Chapter 6: Dead Man or Coward?
A second White Walker emerged silently from the shadows behind a tree, looking almost identical to the first, he could not distinguish between them. Then came a third, a fourth... Egger's heart plummeted. When a fifth pale silhouette entered his peripheral vision, the man's blood turned to ice. Something is wrong. Shouldn't there only be one!
Wait—there might have only been one who stepped forward to kill Waymar, but as for how many actually appeared, he truly had no clear memory of that detail!
There was no time to consider whether the story of this world was deviating from the plot or if his own memory was at fault; a far more pressing choice loomed. If it were only one or two, he might have summoned the courage to fight, relying on his dragonglass. But the enemy's numbers far exceeded their own. Dragonglass might indeed kill a White Walker, but its wielder possessed no legendary martial arts or superhuman agility. Slaying a crowd of magical monsters with a single glass shiv? Impossible!
(Be a hero for five seconds and fall in this nameless hollow of the Haunted Forest only to be raised as part of the army of the dead, or...)
In less than half a second, Egger made his choice. He aborted his rush toward Waymar, spun around, and bolted. Out of a sense of duty—and to ease his own conscience while alerting Gared, who was watching the horses nearby—he roared as he turned: "Don't fight! Run!"
"Coward!" The young noble's roar, mixed with the whistle of a longsword cutting through the air, erupted behind him. Royce was already too close to the eerie intruder; there was no time, no space, and no intention to turn and flee. The castle-forged steel clashed with the White Walker's translucent weapon, but instead of shattering it as Waymar expected, it emitted a high, thin screech at the very limit of human hearing—like the pained wail of a dying animal.
The other White Walkers did not intervene. They stood as silent observers, showing not a shred of doubt regarding the outcome. One of them looked at Egger's retreating back and spoke a sentence in a shrill, grating voice—like nails on a chalkboard—that Egger couldn't understand but which clearly held meaning. Another White Walker gave a slight nod, gripped its weapon, and gave chase.
Behind him, the sharp, glass-cracking collisions rang out again and again, echoing through the dense woods and startling a murder of crows into the sky. A few seconds later, amidst a defiant roar of "Long live King Robert!" from Royce, the sound transitioned into a crisp explosion like shattering jars, followed by the young noble's agonized scream.
Egger did not look back. He accelerated.
The pulse of his blood hammered against his eardrums and his soul, making it hard to hear anything else. Neither before nor after his transmigration had he ever been this close to death. The monsters behind him were more terrifying than the most brutal murderers or terrorists; their sole purpose was to kill him and use his corpse to swell the ranks of their fledgling army. This was the struggle for dominance between ice and fire, life and death—there was no room for negotiation.
The ringmail, the heavy furs, the steel sword... in a desperate flight for life, everything external felt incredibly heavy. Egger practically had to force himself to resist the urge to drop his weapon. Running to survive was, after all, slightly different from a blind, panicked rout.
The exertion left his brain slightly oxygen-deprived. The echoes of the young noble's horrific screams, mixed with Egger's own heartbeat and gasping breath, made everything feel blurred. Was he in another nightmare? Perhaps when he woke up, he would find himself back in the Rangers' quarters at Castle Black, his back drenched in sweat?
There was snow on the ground, and beneath it, puddles and rocks... On the way in, they could pick their path carefully. Now, in a race for his life, there was no such luxury. In his daze, his foot struck a rounded stone, and he instantly lost his balance. The ground rushed up to meet him. He took a nasty "dog-eating-dirt" tumble, his face slamming into tree roots and branches hidden in the snow, leaving a searing pain.
In that instant, his past flashed before his eyes like a slideshow—from childhood games to school, graduation, starting work, finding a girlfriend, and preparing to build a home. And just then, he had transmigrated into this cursed world, and by some stroke of luck, followed that jinx Waymar Royce on patrol, only to trip at the most critical moment. Was it truly his destiny to die today?
