"A stranger is never truly lost. He carries his world with him, even when all else is taken away."
— Saying from the Murim
The first thing Jin noticed about Westeros was the silence.
Murim had always hummed with qi, with the endless clash of sects and the restless currents of men seeking power. But here, the air was heavy and still, carrying only the cries of crows and the rustle of grass. His senses felt muffled, his qi like a candle struggling against the wind.
He descended the hill slowly, the broken staff steady in his hand. Villages dotted the valleys below, their cottages of stone and straw clustered like frightened animals. Farmers watched him from afar, pausing in their work, suspicion sharp in their eyes. Their tongue was strange to his ear, but the fear in their voices was familiar.
To them, he must have looked otherworldly — tall, foreign, his robe scorched, his face serene in a way no man bleeding so badly should be.
When hunger drove him to a village, they gave him bread with trembling hands. When he bowed in thanks, they whispered behind him. A woman crossed herself. A child stared, wide-eyed, whispering a word Jin did not yet understand: "Sorcerer."
That night, he found rest beneath the eaves of the forest. The stars above were alien, and for the first time since Murim, Jin allowed himself to wonder if he had truly died.
But when morning came, so too did the world's cruelty.
---
The Bandits
They came with torches, rough men with rusted swords and hungry eyes. They demanded grain from farmers who had none to give, shoving a boy to the ground when he begged for mercy.
Jin rose from where he sat, his staff in hand. His body still ached, his qi a flicker — but righteousness did not wait for strength.
"Leave," he said simply.
The bandits laughed. One swung a sword at him. Jin's staff moved once — the blade snapped, the man thrown back into the dirt. The second lunged with a dagger. Jin struck his wrist; bone cracked; the dagger fell.
The others fled into the night, curses trailing behind them.
The farmers stared. The boy clutched his mother's skirts, whispering again, "Sorcerer."
Jin shook his head. "Not sorcerer. Shield."
He left before dawn, though whispers of the stranger with eyes of iron and hands faster than sight followed him down the road.