Rotting leaves and rust-like blood stench crawled into his nostrils. Glenn's consciousness struggled upward from viscous darkness depths, pain reviving first—bone-crushing weakness seizing his entire body.
"...Hurry up, Baggins, this cursed place makes my hair stand on end."
"Finished searching, mate. Poor bastard—pockets cleaner than his face. Damn..."
"Figured as much..."
...Conversation. Grammar resembling English yet with distorted, unfamiliar syllables, but he somehow understood. The final words stabbed his ears like ice picks.
"...I'll just eat him then."
"Suit yourself, but move fast." Eat? Who? Me?!
Alarm bells exploded in his brain. Glenn inhaled sharply, trying to prop himself up with his arms. Muscles screamed protest. Next second, a heavy blow slammed into his abdomen.
Agony erupted, tearing everything apart. The kick sent him tumbling as dirt and rotting leaves filled his mouth and nose. The world spun wildly. He curled up, every nerve ablaze, cold sweat instantly soaking his hair, yet he bit down hard, swallowing any groan.
"Hey! This guy's still breathing?" A coarse male voice rang out with slight surprise.
Glenn painfully turned his head. A bearded man in rough linen shirt and leather vest looked down at him, grinning to reveal yellowed teeth, cruel and mocking smile beneath his hooked nose. Behind him in shadows leaned a taller, thinner figure against a tree, features blurred, posture radiating impatience.
Foreigners? Kidnapping? The absurd thought flashed and was dismissed. His alertness had been forged in warfare and assassination missions—impossible to be brought here silently. Scanning the old-style revolver and dagger at the man's waist, plus clothing seemingly from medieval theater, intense dissonance gripped his throat.
Immediately, memory fragments not belonging to him hammered into his mind.
Pain strangely subsided somewhat, replaced by cold trembling.
Dylan Nibenclue. Merchant's son. Wastrel offspring. Family bankruptcy. Parents' violent deaths. Brothers scattered. Finally, this body's original owner ambushed outside a remote town... Magic. Dragons. Elves. Dwarves. Steam-roaring kingdoms. A bizarre Western fantasy world thunderously unfolded in his consciousness.
Transmigration. Only this answer explained everything.
Breathing was forcibly steadied within an extremely brief instant. Glenn—soul of a former elite special forces warrior—suppressed churning thoughts. His gaze cut knife-like across both enemies: physique, positioning, weapon locations. Calculations completed within hundredths of seconds. With this grievously wounded, weakened body, direct confrontation offered no chance. Only one opportunity—thunderbolt strike to instantly neutralize threats.
The bearded man spat impatiently, extending one hairy, thick arm to grab. "Scared mute? Lie back down, waste!"
The instant his arm nearly touched Glenn's shoulder—
Glenn moved!
Weakness shed like illusion. His right hand formed a spear-point, striking viper-swift and precise toward the bearded man's unprotected throat!
"Urk!" The bearded man's eyes bulged violently, throat producing strange gurgling sounds as his body convulsed from suffocation.
Completely unexpected. The thin shadow figure froze momentarily.
That instant sufficed. Glenn's left hand had already seized the dagger from the man's waist. Cold light flashed as the blade precisely severed the bearded man's windpipe, blood gushing forth.
Movements flowed like water without hesitation. Glenn ignored the gasping, staggering bearded man, his withdrawn right hand smoothly drawing the revolver from its holster. Using the man's collapsing body as cover, he cocked the hammer with his thumb, aimed at shadows, and pulled the trigger!
Bang!
Gunfire shattered forest silence, startling flights of birds.
The thin figure in shadows sprouted blood flowers on his forehead, falling backward without a sound.
Glenn shoved away the still-convulsing bearded man. Abdominal agony struck again as he tore open his shirt—four vicious claw marks sprawled across his abdomen, one already torn open with blood streaming out.
These two bastards' handiwork. He ripped off a shirt tail, pressing hard against the wound.
Then teeth-grating "crack" sounds mixed with wet choking came from beside him. Glenn whipped around.
The bearded man hadn't died. His face was twisting and deforming: mouth and nose protruding forward, gray-black coarse hair spreading plague-like from both cheeks to cover his entire face. Fingers curved as nails thickened and sharpened, clawing into earth.
Werewolf! Memory instantly provided the answer.
Without hesitation, Glenn raised the gun toward that lupine-transforming skull.
Pulled the trigger.
Click. Empty chamber's light sound.
His pupils contracted, pulling again.
Click. Click.
No bullets!
He threw away the revolver, reverse-gripped the dagger, pressing his full weight downward as the blade drove viciously toward the werewolf's neck where massive wounds still struggled to heal!
The dying werewolf erupted with terrifying strength, thrashing violently. The half-transformed head suddenly broke free from Glenn's left hand's restraint, cavernous maw bristling with bone-white fangs savagely biting toward his wrist!
Agony pierced his marrow. Glenn grunted dully, left wrist feeling ready to shatter, yet his right hand's motion never paused—frantically cutting, stirring, peeling flesh from bone.
Finally, with teeth-grinding snapping sounds, struggling ceased.
Glenn gasped heavily, extracting his left wrist from gradually stiffening wolf jaws, flesh mangled. He dared not rest, staggering toward the distant headshot corpse to confirm no mutation signs before similarly severing that head.
After completing everything, he collapsed on filthy ground, chest heaving violently as he listened to his drum-like heartbeat slowly calm.
Starting with hell difficulty... He twisted his mouth corners in a smile mixing anguish and ice.
Wounds needed treatment. He hastily bandaged wrist and abdomen before struggling upright, determining direction, gritting teeth while limping step by step along forest's vague path toward "Dylan's" cheaply purchased, reportedly "highly peculiar" residence.
He didn't notice that when he gripped the dagger tightly to stanch bleeding, his fingernails had suddenly turned black and razor-sharp like raptor claws before slowly fading back to normal.