It wasn't far from where he'd passed out. From the forest fight, Glen could already see the road, so he wasn't lost.
His vision blurred in and out, and his body felt like a boneless slug—he desperately wanted to just crash and sleep.
But judging from Dylan's memories, this place was seriously creepy. Close his eyes here, and he'd probably never wake up again.
Night had fully fallen. A full moon hung in the sky, casting pale light that lit his path—yet Glen felt zero comfort from it.
Up ahead, a broken road sign leaned crookedly at the side of the road. In the common tongue of this world's humans, it read: Bayek.
Yup, this was the "great" spot Dylan had picked. Back then, he thought scoring such a cheap house was pure luck and smirked about it for days.
It wasn't until he followed the homeowner into the town that things started feeling off.
Glen's face went pale as he stepped past the sign. A cold breeze stirred, making the old wood creak with a dry, stubborn groan.
Please, no monsters tonight, he silently prayed.
From what he remembered, ever since Dylan moved into this town, every night brought unnerving sounds that made his spine freeze. A few times, it had sounded like something scratching at his window.
Because of that, Dylan hadn't slept well in days.
Nighttime Bayek was deathly quiet—quiet enough to suffocate you.
Glen moved as silently as possible, slowly walking the cobblestone street. Tall weeds choked the cracks between stones, giving everything a desolate feel.
Between the pain, the exhaustion, and staying alert for any threats, Glen's mind was running on fumes.
Finally, he spotted his house—wedged between two much larger homes, its walls crawling with vines. Compared to the neighbors, it looked downright pitiful.
Dylan's place was a two-story home with a garden and a crumbling shed barely bigger than a doghouse.
Made it… Thank the stars. Glen's spirits lifted, and he picked up the pace.
BARK! BARK! BARK!
A sudden burst of vicious barks nearly scared the soul right out of him.
In a night this silent, noise that loud was bound to startle anyone.
Glen turned and saw it: a massive bulldog, teeth bared, eyes glowing with aggression as it snarled at him.
The neighbor's mutt. The owner was a towering old man who loved picking on Dylan. Grouchy, weird, and always helping himself to Dylan's stuff like it was his own.
The bulldog, naturally, acted like a tiny tyrant—chasing Dylan, shredding some of his clothes.
Dylan had been a spoiled brat once, but after his family's downfall, he'd lost that edge. The old man was way stronger, so Dylan never fought back. Plus, the geezer often carried a hunting rifle, which shut Dylan down completely.
Glen halted, eyes icy as he stared at the dog. His right hand slid toward his dagger.
The bulldog sniffed hard, nose twitching. Its eyes lit up—it smelled blood.
A low growl rumbled in its throat as it licked its chops and crept closer.
Seeing the change, Glen didn't budge. His right hand clamped tight around the dagger's hilt.
This mutt was thinking man meat today. Which meant Glen wouldn't go easy.
Used to bullying Dylan, the dog had zero respect for humans. It kept coming until it was two meters away—then launched itself!
Fast reaction. Glen sidestepped, his dagger carving a perfect crescent arc straight into the dog's neck.
They missed each other by inches. Glen stumbled, barely keeping his balance, while the dog hit the ground, twitching wildly.
Oddly, Glen realized his mind was still sluggish, but his strength had bounced back more than expected. He figured he'd collapse on the spot, but somehow stayed upright.
Didn't care about the reason—he ignored the whimpering beast, headed into his yard, and grabbed the spare key hidden under a stone.
Inside, the air smelled faintly musty, but not terrible. Glen didn't have the energy to check out the decor; all he wanted was rest.
He shut the door, climbed the wooden stairs, and headed straight to his bedroom.
The moment he pushed the door open, he collapsed onto the surprisingly soft bed.
Tension fled his body, and his consciousness blurred…
Sometime later, half-asleep, Glen was hit with a crushing hunger. It gnawed at him, but he had zero will to get up. Exhaustion ran so deep that even that hunger couldn't drag him off the mattress.
Right before slipping under again, he thought he heard something chewing outside his window.
Outside, bright moonlight spilled into the room. A thin, gangly shape shifted beyond the glass. A slender forelimb dragged slowly along the wall, making a faint, sharp scratching sound—definitely claws…
Next Morning.
Glen woke to violent hunger.
Bloodshot eyes snapped open, and he practically leapt out of bed. After real rest, his mental fatigue was gone—but hunger still tortured him.
Never had he felt hunger like this—it was eating away at his sanity, desperate to cram anything into his stomach.
He bolted from the bedroom, heading straight for the kitchen. Dylan's leftovers and ingredients were somewhere in there.
After a clatter of drawers and cabinets, Glen had turned the kitchen upside down.
Leftovers, fresh scraps, even moldy food—he devoured it all like a starving wolf. Only then did the awful hunger ease a little.
What the hell? One day without food shouldn't wreck me like this… Glen sat on the messy kitchen floor, frowning hard.
Still starving. Gotta find more food… After a short pause, he stood.
Then he paused again—because his body felt stronger. Getting up took less effort; his arms packed noticeably more muscle, bulked up compared to Dylan's former frame.
Transmigration perk: instant body upgrade? Glen shelved the question—food came first.
He searched the house again. Nothing edible. Crap.
Maybe I'll have to head out of town to buy supplies… Glen mulled it over on the living room couch.
Bayek had no shops; locals traveled elsewhere to trade. Trips weren't short—usually all-day affairs. And his funds were nearly gone…
As he wrestled with the dilemma, a familiar shout rang outside:
"Tore! Tore! Where'd you run off to, boy?"
The old man's voice. Tore—the dog's name.
Hearing that, Glen actually smiled…