The few glaring drops of blood on the rental room floor acted like a grotesque switch, violently yanking Luke out of his post-survival daze and the cold numbness that followed the killing.
He remained sprawled on the ground in the exact position he had fallen, completely motionless for several long minutes.
Only his chest heaved violently. His ragged breathing echoed in the silent room. Every inhale pulled at his wounds, burning with sharp pain.
He had killed people.
In Westeros, in a pitch-black alley in King's Landing, he had used a waterlon knife to kill four n.
This fact hamred his nerves repeatedly, bringing wave after wave of physical nausea and dizziness.
He could still sll the thick, inescapable stench of blood, feel the strange resistance when the blade cut into flesh, the warm spray of liquid, and see those four pairs of eyes — shifting from savage cruelty to shock, then to dead silence…
"Urgh—!"
He couldn't hold it back any longer. He flipped over, face down on the floor, and dry-heaved. His stomach was empty, only acidic water and bile surging up his throat, scorching his esophagus.
The violent retching pulled at his wounds, especially his ribs and back. The pain made his vision go black as cold sweat instantly soaked his clothes.
That black outfit was now covered in bloodstains and dirt!
He didn't know how long it took before the dry heaving finally stopped.
Luke lay on the floor like a dehydrated fish, reduced to heavy panting. Fear and physical agony intertwined, making it almost impossible to think.
But he knew he couldn't just lie there.
Gritting his teeth, he used his trembling arms to push himself up, slowly and painfully dragging himself toward the small bathroom that now symbolized cleanliness and safety.
He turned on the light. The harsh white brightness made him squint.
The mirror reflected a face he could barely recognize: his left eye swollen into a re slit, bruised purple-black; his right cheek badly swollen with scrapes and bloodstains; his nose crooked and still bleeding; his lips split and swollen, with a missing front tooth letting air whistle through.
His entire face was a ss of colors, utterly miserable to look at.
His clothes were even worse — covered in blood, filth, and torn patches.
He clumsily stripped off the blood-soaked garnts from the other world, bundling them into a ball. After a mont of hesitation, he didn't throw them in the trash. Instead, he temporarily stuffed them into the cabinet under the sink.
He turned on the shower. Warm water cascaded down.
The mont it touched his wounds, a sharp sting shot through him, but he clenched his teeth and endured.
Blood and dirt mixed together, forming pale red streams on the tiled floor before swirling down the drain.
He scrubbed his body fiercely, as if trying to wash away all the fear, bloodshed, and brutality of that night.
After cleaning up and changing into fresh ho clothes, the pain actually beca clearer and more distinct.
Every breath brought a dull ache in his ribs. The slightest movent of his shoulders or arms felt like countless tiny needles stabbing his muscles and joints. His head felt heavy and buzzed constantly.
He carefully spat out so saliva — it was still pale red with traces of blood.
He had to go to the hospital.
The thought was crystal clear.
He was worried about internal injuries, fractures, or lasting effects from a concussion. On Blue Star, this was the only place he could safely seek dical help.
Without hesitation, he endured the pain and changed into the most inconspicuous dark sportswear, put on a cap and mask, then carefully wrapped the bloodstained clothes and the waterlon knife in multiple layers of plastic bags and stored them in the deepest corner of his personal space.
The streets of the urban village were silent in the dead of night.
Enduring the pain with every step, Luke slowly made his way to the nearby 24-hour community hospital.
Each step felt like his bones were grinding and his muscles were protesting.
The ergency room was brightly lit, with only a few scattered patients.
After registering, he described his condition in a hoarse, unclear voice: "Doctor… I was beaten up… I need to be checked…"
The nurse on duty was startled when she saw his swollen cheek and pained expression. She imdiately asked, "What happened? Did you call the police?"
Luke's mind worked quickly. He blurted out, "I already reported it. The police told to co get checked and treated first."
He couldn't tell the truth. A young man beaten this badly late at night in "China" without reporting it would be suspicious, and the real story was absolutely impossible to share.
The nurse was doubtful, but seeing how miserable he looked, she quickly called the on-duty doctor.
The doctor was a middle-aged man with rich experience.
Luke only said he was ambushed and beaten by several strangers on his way ho. They stole his wallet and phone, and he didn't get a clear look at their faces.
The doctor examined his external injuries carefully and listened to the story, his expression turning serious.
"Your injuries are quite severe. You need a full check-up."
The doctor arranged a series of tests: head CT, chest and abdominal X-rays, blood routine, urine test…
Lying on the cold examination machines, listening to their humming, Luke's heart was filled with anxiety.
