Before he transmigrated, Aldric spent his free time either gaming or scrolling through short-form videos. He'd watched his fair share of wilderness survival and beach foraging content.
If those content creators could find plenty of protein on modern coastlines ravaged by industrialization, there was no reason he couldn't find food on this wild shore.
But... tomorrow. He was too tired today.
Aldric found a flat stone and propped it over his campfire.
Once the stone was hot, he placed the gutted little fish on it and pan-fried them slowly.
Compared to the spit-roasted fish from the day before, the stone-fried ones had less of a smoky flavor but a distinct taste of their own. The only drawback was the meager portion size.
The next morning, Aldric carried his largest fish trap to the seashore.
Perhaps because fate favors a cheerful man, he arrived just as the tide was going out.
Although this world wasn't Earth, it shared similar physical laws and celestial structures.
It had a sun, a moon, and a sky full of stars, so naturally, it had day, night, and tides.
Little sea creatures had ridden the tide ashore to play but forgot the departure time for the ride home. When the tide receded, they were stranded on the mudflats, gravel, and rocks, unable to return. Aldric caught them one by one and put them in his basket.
Aldric was an inlander, but he had an ocean-sized appetite and no aversion to seafood.
Relying on his powerful memory, he mimicked the beachcombing warriors from the video platforms, pulling all sorts of shellfish, sea crabs, shrimp, and seaweed from every nook and cranny. He soon had a full basket.
Sigh. If he'd known it was this easy to get food, why did he waste so much effort weaving those useless fish traps…
The ancients said: live off the mountain if you're near a mountain, live off the sea if you're near the sea. They weren't kidding.
In just over an hour, Aldric had secured a day's worth of food.
He returned to his camp elated and submerged the basket in the river to keep his catch from drying out and spoiling.
Then, he took his helmet from his cave and propped it over the campfire. Yes, after careful consideration, Aldric had decided to abandon his plan to make pottery and just use his helmet as a cooking pot.
He could drink water from his crystal vials and make soup in his helmet. Why bother with the hassle of making pottery?
It was a bit unfair to his epic-grade helmet, forcing it to bear a burden it was never meant for.
To this, Aldric could only apologize profusely. I'm so sorry. When I was picking which gear to bring, I forgot to grab a rounder helmet from the junk pile to use as a pot. You'll have to make do.
After eating a pot of delicious seafood soup, Aldric laid the leftover meat on a flat stone he'd chosen specifically for this purpose, leaving it to dry in the sun as future rations.
In the days that followed, Aldric fell into a routine. He'd wake up early, wash up, then head to the seashore with his basket to gather a day's worth of food during the morning low tide.
With nothing else to do, he spent the rest of his time on the beach. He'd watch the horizon, hoping for a passing ship to rescue him, while practicing his weapon skills to solidify his combat techniques. He also worked on removing any moves from his muscle memory that required the use of the Sun Force.
But the weather is unpredictable. On the eleventh day, as Aldric, fully armed, was practicing his sword-and-shield techniques, he suddenly saw dark clouds blanket the distant horizon. A wall of water rose in the distance, covering the entire sea and gradually advancing toward the coast.
The spectacular sight left Aldric stunned for a moment. Crap, a huge storm!
He immediately turned and sprinted back to his camp.
Back at the river shoal, he grabbed his emergency food rations and water vial from the simple wooden shelf he'd built. After quickly gathering his scattered tools, he dove into his cave for shelter.
Outside, the sound of rain hitting the ground was like popping beans. Wind and rain, mixed with thunder and lightning, trapped him in his shelter.
At first, he watched the rising river through the small peephole in his mud wall with some regret, worrying that he should have chosen a higher spot for his cave. What if he got flooded in his sleep?
However, since this was a river mouth, the water level could only rise so much. It wouldn't get high enough to flood his shelter.
Although some rain seeped through the branch-woven door, the cave remained mostly dry because the cliff blocked the wind.
