"To wield the sword is to bear its burden. Not for glory. Not for vengeance. But to stand where no one else will, and to shield those who cannot shield themselves."
— Jin Mu-Won, the Sword Saint
The night sky burned.
Fire coiled down the mountainside, painting the Valley of Broken Heavens in crimson light. What had once been the sanctum of Murim's purest martial traditions was now little more than a graveyard of shattered stone and broken men. The banners of the evil sects whipped in the storm wind — a skull dripping black ichor, a serpent coiled around a bleeding sun, the crimson flame of the Black Monks. Their armies filled the valley like a tide, the roar of their war-cries echoing off every jagged peak.
At the center stood a lone man.
Jin Mu-Won. The Sword Saint of Murim.
His robe was torn, the fabric stiff with dried blood, but his spine remained straight. His hair whipped in the night wind, dark as obsidian, streaked with smoke. His sword — Heaven's Fall — still glimmered faintly, though its edge had been dulled by the endless slaughter.
The masters circled him like carrion birds.
"Give up, Sword Saint," hissed the Blood Serpent Patriarch, his spear dripping venom that ate holes into the earth. His smile showed teeth sharpened to points.
The Black Flame Monk slammed his burning staff into the ground, sparks dancing. "Your disciples are gone. Your sect lies in ash. Even you cannot fight the heavens."
Jin's voice carried through the fire and screams. Calm. Firm. Steady as the earth beneath their feet.
"One man cannot hold the heavens. But one man can hold the line. So long as he does not falter. So long as he remembers who he fights for."
And then they came.
The valley shook as the masters of the demonic sects descended. Poison. Fire. Shadow. Blades that could split mountains, sorcery that could drink the soul from a man's bones.
But Jin Mu-Won moved.
His blade sang through the night, arcs of silver light that cut faster than sight. His qi roared, shaking the mountains, splitting stone, scattering men like leaves in a storm. Where he struck, masters fell, their bodies broken, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of his will.
Ten fell in the first clash. Twenty more in the second. The ground was slick with blood, the air alive with thunder.
But even saints bleed.
A spear tore through his side. Fire consumed his arm. His vision blurred, his breath ragged. And still he stood, unyielding, as one calamity after another pressed upon him.
At the end, when his knees trembled and his sword cracked, Jin lifted Heaven's Fall skyward one final time.
"If I must fall," he whispered, voice thick with blood, "then let my life be the shield that holds until dawn."
The heavens split.
The stars above twisted, rivers of light spilling into the valley. The fragments of his shattered blade rose into the air like fireflies, carried upon unseen currents. His enemies recoiled, shielding their eyes, screaming in confusion.
And then he was gone.
---
Arrival
When Jin awoke, he lay on a hill of green grass, beneath a sky he did not know. The stars were strange, their patterns unfamiliar. His wounds still burned, yet something in the air felt different — sharper, heavier, alive in a way his qi had never known.
The sword was gone. Only a broken staff lay beside him, its wood splintered but serviceable. He leaned upon it, pushing himself upright.
Far away, upon the horizon, he saw black towers rising like jagged teeth, banners whipping in a wind that carried no scent of home.
Jin Mu-Won breathed once, steadying his heart.
"If I must fight again," he murmured, "then let me shield again. Always."
And so began his life in Westeros.