Before Ethan transmigrated, he spent his free time playing games and watching short videos, so he had seen plenty of survival and beachcombing content on various platforms.
Since those creators could harvest abundant protein along modern, industrialized coastlines, there was no reason he couldn't find food on this pristine, wild shore.
But… tomorrow, he decided. He was far too exhausted today.
So Ethan picked up a flat stone slab and placed it over the campfire.
Once the slab was hot, he laid the gutted small fish on it and slowly pan-fried them.
Compared to the skewered grilled fish from the day before, the stone-grilled version lacked some of the smoky char, but it had its own crisp, unique flavor; the only drawback was the tiny portions.
Early the next morning, Ethan carried the fish trap with the largest belly down to the beach.
Perhaps because lucky boys always smile, he arrived exactly at low tide.
Although this world wasn't Earth, it followed similar physical laws and celestial mechanics.
It had a sun, a moon, and a sky full of stars—naturally producing day, night, and tides.
Small sea creatures, carried in by the tide, sometimes forgot the way back. When the water receded, they were left stranded on mudflats, sand, and boulders—easy prey for Ethan's trap.
Though he came from an inland background, Ethan had always loved seafood.
With his exceptional memory, he mimicked the beachcombers he'd seen in videos, rummaging through every crevice and tide pool for shells, crabs, shrimp, and seaweed. Before long, the cage was full.
"Ah… if I'd known getting food was this easy, why did I bother weaving those stupid fish traps…"
The old saying rang true: "Those who live by the mountain eat from the mountain; those who live by the sea eat from the sea."
In just over an hour, Ethan had secured his daily sustenance.
He returned to camp in high spirits, submerged the cage in shallow water to keep the catch fresh, and then retrieved his helmet from its hiding spot.
After careful thought, he abandoned the idea of making pottery. Instead, he would use his helmet as a cooking pot.
He could drink from a crystal bottle and cook soup in the helmet—why bother with clay pots?
Though it pained him to reduce an epic-quality helmet to kitchen duty.
Ethan could only mutter an apology: "I'm truly sorry. When I was choosing gear to bring from my starting point, I forgot to grab one of the spare rounded helmets for cooking. Guess I'll have to make do."
After finishing a delicious pot of seafood soup, he scooped out the remaining meat and spread it on a flat rock to sun-dry, preserving it for leaner days.
In the days that followed, Ethan woke early each morning, fetched water to wash, then took his basket to the beach during low tide and returned with a full day's food.
With little else to occupy him, he lingered on the shore—hoping a passing ship might spot him—while practicing weapon forms to refine his combat skills and deliberately stripping out any techniques that relied on "sunlight" power from his muscle memory.
But fate loves surprises.
On the eleventh day of his unexpectedly leisurely new life, at noon, while Ethan was fully armored and drilling sword-and-shield drills, he suddenly noticed dark clouds swallowing the horizon. A towering wall of water rose in the distance, swallowing the sea and marching steadily toward the coast.
The spectacular sight froze him for a second: Damn—a massive storm!
He turned and sprinted back to camp.
At the riverbank site, he quickly dismantled the makeshift storage rack of wooden poles, gathered the emergency dried food and crystal bottles of drinking water he had prepared over the past few days, tidied the scattered tools, and crawled into his shelter.
Outside, rain hammered down like scattered beans, driven by howling wind, thunder, and lightning, sealing him inside.
At first, peeking through the small hole in the earthen wall and watching the river level rise, he regretted not digging higher up the slope. What if he fell asleep and the flood reached him?
Fortunately, being at the river mouth limited how high the water could climb—it never threatened to flood the cave.
Though some rainwater seeped through the woven-branch door, the cliff's overhang kept the interior mostly dry.
So Ethan ate his emergency dried fish, listened to the storm, and passed two boring yet strangely peaceful days until the rain finally eased in the early hours of the second morning.
When dawn arrived and the storm had passed, Ethan pushed open the cave entrance. The swollen river had completely submerged the bank, erasing every trace of his earlier work.
Wading and half-swimming, he crossed to the other side, propped up the collapsed frame, cleaned his stone stove, and—carrying the one remaining fish basket—headed toward the sea.
He had survived the entire day in the cave on accumulated dried fish. If he didn't restock soon, he'd face another food crisis.
Besides, after such a heavy rain, larger creatures might have washed ashore—oarfish, tuna, even whales. If he found them fresh, he could butcher them, haul the meat back, and slow-roast it over a low fire to preserve it for weeks.
With hopeful anticipation, Ethan strolled along the beach, scanning the sand for worthwhile finds.
Oysters… nah, he ate those every day.
A dead crab—ugh, disgusting. He kicked it away.
A stranded jellyfish—acceptable. A little drying, some salt, and wild greens would make it edible.
An oak barrel… hmm, that could be useful for—wait, what?!
An oak barrel?!
Ethan dropped the fish trap and rushed over. He pried open the half-buried cask and peered inside. Empty—only a little seawater sloshing at the bottom.
A shipwreck!
Though he felt a twinge of sympathy for whoever had been aboard, excitement surged through him.
This proved the world had humans—and a level of civilization. It wasn't some empty wilderness.
As long as people and ships existed, he could eventually find a settlement instead of living like a lonely castaway forever.
Even in a wreck, well-sealed supplies often floated ashore with the tides.
Maybe he'd find something truly useful… like a proper iron pot and utensils!
Ethan continued up the beach from the barrel and soon spotted broken planks and a snapped mast.
