Chapter: The Cove
The air smelled of salt and fish. I checked to be sure, but no—I didn't find any ladies. What a shame.
Westeros—or at least the corner of it I woke up in—wasn't exactly the kind of place you book a vacation to. The waves crashed against the jagged rocks below me like the sea was mad at the world, gulls screeched in the distance, and yelling back at them didn't do a damn thing. Not that I actually yelled—just thinking out loud.
My head throbbed, my ribs ached, and every muscle felt like I'd been used as a battering ram. The world was way too quiet. As a New Yorker, silence was basically unnatural. Back home there was always something—a car horn, someone arguing, music blasting from somewhere. This emptiness? It felt… eerie. Like the world was holding its breath.
Well, the pity party could only last so long. I rubbed my temples and forced myself up, joints popping like fireworks. The coastline stretched wide on both sides, wild and untouched. Cliffs rose in the distance, pale and jagged like broken teeth, and a huge, bitchin' castle sat further inland—too far to tell whose, but big enough to scream "important people live here."
Smoke curled faintly from a village about a mile off. Probably people. Probably problems.
Now, most folks would walk toward the smoke. Me? I'm Mexican—I don't just stroll into a random medieval village and hope they're friendly. If I learned anything in my past life, it's that humans are the most dangerous predators on Earth. And that's before you add dragons, ice zombies, and nobles with a god complex.
And let's be honest—I don't exactly blend in. I'm tan, broad-shouldered, and got golden eyes that catch the light. Not exactly the look of a good ol' Westerosi peasant. More like "witch," "demon," or "burn him before supper."
"Alright, Victor," I muttered, slapping my cheeks to wake myself up. "You're in Westeros. During the murder era. So be smart, don't trust anybody, and for the love of all that's holy—don't fuck around with married bitches. Simple rules, simple life."
The pep talk helped—barely. I took stock of what I had: no money, no food, no weapons, and no friends. My ability—the one ace up my sleeve—was there, humming faintly under my skin like static electricity. But it was weak. Unstable. Every time I tried to focus on it, it slipped away, moving only to one part of my body like a muscle I hadn't figured out how to flex right.
Guess I didn't have the juice yet to pull a full Kirishima.
Hardening—that's what I called it. My one way to not die horribly in this medieval nightmare. If I couldn't master it, I might as well take a dive off the nearest cliff and save the locals the trouble.
So yeah—priority one: survive.
Priority two: get food and shelter.
Priority three: make a plan that doesn't end with me on a roasting spit.
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Shelter
The coastline wasn't generous, but it wasn't hopeless either. Rocky, uneven, covered in brush and low shrubs that looked like they'd stab you just for walking too close. The sea wind was cold, sharp enough to make my teeth ache, and the clouds overhead looked heavy with the promise of rain.
I moved slow, keeping low along the rocks. Always watching the smoke in the distance. The last thing I needed was to be spotted by some paranoid fisherman or, worse, one of those "honorable knights."
Yeah. "Honorable." More like the grand order of hypocrites and idiots. They'd form a guild, put it on banners, and call themselves "The Brotherhood of Dumb Decisions."
God, I missed tequila. Without it, my brain just freewheeled into stupid thoughts like that.
Still, I kept walking, hugging the cliffs, scanning for anything that could pass for shelter. After an hour of scrambling, slipping, and cursing every rock in sight, I found it—a small cave near the base of a cliff, half-hidden behind a curtain of brush and twisted roots.
Bingo.
It opened just enough for me to squeeze through sideways. Inside, it was dark but not pitch-black. The air smelled faintly of moss and salt. The floor was uneven, littered with pebbles and patches of sand, but at least it was dry.
Not bad. Not good either. But hey, it beats sleeping out in the open where some wild beast could decide I look like dinner.
I dropped down against the stone wall with a grunt and exhaled. "Not bad, old boy. Not good either—but we make do."
