The last thing he remembered was the rain.
Headlights blurred through the windshield. Tires lost their grip. The steering wheel jerked violently in his hands. Then came the sound — metal screaming against metal.
Darkness swallowed everything.
—
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer inside a crushed car.
He stood in an endless white expanse. No sky. No ground. Just light stretching in every direction.
He flexed his fingers.
No pain.
No blood.
No broken bones.
"So. You're awake."
The voice was calm, vast, layered — as if many voices spoke as one.
He turned slowly.
A figure formed from the light itself. Neither man nor woman. Neither young nor old. Its shape shimmered, impossible to focus on directly.
"Am I dead?" he asked.
"Yes."
The answer carried no emotion. Only certainty.
He exhaled once. He had trained his mind for years through martial discipline — meditation, control, acceptance. Panic would not help.
"Then this is the afterlife?"
A pause.
"No. This is a crossroads."
The light shifted, and suddenly the void filled with visions — castles rising against cold skies, banners snapping in the wind, armored knights clashing in brutal combat. A red comet burned above a vast continent.
He knew it instantly.
Westeros.
"A Song of Ice and Fire…" he whispered.
The presence hummed softly. "You know it by that name."
"It's fiction."
"It is a world."
Silence stretched.
"You have lived as a martial artist," the god continued. "Discipline. Combat. Endless pursuit of perfection. Yet you died before reaching your peak."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"That world," the god said, "is forged in war. Steel. Strategy. Survival. I will allow you to reincarnate there."
"Why?" he asked.
"For balance. For amusement. For the movement of fate."
The honesty of that answer felt… divine.
He folded his arms behind his back — a stance he often took before sparring.
"If I go, I want conditions."
The air trembled faintly.
"Speak don't ask for word breaking powers I will only grant which that world can handle."
"First," he said calmly, "a perfect body. No hidden weaknesses. Peak human potential — strength, reflexes, endurance, recovery."
"Granted."
Warmth flooded through him, as if his very existence was being reforged.
"Second," he continued, "exceptional talent with the sword. Not mere competence. I want genius-level aptitude. The ability to learn techniques at terrifying speed."
The god was silent for a long moment.
"good your better than your predecessors."
"I know i don't want everything spoonfed to me."
A flicker of something like approval pulsed through the light.
"Granted."
Power surged again — sharper this time, like steel being drawn across stone.
He considered asking for noble birth. Wealth. Immunity to poison.
But his pride refused.
"The rest," he said quietly, "I will earn."
The light intensified.
"You will be born anew. Your memories intact but only gain after you turn five ."
"good i don't want to twice as a baby."
The white void began to crack, as though reality itself were splitting open.
"Where will I be born?" he asked.
"That," the god replied, "is part of the game you don't possess any names charector but u will be main story charector."
The light collapsed inward.
Cold air filled his lungs.
And somewhere in Westeros, beneath a sky heavy with winter winds, a newborn child began to cry — unaware that within him lived the mind of a disciplined warrior from another world.