Coldly watching the ragged remnants of the enemy flee, Aedric—his body spattered in blood—strode across the battlefield with both swords in hand. Whenever he found someone still twitching, he gave them a merciful finishing strike.
Finishing blows were a good habit. Aedric had learned that two worlds ago.
Once he was sure no one was left breathing, he noticed something curious: the Mountain wasn't among the corpses.
So the brute had escaped. Despite his monstrous size, his survival instinct was impressive. No wonder he'd managed to live this long.
Glancing down at a few shallow cuts on his body and feeling the faint fatigue seeping in, Aedric sighed. "So this is the limit of a low-martial world," he muttered. "Barely a hundred enemies, and I'm already feeling it. Against thousands, even the strongest master would just get worn to death."
That thought made him respect the mythical swordswoman A Qing from Jin Yong's tales even more—the one who single-handedly slaughtered two thousand soldiers in formation.
Because that was the difference: formation.
Even at his peak, Aedric could maybe take on two thousand disorganized men if he went all out. But two thousand trained soldiers in formation? He'd turn around and run without a second thought. That wasn't bravery—it was suicide.
"Man… when will I get to visit a middle-martial or high-martial world? I really want to see what the scenery looks like there."
He shook his head with a wry smile, then turned toward the silent crowd. Tossing the massive Valyrian greatsword Ice back to a still-stunned Eddard Stark, he reached out and pinched Arya's flushed cheek gently.
"Arya, remember this," he said, enunciating every word:
"When you step onto the battlefield, abandon all thoughts of survival. As long as your sword is in your hand and there is no fear in your heart—then before you… there are no true enemies. Got it?"
"Jon!"
Overwhelmed with emotion, Arya leapt off her horse and threw herself into Aedric's arms, jumping up and down with pure joy, not caring that he was covered in blood.
No one else minded either. That blood wasn't filth—it was the proof of a new legend being born.
"The Sword of the Dawn…" someone whispered in awe.
To the soldiers of the North, the only swordsman they could compare him to was the late Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning."
Hearing that name, Eddard Stark's smile turned bitter.
He had fought Arthur once, long ago. He knew the difference between them—and he knew that, had he faced Aedric instead, he'd never have lived to tell the tale. One blow would have been enough.
"This child… what on earth has he been through?"
Suppressing the turmoil in his heart, Eddard opened his mouth to speak—but stopped when he saw Aedric lift Arya back onto her horse.
"You'll all head for Winterfell immediately," Aedric said calmly. "King's Landing won't be sending pursuit for a while. I'm going back—to try and get Sansa out."
"No!" Arya's face turned pale as she wrapped her arms around his neck, refusing to let go.
In her young heart, Aedric already meant far more than her silly, shallow sister ever had. The thought of him risking his life for Sansa terrified her.
"Jon, it's too dangerous. Let it go," Eddard urged, glancing at Aedric's battered state. "You've done more than enough. If you go back now—"
"My mind's made up," Aedric interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. Then, softening, he turned to Arya. "I promised I'd get your whole family back to Winterfell safely. I always keep my promises."
"Don't go, Jon, please!"
He smiled, brushing her hair with a blood-streaked hand, lifting her tear-stained face gently.
"Arya, this is the only chance to save your sister. No one will expect me to go back so soon.
And while your sister can be… a bit annoying, she's still just a girl. If she stays in enemy hands too long, something terrible could happen—and that's not something you can undo."
"Don't worry. I'm strong, remember? None of those King's Landing clowns can touch me. If I want to leave, no one can stop me."
Arya said nothing—just clung to him, trembling, tears spilling freely.
"Jon…"
When Eddard stepped forward, Aedric raised a hand to stop him. Then, carefully freeing himself from Arya's grip, he lifted her back onto her horse.
"If you really want to help me," he said seriously, "then ride for Winterfell as fast as you can. Rally the Northern banners. Let King's Landing fear your vengeance—that'll keep them from doing anything rash."
With that, he gently pried Arya's fingers from his arm, gave her a faintly apologetic smile, and swung onto a horse of his own.
Under dozens of stunned gazes, he spurred his mount and galloped away.
As the wind whipped past, Aedric couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Everyone had looked at him like he was some loyal, tragic hero of House Stark—when in truth, he couldn't care less about their family drama.
If it weren't for the mission specifically requiring the Starks, he'd have let "Little Miss Three-Silly" die in King's Landing without a second thought.
Still, he wasn't stupid. He'd only gone because he was prepared, with at least an eighty-percent chance of success. Unlike Eddard Stark, Aedric didn't charge into danger blind. Strategy was an art the Chinese had mastered long ago.
Soon, he reached the same waterway outside King's Landing. Without hesitation, he dove in again.
But this time, he chose a different tunnel.
No one had ever said he'd dug just one. In fact, over the past few months, he'd opened five separate underwater routes, anticipating every possible contingency.
This one was longer—much longer. Nearly half an hour passed before he surfaced, lungs burning even with the aid of the Breath-Holding Technique from the Nine Yin Manual.
When he finally broke the surface, night had fallen. Before him loomed the rear cliffs of the Red Keep—the steepest, most perilous part of the castle's defenses.
Gazing at the fortress lights flickering to life, Aedric's lips curved into a faint, mischievous smile.
"Alright then… time for the next act."
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