Once Robin Gingerhood was gone, I looted the village for anything useful—food, warmer clothes, and every damaged object I could find—good as new—and stuffed it all into my inventory (which is surprisingly big for a spell I've been using for less than twenty-four hours). More magic practice is never a bad thing.
I then gathered all the villagers' corpses, plus the wights, into a huge pile of bodies and, with a single Inferniate, the whole thing went up in flames—keeping them from joining Papa Smurf's army.
Once that was done, I set out toward the Wall. According to Carrot-Top, the trip would take about twenty-two days on foot. That said, now that I've got warm clothes, I can focus my Reinforcement on speed, so I'm guessing it'll take less time—assuming I don't run into trouble on the way.
—
[two months later]
Well, guess what?
Fucking trouble on the road.
If it's not wildlings, it's wights—or the occasional wild animal I run into that is, of course, hostile and carnivorous, because of course it is.
Naturally, every last one of them got a very close taste of my magic. Annoying distractions, sure, but they've helped me improve my spell control—which gave me an idea.
Even if Westeros is full of assholes who definitely deserve to become magical target practice, this place has something better: zombies.
I never thought I'd be happy to have zombies within miles of me but… hey, new world, new thoughts, I guess.
Anyway, instead of heading straight for the Wall, I decided to take advantage of the tutorial zone… okay, maybe I shouldn't treat this like a game when my life's on the line.
Let's call it a training zone. Yeah—sounds more serious and less like a brain-dead, generic isekai protagonist.
So, having decided to stick around the training zone—at least until I move up to acolyte-level spells—I started hunting wights using a skill I picked up while training: boosting my senses with Reinforcement.
I can now sense the essence of things around me. For now, it's only a few meters, but it's enough—especially since wights have a very distinct signature, so they're easy to track… at least when I can find them.
Like I said, the range is short, so I basically have to wander around and hope. Sometimes I find them, same as I find wildlings. They're almost all hostile, but they back off fast when they see electricity arcing from my fingers like I'm a fucking Sith.
Usually that's enough to scare them off, but some still think they can take me. Result: they end up grilled—most of them still alive.
I try not to kill them… except the Thenn. A good cannibal is a dead cannibal.
Yeah… I killed a human for the first time—a lone Thenn who didn't seem to understand that trying to beat a guy throwing fire from his hands wasn't a great idea.
I killed him, and then I panicked.
Here's your translation in the same fluid, natural narrative style:
---
But not because I killed someone. On the contrary, I panicked because when the magic bolt shredded the Thenn's body, the only thought that went through my head was: so that's what it does to a human body.
If I'd killed him with a weapon or with my bare hands, I would've puked my guts out within seconds. But using magic on him felt normal. Natural.
I spent the next two days sitting in a corner, wondering if I was still myself or if I was turning into the kind of bastard who'd turn a baby into a pig just to see if I could.
In short, a full-blown existential crisis.
A lot of questions ran through my head. The biggest one: if I manage to get back to my original world, who will my sister find? Her little brother—or an emotionless monster who'd turn her into a snake just because he feels like it?
Yeah, I tend to overthink. Did I not mention that?
Anyway, over those two days of intense reflection, I came to a simple conclusion.
I am me.
Yeah, it sounds dumb put like that, but it's more complicated. I am me, Carmine O'Hara, and no one decides what I am—not even magic powers that might've been handed to me by Cthulhu for all I know… I really hope I'm not turning into an outer god's champion, or worse, a future vessel.
Point is, those three words are a promise to myself: whatever these powers do to me, I'll adapt, and I'll stay the man I am.
Carmine O'Hara.
Freed of that weight, I kept up my training journey, which basically boiled down to hunting undead or Thenns to level up my spells.
As for the other wildlings, the reasonable ones back off after a magic demo; the stupid… brave ones get themselves killed—stupidly—… in an "epic and honorable" duel. I kept that up for about a month or two… I think. It's hard to know how much time has passed; I don't really pay attention to time.
I think I counted around forty sunrises and sunsets—give or take. Honestly, I don't really keep track. Survival in a hostile environment is easy when you have magic: I don't need to wash myself or my clothes thanks to Scruberoo, and same for the food I find in abandoned villages.
The cold preserves food well; one purification spell and it's good to go—though if the food's already spoiled, there's nothing I can do.
In those villages I also find lots of items—tools, weapons, etc.—which gives me great Repairio practice, to the point my inventory's filling up with quality gear even the "little southern lords" would pay a lot for. Almost all the weapons I had were in terrible shape at best, but now their steel is better than anything in the Seven Kingdoms… I think.
Too bad I don't know how to use any of them. The only martial art I know is street fighting.
I've also been training my two Mischievous spells on anything dumb enough to think I'm easy prey. It's pretty funny watching attackers sink into despair right in front of you when seconds earlier they were charging with weapons drawn—and don't get me started on how many times I almost burst out laughing watching wights wonder what they were doing mid-attack.
As for the Untamed spells, the fire spell is mostly for lighting campfires, burning my victims, the undead, and any corpses I find; the lightning spell is mostly for scaring wildlings. Of course, plenty still get a taste of my bolts because they think fighting a guy cosplaying an Elder Scrolls mage is a good idea.
All in all, the training trip's going pretty well, even if I miss a lot of the creature comforts from my old life—my weed, my guitar, my phone, my computer, my video games, Netflix—and, fuck, I'd kill for sweets. Anything. Candy or cake, as long as it's sugary enough to give me diabetes that would shock the doctors back home… oh, and sex, because a man's got needs.
Anyway, back to business.
With my magic shield covering my body like a second skin, I catch the blade meant for my head, then slam my reinforced fist into the jaw of one of the wildlings who ambushed me.
His jaw tears loose, hanging limp by a strip of flesh. I step back and drive my boot into his chest; I can feel his ribs crack underfoot.
His body flies back and hits the snow, then stays still. Status pretty clear.
I look at the rest of the wildlings, honestly surprised to see them drop their weapons after the first death. Usually it takes four or five more for them to realize they don't stand a chance. A tiny part of me is disappointed I won't get to use magic on them—a little voice I shut up fast.
One of them, a woman, steps forward slowly, hands raised, like she's afraid her mere existence might piss me off enough to kill her for it.
"Greetings, Great Hunter." Great what now? What kind of bullshit is this? "We apologize for this attack. We didn't know it was you."
Offended? What the hell is this?
Wait—do I have a reputation?