First a Transmigrator Night's Watchman, and now perhaps the first Transmigrator Wight? Dark humor indeed...
THOOM! A massive impact jerked him from his memories. In his mind, he had recapped his entire life, but in reality, his face had only been on the ground for a second. The snow had caused the fall, but it also cushioned the impact. His face stung, but he was largely unharmed.
Egger felt he still had a chance. He pushed himself up and immediately found the source of the noise. Embedded in a straight pine tree directly in his path was a crystalline ice sword surrounded by a faint blue glow, looking eerie and terrifying under the pale moon. The force behind the throw was so immense that nearly half a meter of the blade was buried deep in the trunk.
(If he hadn't tripped just now, he would have been pinned to that tree by that beautiful, translucent magical weapon.)
One moment Egger's heart had been like cold ash over his stumble; the next, he felt a surge of gratitude like never before. Thank the Old Gods, the Seven, the Lord of Light, the Many-Faced God, or any other god out there... He swore that if he made it back to the Wall alive, he would donate a grand statue to every single god in Westeros once he became successful.
But for now, he had to seize the life-saving opportunity this lucky fall had provided. Egger scrambled to his feet and finally couldn't help but look back. Royce's screaming had stopped. On the ridge Will had led him over minutes ago, a greyish silhouette stood silently, muttering something in that bone-chilling, screeching tongue, as if cursing the fact that its perfect throw had missed.
Once, he had laughed himself silly at "crack" videos where netizens dubbed the scene of the White Walker killing the dragon Viserion with sports commentary from the Olympics javelin event. Who would have thought that today, he would be on the receiving end of a luxury attack capable of slaying a dragon? Should he feel honored or insulted?
The moon hung silently in the deep black sky. Egger locked eyes with the White Walker pursuing him and realized: this one... is currently unarmed.
The monster had thrown an ice sword, not a spear; Egger didn't know if this was the same one who would later kill Viserion. He instinctively picked up his steel sword to face it for a moment, but ultimately suppressed the "I can win" feeling. He didn't know if the creature had other tricks, and even if he could kill this one, there were more White Walkers on the other side of the ridge finishing off Waymar.
The temptation of killing a White Walker was nothing compared to the value of his own life.
He glanced at the ice blade stuck in the tree, realized he didn't have the strength to pull it out, and stared at his opponent for one more second. Once certain it wouldn't manifest another spear out of thin air to shoot him, he turned and continued running toward where the horses were tied.
...
"What happened?" Gared shouted from a distance. He had heard Waymar's screams and was already mounted with the reins untied, ready to bolt. If Egger had appeared a few seconds later, the veteran would have disappeared with all four horses. "Where are Waymar and Will?"
"White Walkers!" Egger panted, reaching the tree. He grabbed the reins of his horse and scrambled up with hands and feet. "Run!"
"White Walkers?" Gared's eyes widened, looking past him into the distance. "Is... is that it following you?"
Egger stiffened and looked back. In the dark woods, the creature's silhouette was hard to see, but the moonlight reflecting off the ice sword in its hand and a pair of glowing blue eyes were unmistakable. The figure raised its arm again. A flash of blue light.
"Get down!" Egger roared the moment he realized the danger, hugging the horse's neck.
The veteran obeyed without hesitation, a move that saved his life. The ice sword whistled past Gared's leather cap and struck Will's horse in the head. Even then, its momentum wasn't spent; it slammed into the tree where Waymar's horse had been tied with a deafening thwack, sending wood chips flying. Snow from the canopy tumbled down, burying the two men and four horses in a white shower.
What kind of strength is this?
The dead horse collapsed with a heavy thud. The remaining three panicked and neighed. Gared's mount reared up, nearly throwing him off. The veteran clung to the neck to survive the crisis, but Waymar's horse, which he had been holding, broke free and vanished into the night. Battered and terrified, the two men had no time to shake off the snow or chase the loose horse. They kicked their mounts' flanks and fled south without looking back.
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