He feared they would find serious, irreversible damage. He also feared the doctor or police might notice inconsistencies that didn't match a "normal beating."
The wait for the results felt agonizingly long.
Every minute, the pain reminded him of what he had just gone through.
Finally, the doctor returned with the reports, his expression slightly more relaxed.
"You're quite lucky, young man."
The doctor pointed at the films and explained: "The cranial CT shows a mild concussion. You need rest and observation. You lost one tooth — that'll need dental treatnt once the swelling goes down. There are severe soft tissue contusions on your face and body with subcutaneous bleeding. It looks scary, but the good news is — no broken bones, ribs are fine, and no obvious damage to internal organs."
Luke's hanging heart finally dropped halfway back into his chest.
At least there was no threat to his life and no major risk of permanent disability.
The imnse relief nearly made him collapse.
Seeing Luke still pale and shaken, the doctor sighed. "Scared you badly, huh? When sothing like this happens… aside from the physical injuries, the psychological impact is definitely huge. I suggest you co back during the day for a more thorough full-body CT to completely rule out any hidden issues."
"Since you already reported it to the police, it should be fine. There are caras everywhere these days — those thugs won't get away!"
"Tonight we'll clean your wounds, apply dicine, and prescribe so anti-inflammatory, pain-relief, and recovery ds. Make sure you rest well. If you get severe headaches, vomiting, or any pain that gets much worse, co back imdiately."
Luke nodded repeatedly and thanked the doctor in a hoarse voice.
The nurse cleaned his facial wounds, applied ointnt, and gave him ice packs for the swelling.
He took the prescription, collected a large bag of internal and external dicines from the pharmacy.
When he left the hospital, the sky was already turning light.
The city was waking up, but Luke felt as though a thick layer of frosted glass separated him from this familiar world.
Last night's experience had been too brutal and bloody — like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. It was branded into both his body and soul.
He didn't go straight ho. Instead, he stopped at a convenience store near the hospital that had opened early, bought so mineral water, bread, and instant food, then slowly limped back to his rental room.
For the next three days, Luke sealed himself completely inside the tiny rental room like an injured beast.
He took his dicine on ti, applied ice packs to his face, and forced himself to eat.
The physical pain gradually eased under the dication, but the psychological shock was far from over.
The mont he closed his eyes, he saw that dark alley, the blinding flashlight beam, the cold glint of the waterlon knife, the warm splash of blood, and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground…
He also saw the terrified eyes of those four n right before they died. Every detail was painfully vivid, tornting his nerves over and over.
The sound of neighbors walking upstairs, cars passing outside, even water flowing through the pipes…
He beca extrely alert. The slightest noise made his hair stand on end and his heart race.
He repeatedly checked the door lock, barricaded the door with chairs and tables, and couldn't sleep with the lights off.
He also didn't dare attempt crossing over again.
Westeros was no longer a land of opportunity and gold to him — it had instantly turned into a savage jungle that could devour lives at any mont.
The ecstasy brought by those three thousand gold dragons had long been washed away by lingering fear and terror.
Most of the ti, he simply sat blankly on the bed or stood by the window, staring at the unchanging street scene outside with hollow eyes.
He was digesting, adapting, and struggling.
Killing… was self-defense. It was to survive.
It was to protect his "golden finger"!
He kept telling himself this, trying to convince himself it was rely an instinctive reaction in an extre situation — that it was justified.
But the sheer weight of "taking four lives" still pressed heavily on his heart, making it hard to breathe.
Three days later, the swelling on his face had gone down sowhat, the bruises turning yellowish, and the pain across his body had greatly lessened.
Though his face in the mirror still looked miserable, at least its original shape was visible again.
The physical recovery seed to bring a trace of ntal resilience as well.
After extre fear and numbness, sothing deeper and colder began to settle in his heart.
He was still alive.
He had kept himself alive in that barbaric world in the cruelest way possible.
Westeros had no laws to deliver justice for him, no police to investigate the cris of those four thugs.
There, only the law of the jungle existed — only the rules of swords and gold coins.
He had passively, bloodily, received his first lesson.
Sitting slumped in the chair, Luke slowly clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm.
He couldn't keep hiding forever.
Those three thousand gold dragons were still in his storage space — earned with his life, and possibly his future security.
The dangers in Westeros wouldn't disappear just because he hid. On the contrary, those looking for him or the forces behind them were definitely still active.
He needed strength, the ability to protect himself, and a more complete plan.
He slowly raised his head and looked out the window.
The sunlight was just right. Blue Star's order remained stable.
But so things had changed forever.
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