The tiger-beast let out a low growl, but Aranji met its eyes with calm authority. "Stay close," he murmured, gesturing toward the treeline. "Hide. Watch." The creature obeyed, slinking into the underbrush with a grace that belied its size. He'd need to name it soon something fitting, something earned.
Aranji turned toward the village.
It was small, a humble farming settlement nestled near the river. Thatched roofs, muddy paths, and the scent of livestock filled the air. His clothes tattered though they were still looked finer than anything the locals wore. He drew glances as he passed, some curious, others wary. His blade, slung across his back, didn't help.
He scanned for a tavern, something with warmth and food. Eventually, he found it: a squat building with a faded sign and the scent of smoke and stew wafting from within.
Inside, the tavern was dim but lively. A few farmers nursed mugs of ale, and a fire crackled in the hearth. Behind the counter stood an old man with a weathered face and a voice like gravel.
"If you're lookin' for food or a bed, come on up," the man said, eyeing Aranji with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. The pale skin, the strange eyes, the way he moved too graceful, too quiet. For a moment, the old man thought he was a noblewoman in disguise.
Aranji reached into his pouch and pulled out a few silver coins currency from his world, etched with symbols no one here would recognize. "This is all I have," he said. "I need two nights."
The old man squinted at the coins, then shrugged. "Silver's silver," he muttered, pocketing them. "Room's upstairs. Soup's hot."
Aranji nodded and took a seat.
The venison soup was rich and steaming, though the bread was hard enough to chip a tooth. He ate slowly, listening. The tavern buzzed with talk of harvests, of a merchant sailing east, of a king named Jaehaerys Targaryen. That name meant nothing to him, but the way they spoke of it the reverence, the certainty told him everything. He wasn't in the Elemental Nations anymore.
He was in a land called Westeros.
A group of guards entered, their armor dull and blades worn. They looked like they'd just come off patrol. Aranji's eyes flicked over them posture, gait, weapon weight. He could take them if he had to.
As he stood to leave, he brushed past one of them. A subtle movement, barely noticed. The man's coin pouch vanished into Aranji's sleeve. He bowed slightly, murmuring in his native tongue out of habit. Then paused.
They understood him.
He tried again, speaking in his own language. Still, they understood.
That was… convenient.
He left the tavern under their suspicious gaze and climbed the creaking stairs to his room. The bed was rough, the mattress thin, but it was shelter. He laid his blade beside him and stared at the ceiling.
"I'm in a place called the Reach… on a continent called Westeros. There's a king, not a daimyo. I don't know how to get back. But maybe… maybe that's not a bad thing."
He closed his eyes.
No elders. No clan hierarchy. No seal on his forehead.
A chance to start something new.
Sleep took him slowly.
But in the dark, something stirred.
He felt it an ancient presence brushing against his chakra. Not hostile. Not foreign. Familiar. Welcoming.
When he awoke, the sun was just rising. He sat up, blinking. His body felt… different. Stronger. Like he was back in his prime. He looked down at the wooden bedframe and froze.
The wood was warped, twisted into spiraling patterns. His hand hovered over it, and he felt it: chakra. His chakra.
He stared in disbelief.
"…Wood Release."