He had been sitting on that frozen rock for two days now.
Waiting for death.
Since waking up here two weeks ago — in the body of a seven-year-old child — he hadn't stopped wondering how he had ended up in such a place.
Originally, he had been an ordinary, respectable man. He worked to provide for his family, rested when he could, enjoyed life in fleeting moments, and dealt with the problems it threw his way.
But perhaps someone should have warned life itself that sending him into the world of Game of Thrones, inside the body of a seven-year-old, wasn't the kind of problem a normal man could solve.
He had spent the first week adapting to his new surroundings, trying to understand where he was.
The next was spent frantically searching for a way to secure an existence worth living.
Because yes — he was a rational man.
His former family would be missed, but life had made its choice. They would never meet again.
There was nothing he could do about it, so why dwell on it?
And the conclusion of all his long reflections was simple: he wasn't enough.
The man he once was lacked the skills, the strength, and the qualities needed to hope for even a decent life in this world.
Let's put it simply, for those too slow to follow:
Westeros was a harsh world. A truly harsh world.
A medieval realm frozen in time for more than twelve thousand years.
A place where magic existed — the bad kind, not the good.
Where fantastical creatures existed — again, the bad kind.
Where gods existed — not the good ones, but the bad kind.
A society where the strong ruled the weak, and birth determined destiny every single day.
Life was written at birth:
Girl or boy.
Noble or peasant.
Rich or poor.
Strong or weak.
Everything was decided the moment you drew your first breath.
At least he'd had the luck of being born male.
The rest… not so much.
He had been born to a woman who died in childbirth.
He didn't even know who his father was — probably dead, or off "buying milk."
And the most interesting part?
He had been born beyond the Wall.
A wildling. Or, as they preferred to call themselves, one of the "Free Folk."
That alone was enough to doom him.
He was weak, untrained, and fragile. He would likely die of illness, hunger, or cold within months.
Far from any form of "civilized" society (quotation marks are intended).
And if the cold didn't take him soon, it would be a band of raiders, a tribal feud … or maybe a White Walker. (He wouldn't have minded seeing one, honestly.)
Some determined men would say giving up like this was cowardly. That he should at least try to carve out a life worth living, even if it was far humbler than those in the castles of Westeros.
But those men were arrogant — speaking comfortably from their warm beds, safe houses, with food, clean water, electricity, and memory-foam mattresses that would make a medieval emperor weep with envy.
Comparing the comfort of a modern life to that of a man in Westeros was like comparing the Mona Lisa to a pile of cow dung. (And he wouldn't be surprised if some modern artist had already tried.)
And so, he found himself sitting on that frozen stone, surrounded by snow, waiting to die — hoping the cold would claim him before he could feel it happen.
It seemed to be working. He was starting to hallucinate.
When he looked at his hands, he no longer saw hands — only muscles, blood vessels, and tendons contracting and releasing…
Yes. He was sure of it now.
He was dying.
He placed his hands back on his knees, resumed his meditative posture, and closed his eyes.
But as he breathed, something felt… wrong.
A discomfort.
An instinct whispering that something wasn't right.
He tried to ignore it — until he understood.
His breathing was off.
He made several attempts, perhaps dozens, before finally taking a deep, full breath.
And this time, he felt it — instantly.
It was like a man waking from a coma.
A dream made real.
A schizophrenic finding clarity.
Honestly, he couldn't describe it.
But at that exact moment, he knew what he had just done.
He had breathed like a character from Demon Slayer.
And the vision he'd had earlier wasn't a hallucination.
It was the Transparent World.
He opened his eyes.
The world was still just as miserable, but his desire to die had been pushed aside.
He needed to know whether he had gone insane — or if this was real.
And the quickest way to find out was, of course, through combat.
He picked up a simple stone knife and headed toward the cave of the bear that ruled this stretch of land.
At least if he was truly insane, he'd die faster than waiting for the cold to finish the job.
The bear lived about a hundred meters away, in a rocky hollow he had found the day before.
A massive den carved into the hillside, surrounded by bones and frozen carcasses.
The place reeked of death and survival — which, here, were the same thing.
He made no effort to hide his approach.
He didn't care anymore.
He wanted an answer — quickly.
So he entered the cave.
The bear was there.
A colossal creature, towering over his frail, child-sized body.
It rose slowly from its resting position and began to growl — a low, primal rumble that made the stone walls tremble.
The child didn't move.
He simply raised his knife toward the beast.
Perhaps the animal understood his intent.
Or perhaps it simply wanted to eat.
A wall of flesh, fur, and raw hatred.
It lunged, jaws wide, with a roar that shook the cave.
The child stood still.
Unflinching.
To an outside observer, what followed would have seemed… strange.
One moment, the bear's paw was reaching for the boy.
The next, blood splattered across the walls, and the beast's head rolled to the floor.
But for the boy, the scene was entirely different.
The Transparent World was aptly named.
It felt like stepping into a realm apart from humanity.
Time itself seemed to slow — to pause.
He saw everything.
The tension in the muscles.
The flow of air.
The condensation of breath.
The pulse of blood through veins.
And faint, flickering sparks inside the creature's brain.
Then his body moved — on its own.
Following an invisible line that led unerringly to the beast's death.
The knife struck the paw, slicing upward along the arm, guided by the bear's own momentum.
The blade cut effortlessly, from paw to shoulder, tracing the grooves of muscle as if the body itself showed him where to strike.
The boy stepped forward, pivoted his hips, and drew the knife up toward the neck.
The blade, too short to decapitate in one motion, stuck halfway through the flesh.
He shifted sideways, turned on the balls of his feet, seized the handle with his other hand, and pulled sharply.
A crack.
Then silence.
He stood behind the creature, its body still carried forward by its own weight.
All he heard was the splatter of blood and the heavy thud of a lifeless body collapsing.
A second later — plop.
The head hit the ground.
But the boy no longer cared.
He had left the Transparent World.
His body trembled, drained of all strength.
His breathing was ragged, his nostrils bleeding slightly.
But he ignored it.
What he had just experienced was, without a doubt, the most terrifying moment of his entire life.
And not because he had faced a wild beast weighing half a ton.
No.
That part had been easy.
Too easy.
And that was what scared him.
He hadn't cut the bear.
No — it was something else.
It felt like an author deciding to kill a character: a single sentence written, and the deed was done.
He had simply written that sentence into flesh — and the universe had obeyed.
As if inscribing the words the bear dies into reality itself had been enough to make it true.
It wasn't even a fight.
He had controlled his body to such an extent that any confrontation became… unfair.
Fundamentally unfair.
And in that instant, he understood.
He understood where this power came from.
It came from Yoriichi Tsugikuni.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
That absolute calm.
That harmony between thought, breath, and movement.
That terrifying perfection — the kind that erases chance, fear, and even the will to struggle.
He understood Yoriichi —the man who, despite his strength, never sought glory.
Who desired only one thing: peace.
Because if Yoriichi lived every day in this state…then yes.
He hadn't needed enemies to know solitude.
The thought passed through him like a warm blade, and a long sigh escaped his lips.
His breath mingled with the icy mist — and vanished into the wind.
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A small attempt at writing after a long break.Let me know what you think!If you like the idea, please leave a comment — knowing that people are interested would really motivate me to keep going.
Thank you