Walking out of the old man's house, Glen suddenly felt like he was being watched.
Instinctively, he turned his gaze toward the second floor of the house across the street.
It was quiet—no obvious movement, just pitch-black windows.
"Who lives there?" Glen muttered under his breath, like he was asking someone else… or maybe himself.
He dug through his memories again and confirmed he'd never met the owner of that house.
"Heh heh heh…"
A raspy chuckle came from behind, pulling Glen's attention back.
There sat the old man, half-hidden in the darkness of his own home.
"That guy across the street is loaded. Might wanna visit him sometime."
This old fart… Glen didn't bother arguing. "I'll consider it," he said flatly.
…
Leaving town, Glen headed for the spot where he'd been ambushed last night—he wanted his revolver back.
Now that he'd transmigrated, protecting himself came first. Comfort could wait.
By daylight, Bayek still looked creepy, but it wasn't outright dangerous—otherwise, Dylan would've been dead long ago.
He didn't see any other townsfolk coming or going; it was just him. Bird calls were rare.
When Glen reached the place where he'd woken up, the scene put him on high alert.
The revolver was easy to spot—lying there in plain sight.
But the bodies? Reduced to piles of shredded meat and clumps of hair still attached to scalps.
Wild animal? Glen's back went cold.
He stepped forward, scooped up the revolver, and was about to leave when he caught a whiff of something that set off primal alarm bells.
Couldn't tell where it came from. Glen froze, sweeping his eyes left and right, fingers tightening on the shotgun he'd taken from the old man.
He'd checked earlier—three shots in the chamber, enough for most ordinary beasts.
The scent thickened. Something terrible was coming.
This place really is… Glen stayed outwardly calm, but inside, he was on red alert.
A faint sound reached his ears—like claws on dry leaves.
It was faint, growing closer, so subtle that if Glen hadn't suddenly developed superhuman hearing, he'd have missed it entirely.
Each step seemed to march in sync with his heartbeat, sweat beading on his forehead.
Still couldn't pinpoint the direction. Nothing in sight. Having to sit and wait for danger was infuriating.
Rustle…
The sound stopped. Silence fell again—never a good sign.
Suddenly, every hair on Glen's body stood up. Ice ran down his spine.
Sht! It's behind me!
He cursed inwardly and rolled sideways at lightning speed—but the expected attack never landed.
Confused, he crouched and looked.
The danger was behind him.
A black beast, horse-sized, wolf-like, with a single eye in the center of its forehead. Its head was oversized, mouth stretched in a permanent grin, lips peeled back to reveal rows of bone-white fangs. Nightmare fuel.
It stared at Glen, its lone eye wary.
Glen raised the shotgun, though he wasn't sure if it could kill the thing—no record of it in his memories. Until it showed clear aggression, he wouldn't fire.
Clear saliva dripped like pearls from its mouth; it kept licking its nose, as if it was craving something.
They locked eyes for several seconds.
Then the beast began creeping closer, fangs fully bared, letting out a low woof-woof growl from deep in its throat.
Glen knew he couldn't win in a straight-up fight with something that size. He pulled the trigger without hesitation.
BANG!
Blood bloomed on the beast's forehead, and it let out an ear-splitting howl.
But Glen saw clearly—the bullet didn't penetrate. The metal glinted in the flesh above its eye.
No time to hesitate. He worked the pump, firing the second round.
But the beast wasn't giving him another chance.
Right before Glen's widening eyes, it moved impossibly fast, dodging the bullet by a hair.
"Damn it!" Glen aimed for a third shot, but a gust of fetid wind hit him. Bone-white fangs filled his vision.
"Back off!" Glen threw his upper body back, twisting at the waist, and lashed out with a heavy spinning kick straight at the beast's jaw.
Years of combat instinct were burned into his soul—even if this body wasn't originally his.
The impact felt like kicking a slab of iron; his foot went numb.
But the kick landed with full force. Thanks to his boosted physique, the beast—over 800 kilograms—was sent flying, doing a backward somersault.
Glen lost balance and crashed onto the grass, but rolled into a kip-up and was back on his feet in an instant.
The beast, having tasted that kick, hesitated before attacking again.
Glen panted, his leg trembling, but showing fear now would invite a brutal kill.
Whether it had a taste for human flesh or was just born cruel, the beast circled for a few seconds, then lunged again.
Glen tried to dodge, but the speed gap was too great—massive jaws seized his ankle. The beast shook its head hard, and Glen's world spun.
He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through his body. His vision cleared just in time to see a blood-drenched maw descending—death's presence choked him, heart racing.
In that instant, whatever had filled his veins surged like boiling water. Instinct took over—his body changed violently, and his right hand lashed out.
Riiip!
The sound of tearing flesh echoed through the woods, along with the beast's dying scream.
Glen's vision blurred red, his mind flooded with bloodlust—craving gore, craving destruction.
He'd already intended to kill; now he charged, and the two tore into each other.
Their strength was matched, but Glen's combat instincts kept him in control, easily overwhelming the beast.
In moments, its flesh was shredded, bones exposed, body a mangled ruin.
A few more moves, and Glen pinned it, the creature whining in submission.
Glen was about to finish it—when a sliver of clarity broke through the madness in his eyes. Then full reason returned.
He froze, stunned, feeling the raging violence inside him, and frowned in confusion.
Looking down at his hand pinning the beast, he saw it covered in jet-black fur like steel needles, claws gleaming. Looking further down, he saw a wolf's snout.
It all made sense.
He'd turned into a werewolf.