And so, Aldric spent two boring but peaceful days eating his dried meat and watching the rain. The storm finally subsided in the early hours of the third day.
When morning came, the wind and rain were gone. Aldric pushed open his cave door. The swollen river had completely submerged the shoal, and the storm had washed away all traces of his work there.
Wading and swimming across to the other side, Aldric righted his collapsed shelf and cleaned his stone cooking stove before heading to the beach with his one remaining fish trap.
He had survived for a full day in the cave on the dried fish he'd accumulated. If he didn't find more food soon, he'd be facing starvation again.
Besides, after a big storm, maybe some large creatures would be washed ashore. Oarfish, tuna, maybe even a whale.
If he could cut them up while they were still fresh and smoke them over a low fire, it would sustain him for a long time.
Filled with a strange sense of anticipation, Aldric ambled to the beach and began searching for suitable targets.
Oysters. Mm, no, he ate those every day.
A dead crab. Eww, gross. He kicked it away.
A stranded jellyfish. This could work. He could dry it and eat it with salt and wild vegetables.
An oak barrel. Hmm, could be used for... huh?!
An oak barrel?!
Aldric dropped his basket and ran over. He grabbed the barrel, half-buried in the sand, and looked inside. It was empty except for a little seawater.
A shipwreck! Aldric felt a surge of excitement, despite the grim implications.
This shipwreck confirmed that not only were there people in this world, but they also possessed a certain level of technology. This wasn't just a savage, untamed land.
As long as civilization existed, he would eventually find his place and wouldn't have to live out his days alone like a wild man.
And even in a shipwreck, some well-packaged supplies would likely wash ashore with the tide.
Maybe he could find something truly useful... like an iron pot and some cutlery!
Aldric walked further up the beach, in the direction the barrel had come from. He soon found some broken planks and a splintered mast.
Finally, between two relatively intact barrels, he found an unconscious, brown-haired boy, who had tied himself to one of the barrels with a rope.
Kevin Turner, fourteen years old, came from a knightly family on the Fingers, the House of Turner.
Ever since earning their knighthood for service in the Blackfyre Rebellion, House Turner had sworn fealty to House Coldwater of Coldwater Burn. House Coldwater swore fealty to House Royce of Runestone, who swore fealty to House Arryn of the Eyrie, who swore fealty to King Robert in King's Landing.
Kevin's father, John Turner, the current head of the family, served as a vassal to House Coldwater, managing a small village of just over a hundred people called Splitwater.
John Turner had been born in this secluded village, growing up with the salty sea breeze. He was knighted at twenty-five and inherited his father's fiefdom at thirty-seven as the eldest son, becoming the sworn shield of Splitwater.
Of his two younger brothers, one became a sailor and died in a storm; the other traveled to the continent of Essos and became a sellsword.
Such was the fate of the sons of knightly houses: the firstborn inherited the family's legacy and responsibility, while the second sons took their father's coin and sought their own fortunes.
Kevin's generation was no exception.
Kevin Turner was John Turner's third child and second son.
The eldest son of House Turner was named Lannor, five years his senior.
In Kevin's small world, his father, who protected the entire village, was the greatest hero of all. His older brother was the second greatest.
And he himself was the third greatest hero, after those two.
When Kevin was no taller than a table, he'd trail after his brother like a shadow, mimicking his every move. He'd swing a round-tipped wooden sword his father had carved for him, shouting "For Coldwater Burn!" as he charged the village haystacks.
When playing war games with the other village children, he always had to be on his brother's team. When his brother charged, he charged. When his brother retreated, he retreated. When his brother shouted a battle cry, he shouted it too.
Until one day, his brother yelled, "I am Lannor Turner, Sworn Shield of Splitwater!" and he followed with, "I am Kevin Turner, Sworn Shield of Splitwater!"
For that, his furious brother beat him. When he ran home crying to his father, his father beat him again.
