The place Glen collapsed wasn't far from the path where he'd been attacked. He'd seen his cottage during the fight in the woods, so he didn't lose his way.
His vision blurred and cleared intermittently. His body felt as weak and boneless as a mollusk. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep right there.
But Dylan's memories screamed that this area was deeply wrong, terrifying. Closing his eyes here meant never opening them again.
Night had fully fallen. Only a full moon hung in the inky sky, its pale light illuminating the path ahead but offering Glen no comfort whatsoever.
A dilapidated signpost leaned crookedly at the roadside. Scrawled in the common human tongue of this world were the words: Byrek.
This was the "prime location" Dylan had chosen.
At the time, he'd felt incredibly lucky to snag such a cheap place and privately congratulated himself for weeks.
Only when he arrived with the former owner did the first prickle of unease set in.
Pale-faced, Glen limped past the sign. A chilly gust of wind made it groan on its post with a sound like rusty hinges.
Please, no monsters tonight, Glen prayed silently, dredging up Dylan's recollections.
From the very first night Dylan moved in, strange noises had echoed through the darkness—sounds that froze the blood. Several times, something distinctly like claws had scraped against his bedroom window.
Because of this, Dylan hadn't slept properly in days.
Night in the town of Byrek was profoundly silent. A silence thick enough to choke on.
Glen moved as quietly as possible, shuffling along the uneven cobblestone path. Tall weeds sprouted defiantly between the stones, adding to the desolate atmosphere.
Enduring the grinding pain in his gut and wrist while maintaining hypervigilance against lurking dangers pushed Glen's exhausted psyche to the brink.
Finally, he saw it. His cottage, squeezed tightly between two larger, more imposing houses. Tendrils of ivy clawed up its weather-beaten exterior, making it look shabby and insignificant compared to its neighbors.
Dylan had bought a two-story dwelling, complete with a neglected garden and a ramshackle storage shed barely bigger than a doghouse.
Finally… Relief surged through Glen, and he quickened his painful steps.
Woof! Woof! WOOF!
Sudden, ferocious barking shattered the stillness. Glen's heart nearly leaped from his chest. In the suffocating quiet, the abrupt noise would have startled anyone.
He spun toward the sound. A powerfully built bulldog stood glaring at him, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.
It belonged to the neighbor next door—a tall, imposing old man. The man was a bully who routinely harassed Dylan. Gruff and unpredictable, he frequently helped himself to things from Dylan's property, acting like it was his own whether Dylan saw him or not.
This bulldog, emboldened by its master's backing, often chased Dylan, tearing holes in several sets of clothes.
Though Dylan had been spoiled in his youth, the family tragedy had humbled him. Besides, the old man was visibly stronger, not someone Dylan felt he could challenge. Adding to the intimidation, the old man was rarely seen without a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, making outright defiance unthinkable for Dylan.
Glen stopped dead. His cold eyes fixed on the dog. His right hand slipped toward the dagger at his belt.
The bulldog suddenly sniffed the air hard, its eyes gleaming with sudden predatory excitement.
It smelled blood.
A deep, guttural growl rumbled in its chest as it began to stalk deliberately toward Glen, tongue flicking out over its teeth.
Recognizing the shift in the beast's intent, Glen stood his ground. His grip tightened on the dagger's hilt.
This animal wants meat. Human meat. Glen's resolve hardened. Then it gets no mercy.
Perhaps too accustomed to bullying the timid Dylan, the dog displayed no instinctive wariness of humans. It kept advancing, closing the distance. When it was barely two meters away, it lunged!
Glen reacted instantly. He twisted his body sideways. Simultaneously, the dagger flashed in a vicious arc, plunging deep into the side of the bulldog's neck.
Man and beast passed each other. Glen stumbled, fighting to keep his balance. The dog crashed to the cobblestones, limbs spasming violently.
Distantly, Glen registered a strange detail: despite his mental exhaustion, his physical strength seemed strangely strong. He'd fully expected to fall but somehow remained upright.
He dismissed the thought. Without a backward glance at the dying dog's whimpers, Glen pushed through the creaking gate into his own small yard. He fumbled beneath a specific stone, found the key, and unlocked the front door.
Inside, the air carried a faint tang of mildew, but it wasn't overpowering.
Glen had no energy to survey his new surroundings. Rest was his only goal.
He slammed the door shut, stumbled across the entrance hall, and hauled himself up the wooden stairs without pause, heading straight for the bedroom.
The moment he pushed the bedroom door open, his legs gave way. He collapsed face-first onto the blessedly soft mattress.
Tension bled away. Consciousness began to fray at the edges…
He slept deeply but restlessly. Some indeterminate time later, swimming in the fog between sleep and wakefulness, an agonizing hunger gripped his stomach. It was a gnawing, all-consuming void that caused deep physical distress, yet he lacked the will to move. He was simply too drained; even this monstrous hunger couldn't drag him from the bed's embrace.
Just as he was about to slip back into oblivion, a faint sound registered at the very edge of hearing.
Scraaatch…
The sound of something sharp, something chewing.
Outside his bedroom window.
The bright moon cast its glow into the room. A thin, unnaturally elongated shadow shifted against the pale light filtering through the glass.
A slender, multi-jointed forelimb slowly extended. Its tip, tipped with something dark and hard, rasped against the rough wood of the exterior wall as it dragged downward.
The Next Day
Violent, gut-wrenching hunger tore Glen from sleep.
He burst awake, eyes bloodshot, and scrambled out of bed instantly. Rest had eased the crushing fatigue of yesterday, but the hunger now was a ravenous beast clawing at his insides, threatening to shred his sanity. He felt capable of devouring anything, everything.
He exploded from the bedroom and charged downstairs toward the kitchen. Dylan's memories indicated there might be some leftover scraps or basic ingredients.
A flurry of banging and clattering ensued as Glen ransacked the tiny kitchen. Anything remotely edible—stale bread, raw vegetables, even mold-spotted cheese—was shoveled into his mouth and swallowed with barely any chewing. Only after the frantic feast did the terrifying edge of the hunger dull slightly, settling into a deep, insistent ache.
What in the hell is wrong with me? Glen sank down onto the filthy kitchen floor amidst the wreckage, his brow deeply furrowed. Starving for a day shouldn't feel like this. Shouldn't drive you to eat mold…
The gnawing emptiness remained. He needed more. After a few moments catching his breath, he hauled himself back up.
A sudden grunt of surprise escaped him. He flexed his arms, realization dawning. His body felt… solid. Strong. Getting up felt effortless, powered by noticeably more muscle than Dylan had possessed. He felt the defined bulk beneath his fingers, saw the increased definition under his skin.
Is this because I crossed over? Is my "golden finger" just getting jacked? Survival instinct overrode curiosity. Finding more food was paramount; answers could wait.
Another desperate sweep of the house yielded nothing edible. Frustration gnawed at him.
Do I have to go to another town? He slumped onto the threadbare sofa in the living room, thinking. There was nowhere in Byrek to buy supplies; residents traveled elsewhere to trade. The nearest town wasn't close—a journey requiring leaving early and returning late. And his pockets were nearly empty…
As he wrestled with the grim options, a familiar, gravelly voice bellowed from outside, shattering his thoughts.
"Torrey! Torrey! Where'd you go, boy?"
The old man. Torrey was the bulldog's name.
Hearing that voice, a slow, grim smile spread across Glen's face.