Finally, wedged between two relatively intact barrels, he found a brown-haired boy—unconscious, body lashed to one of the barrels with rope.
**Kevin Turner**, fourteen years old, came from the Turner family, a minor landed knightly house on the Fingers Peninsula.
Since being knighted for service during the Blackfyre Rebellion, the Turners had sworn fealty to House Corbray of Coldwater on the Fingers, who in turn swore to House Royce of Runestone, who swore to House Arryn of the Eyrie, who swore to King Robert in King's Landing.
Kevin's father, John Turner—current head of House Turner—was a vassal of House Corbray. He managed a small village of just over a hundred souls called Watershed for his liege lord.
John Turner had been born in that quiet coastal hamlet, raised amid salt air and crashing waves. Knighted at twenty-five, he inherited the modest fief at thirty-seven as the eldest son and became the sworn Guardian Knight of Watershed.
His two younger brothers met different fates: one became a sailor and perished in a storm; the other sailed to Essos to become a sellsword.
Such was the lot of knightly second and third sons: the heir inherited land and duty; the spares were given a sword, a horse, and a nudge to seek fortune elsewhere.
Kevin's generation followed the same pattern.
Kevin Turner was John Turner's third child and second son.
The eldest son was named Lannold—five years Kevin's senior.
In Kevin's young mind, his father—who shielded the entire village—was the greatest hero. His older brother was the second greatest.
He himself ranked third—right behind the two of them.
When Kevin was still small enough to stand beneath a table, he trailed his brother like a shadow, mimicking every move. He swung the round-headed wooden longsword their father had carved for him, charging haystacks while yelling, "For Coldwater!"
During village war games with the other children, he always demanded to be on his brother's team. Brother charged—he charged. Brother retreated—he retreated. Brother shouted a slogan—he echoed it.
Until one day his brother declared, "I am Lannold Turner, Guardian Knight of Watershed Village!"
Kevin echoed proudly, "I am Kevin Turner, Guardian Knight of Watershed Village!"
He received a furious beating from his brother for that.
When he ran home crying to tell their father, he received another from John.
That evening after supper, John gathered both boys and—before the whole family—said slowly and clearly:
"Kevin, there is only one Guardian Knight of Watershed Village. That is me. When I die, it will be your brother, Lannold Turner. You—I will give a sword and a horse, so you may seek your own honor."
Kevin, hurt and confused, wanted to ask why.
Wasn't he also a son? Wasn't he also born and raised in Watershed?
But seeing his father's grave expression, he stayed silent.
He was eight that year. His brother was thirteen.
When Kevin turned thirteen, John spent ten gold dragons to send Lannold to squire for a knight in a neighboring village—an old battlefield comrade.
Thus Lannold became a squire, and Kevin understood he would never hold Watershed's guardianship.
A year later, on his fourteenth nameday, his father gave him a real sword, a wooden shield, and a lean gelding, then entrusted him to his uncle—recently returned from Essos—who was visiting family.
On the day the visit ended, uncle and nephew rode out along the coastal road.
His uncle asked, "Do you hate your father?"
Kevin shot back, "Do you hate your father?"
The older man laughed roughly. "Brat! I hate everyone—but not my old man. You think being Guardian Knight of a rundown fishing hamlet is something grand? Let me tell you—I've killed more knights on the battlefield than you have fingers and toes. The taxes your father squeezes from that village wouldn't buy me one decent night in the worst tavern in the Free Cities!"
The scars on his uncle's face twisted with his laughter like angry worms.
Kevin's uncle was Thomas Turner, a twenty-one-year veteran of the Second Sons.
The Second Sons was an old, respected sellsword company based in the Free Cities of Essos. Its ranks were filled mostly with second sons of Westerosi nobility who could not inherit—hence the name.
Thomas bragged that even Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne had once ridden with them. "That man was always surrounded by women—and damn deadly with a spear!"
He had returned from the East after escorting a high-ranking client to King's Landing. The job was done; he had a month before his next contract.
Twenty years had passed since he last saw home. After long thought, he decided to visit Watershed—to see if his stubborn old father still breathed.
After a week-long voyage north on a wind-dependent trader, Thomas finally stepped ashore near White Harbor and made his way home.
He arrived just as his brother John was agonizing over Kevin's future: apprentice him to a glove-maker, or beg Lord Corbray for a guard post in Coldwater?
That evening the brothers shared roast lamb and this year's new ale, debating the boy's path.
Thomas said, "The lad's got some meat on him."
"Yeah."
"More than his brother had at that age."
John glanced up, took a swallow. "More than me, too."
After a long silence, Thomas said, "Let him come with me to the Free Cities. Better than rotting here under the salt wind."
"Which company?"
"Second Sons."
All the way from Watershed to White Harbor, Thomas had painted glowing pictures of mercenary life to his sullen nephew.
"A fine lad like you will rise fast. Work hard, become a full brother in no time. Food, coin, the works. But don't waste the pay—your uncle will hold it for you. When there's enough, we'll go to the best smith in the Free Cities and forge you armor stronger than mine—stronger than your brother's."
Thomas thumped his chest.
"That's not Lannold's armor," Kevin muttered. "That's Dad's."
"Same difference. Passed down from Grandfather, wasn't it?"
What kind of armor could possibly outshine the family heirloom chainmail?
Lost in daydreams of steel and glory, Kevin gradually forgot the ache of leaving home. A small smile crept onto his face.
At that moment, his village lay far behind—already out of sight.