Werewolf?

Upon stepping out of the old man's house, Glen suddenly felt the distinct sensation of being watched.

Instinctively, he turned his gaze towards the second floor of the house across the street. The area appeared quiet, without any signs of unusual activity, and the window was shrouded in darkness.

"Who lives there?" Glen muttered under his breath, seemingly speaking to someone, or perhaps to himself.

Upon reviewing his memories, he realized he had never seen the owner of the house opposite the old man's residence before.

"Heh heh heh..." A hoarse, low laugh came from behind, drawing Glen's attention back to the old man's position in the house, half-hidden in the dark.

"The person across the street is quite wealthy. You might want to consider paying them a visit," the old man commented, his voice raspy.

Glen ignored the remark, responding with a faint, indifferent tone, "I'll consider it."

Glen proceeded to leave the small town, heading towards the location where he had been attacked the previous night. He intended to retrieve the revolver he had left behind.

Survival and protecting his life came first, with the idea of improving his quality of life later on. There was nothing left to achieve from his previous life; those people who mattered to him were already gone, and his goals had been mostly completed. Thus, he had little resistance to his current situation.

The town, while still feeling ominous during the day, seemed safe. If it had been dangerous, the original owner of this body would have died long ago. As he walked, he noticed there were no other townspeople coming or going, and the air was eerily silent, with very little bird song.

When Glen arrived at the site of his earlier encounter, he immediately spotted the revolver—its distinct shape stood out. However, the body that had been there was now reduced to a pile of mangled flesh, with only a few remaining scraps of hair still attached to the scalp.

The sight unsettled him. "Is there a wild animal here?" he thought, feeling a chill creeping down his spine.

He quickly retrieved the revolver and was about to leave, but a strange and unpleasant scent caught his attention. He couldn't pinpoint its exact source, but his senses told him something was wrong. He remained still, scanning the area while tightening his grip on the rifle he had taken from the old man.

The rifle was loaded with three rounds, sufficient for dealing with typical wild animals.

The scent grew stronger, and a sense of foreboding told him something dangerous was approaching.

Then, he heard a faint sound—a soft rustling of leaves. It was subtle, but it steadily grew louder as something moved closer. If his hearing hadn't become unnaturally sharp, he might not have heard it at all. The noise of footsteps synchronized with his heartbeat, and his brow furrowed with growing tension.

The rustling suddenly ceased, and the surrounding area fell into an unsettling silence. This was no good sign.

Without warning, Glen felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Something was behind him.

He swore under his breath, then quickly rolled to the side. However, no attack came.

Confused, Glen crouched down and looked behind him.

There, standing silently a few meters away, was a large black creature, resembling a wolf but much larger, almost the size of a horse. Its head was disproportionately large, with a single eye in the middle of its forehead, and its mouth was split open, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. The sight was chilling.

The creature stared at him with intense caution in its lone eye, saliva dripping from its mouth as it licked its nose, seemingly anticipating something.

Glen instinctively raised the rifle and aimed it at the beast. He wasn't sure if the gun would be effective, as he had no information on this creature from his memories. He decided not to fire unless it showed clear signs of aggression.

The creature stepped forward, its teeth bared. It emitted a low growl from its throat.

Realizing that he stood no chance against such a large predator, Glen fired the rifle.

Bang!

The bullet struck the creature's forehead, causing it to let out a painful howl. However, Glen saw that the bullet hadn't pierced through its skull; the metal glinted in the creature's wound, but it remained standing.

Without hesitation, Glen reloaded the rifle and prepared to fire again. But the creature, moving faster than was possible for its size, evaded the shot.

"Damn!" Glen cursed, aiming for a third shot, but the beast was already lunging at him, its teeth snapping dangerously close to his face.

In a swift reaction, Glen twisted his body and delivered a powerful spinning kick aimed at the creature's jaw.

To his surprise, his kick landed with a force that sent the creature flying backward, flipping in midair before crashing to the ground. The impact was so intense that Glen lost his balance and fell to the ground as well.

The creature, stunned from the blow, hesitated before rising again. It seemed to recognize that Glen was not to be underestimated.

Breathing heavily, Glen steadied himself, despite his shaking leg from the force of the kick. He had to stay strong and show no weakness—any sign of fear could lead to his demise.

After a few moments, the creature hesitated again, pacing back and forth. It then charged at him once more, its massive jaws aimed at his ankle.

Glen tried to dodge, but the beast's speed was too much. It caught his ankle in its mouth and swung its head violently, sending Glen tumbling to the ground. Pain exploded through his body as he slammed into the earth.

As Glen's vision cleared, he saw the creature's gaping maw closing in on him, and a sense of impending death consumed him. His heart raced uncontrollably.

Suddenly, something inside him stirred—his blood seemed to boil with a fierce energy. His body reacted instinctively, and his right hand shot out, slicing through the creature's flesh.

A sickening sound of tearing flesh echoed through the air, and the creature's howl of agony rang out.

For a moment, Glen felt as though his mind was clouded with an overwhelming desire for destruction, for bloodshed. His body, seemingly under the influence of a primal force, pressed forward.

He fought the creature with unmatched ferocity, his enhanced strength giving him the upper hand. Within moments, the creature was brought to the ground, its flesh torn and mangled. Glen pinned it down, and the beast whimpered in submission.

Just as he was about to finish it off, a moment of clarity returned. Glen paused, looking down at his hand—now covered in dark, bristling fur. His fingers had transformed into sharp claws, glistening with blood.

He looked at the beast beneath him, realizing with a shock that the transformation was real. He had become a werewolf.