A plain, unadorned longsword was placed before Lynn. Its hilt was wrapped in rough leather, its crossguard a simple cruciform shape—no extra ornamentation whatsoever. It was a standard-issue guard's sword: heavy, sturdy, and steeped in pragmatism.
Lynn reached out, his fingertips brushing the cold hilt. In that instant, a strange warm current surged up from his palm, spreading through his entire body in a flash, as if something long sealed had awakened deep within his blood. Fragments of memories that did not belong to him surged forth once more. This time, they were not of the terror of White Walkers—instead, they were of countless days and nights swinging a sword against the snow and wind atop the Wall, the resistance of blade cutting through flesh when battling wildlings, and the monotonous yet harsh scoldings of Alliser Thorne.
"Hold it steady, you cur!"
"Your sword is your life!"
These instinctive traits, etched into the bones of the original host, fused completely with Lynn's soul at this moment!
[Syncing original host's combat memories...]
[Sync complete!]
[Congratulations, Host! Acquired new skill: One-Handed Sword (Skilled) 18/100]
[Congratulations, Host! Acquired new skill: Horsemanship (Novice) 9/10]
[Congratulations, Host! Acquired new skill: Unarmed Combat (Skilled) 84/100]
Lynn's gaze shifted. Once, it had blazed with the fire of survival; now, beneath that fire lay an edge as sharp as steel. He curled his fingers tightly around the hilt. The longsword in his hand no longer felt like a lifeless object—it became an extension of his own body.
"Let's move," Robb Stark's voice called. The young Young Wolf had already mounted his warhorse. He glanced at Lynn, his eyes still sharp with scrutiny.
Lynn said nothing, nimbly climbing onto a spare pony. The party of over twenty men soon rode out through Winterfell's gates. The cold wind howled across the wilderness, leaving a long trail of hoof prints in the snow-covered ground.
Theon Greyjoy rode up beside Robb, glancing back at Lynn at the rear of the party with a sneer. "Robb, do you really trust this guy? A deserter who broke his Night's Watch vows, now claiming to fight for the North—isn't that ridiculous?"
Robb stared ahead, his young face impassive. "Father told me to keep an eye on him. That's enough."
Theon shrugged. "Very well. Hope he doesn't hold us back. If he does, I won't mind enforcing Lord Eddard's justice a little early."
Their voices were low, but carried on the wind, drifting断断续续 to Lynn's ears. He paid no mind, silently feeling the weight of the sword in his hand and the strength slowly returning to his body. He knew words held power, but swords and blood earned true respect.
The party traveled east along a tributary of the White Knife. The stench of blood grew thicker as they pressed on. Finally, at the edge of a charred woodland, they spotted the wreckage of the raided caravan. Several carriages lay overturned, their cargo scattered everywhere, the ground stained a mottled black and red by snow and congealed blood. A few stiff bodies lay in the snow, their faces frozen in the terror of death, while crows circled overhead, cawing hoarsely.
"They left not long ago," a seasoned veteran said to Robb after examining the wheel tracks. "No more than half a day."
Robb's expression darkened, his grip tightening around his sword hilt. "After them!"
The party pressed forward again, hooves thudding沉闷ly against the blood-soaked snow. After riding a few more miles, the crackle of a campfire and rough laughter drifted faintly from a sparse wood up ahead.
Robb raised his hand, signaling the party to halt. Everyone dismounted silently. "Hollen, take five men to flank from the left," Robb whispered, assigning tasks calmly. "Theon, use your archery—find high ground and cover us. The rest, come with me."
He turned to Lynn last. "You—stay close. Don't wander off." It was both an order and a warning.
Lynn nodded, drawing his longsword from its scabbard with a clear, resonant hum. The cold blade glinted, reflecting his calm eyes. He had long since accepted the truth: to live better, he must kill.
The group slipped silently into the wood, pushing aside the last bush blocking their view. On a clearing not far ahead, over a dozen ragged bandits huddled around a campfire, tearing at roasted meat and guzzling stolen ale. Their weapons lay discarded nearby, their faces filled with the recklessness and triumph of plunder.
A flash of ferocity crossed Robb's eyes as he raised his sword. "For the North!"
His roar echoed like thunder. Robb charged first, with the Stark guards roaring behind him. The bandits panicked, scrambling for their weapons, some choking violently on their ale.
Theon's arrow whistled through the air at that moment, piercing a bandit's throat clean through. Battle erupted in an instant.
Lynn breathed steadily, his heart pounding firmly in his chest. Unlike the others, he did not roar—he focused all his attention on the chaotic battlefield before him. These bandits were nothing more than armed commoners.
One bandit noticed Lynn—tall, burly, and covered in scars. Seeing Lynn's tattered black cloak and pale face, he sneered, seeing an easy target. He raised his hatchet, swinging fiercely at Lynn's head with a roar!
The wind howled. Lynn's body reacted faster than his mind. He ducked sideways to evade the axe blade, then stepped forward in the same motion, sinking his center of gravity sharply. With the sword in his hand, he struck upward at a tricky angle.
His skilled [One-Handed Sword] ability had become instinct. No fancy moves—just the simplest, deadliest thrust.
Squelch!
The tip of the sword pierced the bandit's throat precisely. The sneer froze on his face, replaced by utter terror. He tried to speak, but only gurgling sounds escaped his crushed windpipe. Warm blood gushed down the sword, soaking Lynn's hand.
[Bandit killed x1. Experience +1]
Lynn felt no discomfort—only a surge of adrenaline. He did not hesitate, yanking the sword free. Warm blood sprayed outward, and the tall bandit crumpled to the ground like a felled tree trunk. The entire sequence happened in the blink of an eye, the surrounding battle cries fading into the background.
Lynn wiped his blood-slick hand on his clothes, his eyes narrowing to focus on life and death alone. Two more bandits noticed their fallen comrade, roaring as they charged at Lynn from both sides—one wielding a scimitar, the other a wooden club, their attacks cutting off all escape routes.
Lynn took a deep breath, shifting his stance and twisting his body to dodge the lethal scimitar strike. At the same time, he parried with his sword, blocking the club aimed at his head. With a flick of his wrist, he slid the sword down the length of the club—no crossguard to stop it.
"Ah!"
A shrill scream echoed as Lynn hacked off the club-wielder's hand cleanly. The club clattered to the ground, blood spurting wildly. Before the other bandit could react, Lynn closed in, delivering a crisp horizontal slash. The bandit's eyes caught only a flash of silver light before his world spun violently.
[Bandit killed x1. Experience +1]
[Bandit killed x1. Experience +1]
Lynn twisted his sword backward in a fluid motion, piercing the wounded bandit's heart to end his suffering. In mere seconds, he had killed three men.
He stood firm, sword in hand, his body splattered with warm blood. The surrounding bandits stared in stunned silence, taking an unconscious step back, their eyes filled with fear. Not far away, Robb Stark—who had just cut down an enemy—witnessed the scene, his young face etched with shock.
This deserter… had killed three men so quickly?