen copper pennies.
Together with John he lifted Ethan onto the piled sacks in the wagon bed.
Brother John sat beside the driver.
Kevin mounted Swift Fish (his own horse—the packhorse was named Coolman) and led Old Man and Coolman behind the cart.
The nearest village lay only ten miles away—but it had no inn or tavern.
Fortunately wandering brothers sworn to the Seven always enjoyed good will among smallfolk—even in the North where most still kept to the Old Gods.
With Brother John's help Kevin rented an empty barn from a farmer.
The three of them settled in.
That night Ethan woke again in darkness while torrential rain hammered the roof.
Listening to the wind and water his mood sank even lower.
He called Kevin close and began quietly settling his affairs.
"Kevin… if anything happens to me everything I own becomes yours.
But you must promise me: find a sunny place and build me a grave. I don't like cold and shadow.
And raise a stone marker. Carve these words:
'Ethan Cole—an unlucky man who died before he could save the world.'"
Kevin frowned deeply.
"Teacher—don't talk like that. Brother John will take good care of you. Just stay here and rest. When you're strong again we'll head north."
Ethan shook his head said no more closed his eyes and waited quietly for death.
Yet his body proved far tougher than he believed.
After two more days of high fever his temperature broke on the third.
The external wounds began to scab cleanly.
By the tenth day Ethan was fully recovered—aside from nine ugly scars there were no lasting effects.
His earlier despair now seemed almost laughable.
The speed of his healing even astonished Brother John who had tended him daily.
"So the recipe Master Greller taught me really does work?"
In truth Brother John's healing knowledge was quite limited.
Boil water wash wounds apply herb paste feed herbal broth—that summed up everything he had learned in the monastery.
He knew little else.
Even the herb combinations were fixed formulas memorized from elder brothers—he never adjusted them for individual symptoms.
During those days aside from routine dressing and brewing he spent most of his time simply praying over Ethan.
That Ethan survived Brother John was convinced could only be the work of the Seven.
Ethan himself remained skeptical.
He did not worship the Seven—why would they protect him?
If anyone had watched over him it could only be his ancestors stretching back from Liu Bang to Liu Bei.
But he could never voice such "heretical" thoughts to Brother John.
First he needed to preserve his knightly image.
Second Brother John had saved his life—he could not allow the man to feel saddened.
Of course mere avoidance of sadness was nowhere near enough repayment for a life debt.
So Ethan approached Brother John and offered him a gold dragon as thanks for the treatment.
Brother John refused outright.
"Sir—it wasn't I who saved you. It was the Seven.
I was merely the tool they used.
If you truly wish to give thanks—donate some food at the next sept. Many will benefit from your kindness."
But how could Ethan agree?
He had read too much about temples—both in this world and his old one.
Indulgences pretty boys temple prostitutes human-skin drums dual-cultivation cauldrons…
A quick search of certain keywords on Earth would return endless results that mocked basic human decency.
Handing money to such places felt worse than throwing coins into the river for a splash.
So Ethan practically forced the gold dragon into Brother John's hand.
Finally in desperation Brother John cried:
"Sir—stop! Sir! You don't want me to accidentally flash this gold dragon in the street get spotted and then followed to some dark alley and beaten to death!"
Hearing those words Ethan immediately thought of little Jimmy back in White Harbor.
Reluctantly he withdrew his hand.
"Very well Brother John—aren't you traveling to Winterfell?
I'm also heading north to Winterfell. Let's go together."
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