That night after dinner, John Turner called both brothers together. In front of the whole family, he told him, word by word, "Kevin, there is only one Sworn Shield of Splitwater, and that is me. When I die, it will be your brother, Lannor Turner. As for you, I will give you a sword and a horse, so you may go and seek your own honor."
Hurt and confused, Kevin desperately wanted to ask, Why? Am I not your son too? Wasn't I also born and raised in Splitwater?
But seeing his father's stern expression, he didn't dare ask.
He was eight years old that year. His brother was thirteen.
When Kevin turned thirteen, John Turner spent ten gold dragons to send his brother to another village.
The sworn shield of that village was a companion-in-arms of John Turner's.
And so Lannor became a squire to a landed knight, and Kevin knew he would never have the chance to be the sworn shield of Splitwater.
A year later, on his fourteenth name day, his father gave him a sword, a wooden shield, and a lean horse, and entrusted him to his uncle, who had returned from Essos for a visit.
On the day his uncle's visit ended, the two of them rode down the road out of the village. His uncle asked, "Do you hate your father?"
Kevin retorted, "Do you? Do you hate grandfather?"
His uncle laughed loudly and cursed, "You little brat! I hate everyone, but I'd never hate your grandfather! You think being the sworn shield of some run-down village is a big deal? Let me tell you, I've killed more knights on the battlefield than you have fingers and toes combined! The taxes your father collects in this village wouldn't even cover a good night of drinking in the worst tavern in the Free Cities!"
The scar on his uncle's face twisted like a writhing worm as he laughed boisterously.
Kevin's uncle was named Thomas Turner, a soldier of the Second Sons, and he had served with them for twenty-one years.
The Second Sons were a long-standing and renowned mercenary company founded in the Free Cities of Essos. Its members were mainly composed of the second sons from noble families in Westeros who could not inherit titles or lands, hence the name.
Thomas boasted that the current Prince of Dorne, the Red Viper, had once been one of their members. "That guy was always messing with women, but he was damn good with a spear!"
He had returned from the east this time on a mission to escort a great lord back to King's Landing. The journey had gone smoothly, and after completing the task, he had a month left before his deadline to return to the company.
He hadn't been home in twenty years. After much thought, he decided to return to Splitwater to see if the stubborn old man was still alive.
Taking passage on ships sailing between the north and south, Thomas finally made it back to his hometown after more than a week of travel.
When he arrived home, he found his brother worrying about Kevin's future. John Turner was torn between sending Kevin to become a glover's apprentice or asking his liege lord for a position in the Coldwater city watch.
That evening, the two brothers ate roasted mutton and drank new wine while discussing Kevin's future.
Thomas said to his brother, "The lad's sturdy."
"Mm."
"Sturdier than his brother."
John Turner looked up at his younger brother, then lowered his head and took another drink of wine. "You were always sturdier than me too."
After a moment of silence, Thomas said, "Let him come with me to the Free Cities. It's better than staying here and being weathered into jerky by the sea wind."
"Which company are you with now?"
"The Second Sons."
On the road from Splitwater to White Harbor, Thomas constantly described the bright future of a sellsword to his nephew, who had been sullen the entire journey.
"A good lad like you will definitely become a core member of the company. Work hard, and it won't be long before you're a full member. You'll have food to eat and pay to earn. But don't squander your pay. Your uncle will help you save it up. Once we have enough, I'll take you to the best blacksmith in the Free Cities and have a suit of the strongest armor made for you."
Thomas patted his chest. "Better than this set of mine. Even better than your brother's."
"That's not Lanny's, it's father's."
"It's all the same. Wasn't it passed down from your grandfather?"
Armor better than the family's ancestral chainmail? What would that be like?
Lost in his imagination, Kevin gradually forgot the sorrow of leaving home. A smile appeared on his face. By then, his home was far behind him, no longer in sight.