Reborn as the Wolf King

“Make haste, Baggins. This place reeks of vile sorcery.”

“Cease your prattle. The whelp is destitute—not a copper to his name. Damn it all...”

“I suspected as much...”

…

Hiss—

Why am I bereft of all strength? My body feels as though it has been rent asunder, the agony precipitating a descent into madness...

What is happening to me? Did I lose consciousness during training?

Through the turbidity of his consciousness, Glenn caught ephemeral snatches of conversation. His mind began to claw its way through the fog, his lungs seizing a sharp breath as he became acutely aware of the alien heft of his own flesh.

Upon opening his eyes, he beheld only the jagged silhouette of the canopy against a firmament half-veiled in obsidian shadow.

The voices remained close.

“Since he bears no spoils, we had best depart. Should some meddler stumble upon us, it will only invite calamity.”

“To abandon him here is a waste. I may as well make a meal of him.”

“As you wish. But make it swift...”

The voices drew closer, and with them, a tendril of dread coiled tightly within Glenn’s chest.

Their tongue was alien—its cadence and syntax echoed English, yet it was distinctly divergent. And yet, he comprehended every syllable with innate clarity.

Wait... eat him? Eat me?!

A jolt of primal terror surged through his veins. Gritting his teeth against the pervasive lassitude, he forced his torso upright.

“The wretch yet lives?” a rough, accented voice jeered.

Glenn turned his head to behold a man—thick-bearded, hawk-nosed, clad in coarse homespun, his features striking and rugged. The man’s smile was sadistic, and in the gloom behind him lurked another figure, leaner, his visage obscured, yet his stature no less foreign.

Kidnapped? Impossible. With his rigorous training and honed vigilance, no soul could have spirited him away without detection.

Glenn was the scion of a martial lineage. Upon graduating high school, he had enlisted, serving in an elite state battalion. Alertness had been etched into his very marrow—yet here he lay, utterly bewildered.

Then the realization struck: the men’s attire, evocative of a Western medieval era, the revolver and dagger at their waists, and the discordant, alien weight of the body he now inhabited.

Could it be... I have traversed into another world?

The notion was absurd, yet it was the only explanation that aligned with reality.

And then, as if in confirmation, a deluge of memories assaulted his mind: a realm of sorcery, dragons, elves, dwarves, steam engines, and sprawling kingdoms.

The vessel he now occupied had once belonged to Dylan Nibankru, the son of a prosperous merchant. Spoiled by affluence, Dylan had squandered his days in indolence and debauchery.

But retribution had arrived swiftly. His once-mighty father suddenly declared bankruptcy, leaving behind a pittance for his children to dissipate. The letter bearing this news implored Dylan never to return.

Devastated, Dylan disregarded the warning and returned, only to learn from his siblings that their parents had been murdered, the investigation already closed by local authorities.

Following the funeral, his siblings scattered, clutching their shares of the dwindling estate. Dylan, drifting in a stupor, wasted months in aimless wandering until his purse was nearly barren. In desperation, he purchased a dilapidated hovel in the hinterlands of the Kingdom of Zehn, where he lived in mounting dread.

This very morning, while returning from the market with provisions, he had been struck from behind—agony, darkness... and now Glenn had awakened within him.

It is real... I have transmigrated.

The realization struck instantly. Glenn steadied his respiration, his gaze locking onto the bearded man advancing upon him.

In this debilitated vessel, he stood little chance against two full-grown men.

Yet for Glenn, trained and reborn, opportunity remained.

His gaze sharpened, calculating, sweeping over his assailants with predatory intent.

“What is the matter? Cat got your tongue? Lie down and die, whelp!”

The bearded brute bellowed, extending a thick arm to shove him aside.

But as the hand neared, Glenn’s eyes narrowed to slits. His right hand coiled, knuckles bent like the fangs of a striking viper, darting toward the man’s throat with lethal precision.

They had dismissed him as frail and helpless, never anticipating the sudden, explosive strike.

The man gagged, his head jerking forward, tongue lolling as he fought for air. Glenn’s hand snapped back, his left already seizing the dagger from the man’s belt. In one fluid motion, he slit the brute’s throat.

The shadowed figure reacted, but he was too late.

With his right hand, Glenn wrenched the revolver free. Using the dying man’s bulk as a shield, he brought the revolver up and fired without hesitation.

Bang!

The gunshot cracked through the silence of the woods, scattering a flock of roosting birds.

The lurking foe’s cranium burst apart, and his body crumpled lifelessly to the earth.

It had all unfolded seamlessly, as if choreographed.

Glenn shoved the bearded corpse away. The brute clutched his throat, gurgling. Glenn himself staggered as agony ripped through his abdomen. Lifting his shirt, he saw four half-healed gashes, one torn open anew, blood surging forth.

So it was these bastards...His brow furrowed as he tore a strip of cloth to staunch the wound.

Then he noticed—the brute still breathed, his body convulsing violently.

Glenn’s eyes widened.

The man’s face warped grotesquely. His mandible jutted outward, cheeks bristling with coarse black fur spreading like wildfire.

A werewolf!The memories within him left no room for doubt.

Without hesitation, Glenn raised the revolver to his enemy’s forehead. Transformation required time—time he would not grant.

Click.

No shot rang out.

What—?

He checked the mechanism, pulled the trigger—still silence.

Flinging open the cylinder, he froze.

Empty. Not a single cartridge.

With a curse, Glenn hurled the revolver aside. He gripped the dagger, lunged forward, and pinned the beast down, plunging the blade into the half-healed wound at its throat.

The werewolf thrashed wildly, its monstrous strength barely checked by Glenn’s weight. Its half-formed jaws clamped down on his left wrist, fangs sinking deep, searing agony exploding through his arm.

But Glenn did not falter. His right hand drove on, sawing through sinew and bone.

At last, the brute’s head tore free. The struggles ceased, and the crushing pressure on his arm vanished.

Panting, Glenn wrenched his mangled wrist free, then staggered toward the second corpse. No strange transformations marked this one, yet Glenn, unwilling to take risks, severed his head as well.

Only then did he collapse to the ground, lungs heaving, heart hammering against his ribs.

What a beginning... so close to death.

His wounds still bled, but after a brief respite, he bound them as best he could, then forced himself upright. Gritting his teeth, he limped into the darkness, toward the sanctuary that was now his home.