I ran my hands along the wall, feeling the cold stone under my fingers. The place wasn't big—maybe enough for me to lie down and stash some stuff if I ever got any. The brush outside would hide the entrance if I was careful. Perfect temporary base.
The waves echoed faintly from outside, steady and rhythmic. For the first time since waking up, I felt a little… calmer. Not safe, but calm.
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The Plan
Okay. Step one: shelter.check
Step two: get food,on hiatus
Step three: figure out where the hell in the timeline I am.
Because, yeah—this world had its moments. There were decades where everything was relatively chill, and then there were decades where kings, lords, and dragons all decided to play "let's ruin civilization." I needed to know which one I got dropped into.
The village could have answers, but walking in blind was suicide. They'd take one look at my eyes and start gathering torches. So for now—Plan C.
That left me with the sea and the land.
The coast meant fish. Maybe shellfish or crabs if I got lucky. Problem was, I didn't have anything to catch them with. No net, no hook, no line. I could maybe stab one with a stick—but to get a stick sharp enough to stab with, I needed tools.
And to get tools, I needed… yeah. Tools.
"Perfect," I muttered. "Step 2 of my brilliant plan: get things to get other things. Great start, genius."
My stomach growled. Loudly. It was the kind of growl that made you question your life choices.
"Alright, alright, I get it," I said to myself, pushing off the wall. "Food's on the list. Don't get pissy."
---
Scouting
I spent the next few hours exploring the area, moving carefully so I didn't twist an ankle or get eaten. The terrain was rough—patches of grass, clusters of stubborn shrubs, and a few gnarled trees bent sideways by years of wind. Here and there, I saw animal tracks—birds, maybe small rodents—but nothing big enough to hunt.
Still, I found a few promising things: driftwood, smooth stones, and dried vines that could work as makeshift rope. Primitive tools, but it was a start.
I picked up one of the thicker branches, testing the weight. "You'll do," I muttered. "If I can sharpen you."
The problem, of course, was that I didn't have a blade. No knife, no sword, not even a piece of flint sharp enough to cut with. Just my hands.
Then I remembered—I didn't need a tool. I was the tool.
Kirishima used to harden his skin to the point where he could punch through stone. If I could even get close to that, I'd be fine.
I gripped the driftwood tight, focused, and willed that energy under my skin to move. It buzzed faintly, spreading through my arm. My hand tensed, veins bulging.
Then, slowly, it worked.
The skin on my fingers darkened, not in color exactly—more in texture. It looked… wrong. Like living stone. Still skin-colored, but tougher, denser. Every flex made it feel like metal under tension.
"Okay," I muttered. "Weird as hell, but we're in business."
I pressed my hardened fingertip against the driftwood and started carving. It wasn't easy—awkward grip, uneven cuts—but slowly, I managed to shape a crude point. Sweat ran down my neck, and my arm burned, but it was progress.
By the time I was done, I had something that could at least stab a fish—or a person if it came to that. Crude, ugly, but effective.
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Testing the Power
By the time the sun started dipping, I was exhausted. Mentally fried. My stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself.
I leaned against the cave wall, staring out at the fading light. The sea turned gold under the sunset, waves crashing gently instead of violently. It would've been beautiful if I wasn't starving and stranded in a fantasy murder world.
My body ached, my hands trembled, and the hardness in my skin faded as my power flickered out. Guess I still had limits. Using it too long drained me faster than expected.
"Note to self," I muttered, "don't go full statue for too long or you'll pass out and drool on yourself."
I took one last look outside—the world painted in fire and shadow—then turned back into the cave. My makeshift spear rested by the wall. My stomach grumbled again, but I ignored it. Tomorrow I'd worry about food. Tonight, I just needed to rest.
I stretched out on the rocky floor, using my jacket as a pillow. The air was cool, the sound of the waves steady, almost soothing.
"Not bad," I mumbled, eyes already drooping. "Not good either… but we make do."
Sleep hit fast. One second I was staring at the cave ceiling, the next—lights out. Didn't even feel the rock digging into my skin