Here is the grammar and spelling corrected version, preserving all original content, style, and writing mechanics:
"Come on, Baggins, this place feels off."
"Yeah, buddy, this kid's just a pauper—not a single copper coin on him. Damn it…"
"Figured as much…"
...
Hiss…
Why can't I move? My whole body feels shattered… hurts so bad…
What happened? Did I push my training too far and black out?
Glen surfaced from unconsciousness, faint voices reaching him through the haze. A sharp breath hissed through his teeth as he registered the deep, unnatural ache permeating his battered body.
Opening his eyes, he saw only the jagged silhouettes of dark treetops against a dusky, patchwork sky.
The voices nearby continued.
"If he's got nothing valuable, we need to get out of here. Last thing we need is some do-gooder sticking their nose in."
"Leaving him here's a waste. Might as well eat him."
"Suit yourself. Just make it quick…"
The voices grew closer, sharpening Glen's focus. A wave of confusion washed over him.
Their language… the structure feels like English, but it sounds nothing like it. How am I understanding them?
Wait… eat him? Me?!
Panic surged, a cold jolt of adrenaline cutting through the haze. Pushing past the crushing weakness, Glen strained to push himself up.
He'd barely managed to get his limbs under him, arching his back off the ground, when a brutal kick slammed into his gut.
A tearing agony exploded from his abdomen, radiating through every nerve.
He was flung backward, tumbling helplessly across the forest floor.
Already weak, the fresh wave of pain was overwhelming. Even Glen's formidable will couldn't stop the violent tremors wracking his frame, sweat beading on his forehead.
Yet, he clenched his jaw, refusing to grant his attackers the satisfaction of a scream.
"This runt's still alive?" rasped a gruff, unfamiliar male voice.
Glen tilted his head. A man loomed over him: thick, matted beard, a prominent hooked nose, features distinctly European beneath rough-spun clothing. A cruel grin split his face.
Behind him, a leaner figure lingered in the deeper shadows of the trees. The face was obscured, but the build suggested another European.
Kidnapped by foreigners? Impossible! Glen's mind raced. My training, my instincts… how could I be snatched blind?
He came from martial arts lineage – disciplines forged for lethality. After high school, he'd joined up, been selected for special forces. Covert ops overseas. Guns fired in anger, lives taken. His alertness was honed to a razor's edge. None of it reconciled with this helplessness.
His gaze sharpened on the approaching man: the oddly medieval cut of his clothes, the heavy dagger at his waist, the archaic-looking revolver holstered beside it.
Everything felt jarringly wrong. Even the body he now inhabited felt alien, unfamiliar territory.
Could I have… crossed over? The notion seemed ludicrous, yet it surfaced with terrifying insistence. Try as he might to dismiss it, no other explanation fit the bizarre tableau.
Suddenly, fragmented memories flooded his mind, momentarily blunting the physical agony. They provided sickening confirmation.
Magic… Dragons… Elves… Dwarves… Steam… Kingdoms… A cascade of fantastical concepts bombarded Glen's awareness.
The original owner of this battered shell was Dylan Nibanklu, scion of a wealthy merchant family. He'd reveled in his privilege, traveling widely and indulging the whims of a spoiled heir.
Perhaps it was karma.
His obscenely rich father had abruptly written, declaring bankruptcy. He claimed he'd secretly set aside funds for his children – enough for comfort, for a while. The letter ended with a stern warning: Do not come home.
Shattered, Dylan ignored the command. He rushed back, only for his siblings to deliver the crushing news: their parents were dead. Murdered by enemies, they said. Case closed by the authorities.
After the funeral, the siblings divided what remained of the fortune and scattered to the winds.
Dylan drifted, lost in a haze of grief and confusion for months. When clarity finally returned, his pockets were nearly empty.
Desperate, he'd bought a dirt-cheap cottage in a remote corner of the Zain Kingdom and settled down.
But the place… it was wrong. Dylan lived in constant, gnawing fear.
Then, this very morning, returning from the distant town market with supplies, a sudden, crushing blow slammed into the back of his head. Consciousness vanished.
Until now. Until Glen awoke in this bruised, broken vessel.
I really did cross over. The pieces clicked into place with terrifying speed. No time to dwell. Glen forced a semblance of calm into his ragged breathing, gritted his teeth against the screaming protest of his muscles, and pushed himself upright once more. His eyes locked onto the bearded man closing in.
In his current state, defeating two grown men head-on was near impossible.
But Glen wasn't just Dylan. He saw an opening.
A veteran of countless kill-or-be-killed missions, he assessed the situation instantly: One chance. Make it count.
His gaze flickered over both men, calculating distances, weapons, weaknesses.
"Cat got your tongue? Scared stiff? Just lie back down!" the bearded man sneered, arrogance thick in his voice. He thrust out a thick, powerful arm to shove Glen back to the dirt.
The instant before contact, Glen's eyes snapped into laser focus.
His right hand shot forward, knuckles bent like a striking cobra, driving straight for the soft target of the man's throat.
Utterly dismissive of the frail-looking youth, the attackers were unprepared. The bearded man choked, head jerking down, tongue lolling grotesquely as if gagging.
Glen's right hand retracted like a whip. Simultaneously, his left hand snatched the heavy dagger from the man's belt. In one fluid, vicious motion, he drew the blade across the exposed throat.
The thinner man in the shadows finally reacted – but far too late.
Glen's right hand was already moving, yanking the revolver from the collapsing man's holster. Using the bearded man's bulk as a shield, he flipped off the safety, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The gunshot tore through the forest silence, sending birds exploding into the sky.
The thin man's head snapped back. He crumpled heavily to the ground, a dark hole blooming above his eyes.
The sequence was chillingly efficient, brutally practiced.
Glen shoved the gasping, choking bearded man aside. The man clutched his ruined throat, making wet, gurgling sounds.
A fresh wave of tearing pain ripped through Glen's abdomen. He pulled up his shirt. Four angry, half-healed gashes marked his stomach. One had torn open anew, blood welling thick and dark.
These bastards… Glen grimaced, tearing off a strip of his own ragged shirt to press hard against the wound.
A wet, choking rasp drew his attention. The bearded man wasn't dead yet.
Glen looked down, and his eyes widened in shock.
The man's face was changing.
His jaw elongated, pushing forward unnaturally. Coarse black fur sprouted violently across his cheeks, spreading like spilled ink over his skin.
Werewolf! The knowledge slammed into Glen from Dylan's fragmented memories.
No hesitation. Glen raised the revolver, aiming squarely between the transforming eyes on the man's forehead. The full change wasn't complete yet. Glen wouldn't give him the time.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Silence.
Frantically, he flipped the safety off and on, squeezed again. Nothing.
He fumbled, cracking open the cylinder.
Empty!
He hurled the useless weapon aside. Gripping the bloody dagger in his right hand, he threw his weight onto the writhing figure. With desperate strength, he drove the blade deep into the still-healing wound on the man's throat.
Life threatened, the half-transformed creature fought back with terrifying, inhuman strength. Even with Glen's full weight bearing down, it was a desperate struggle.
His weakened left arm buckled, losing its grip.
The partly wolfen head twisted, jaws lined with jagged, bone-white fangs snapping shut on Glen's left wrist.
Agony lanced up his arm. Glen screamed internally but pressed harder with his right hand, sawing frantically through muscle and tendon at the creature's neck.
Thank God it's not full strength, he thought grimly, or my hand would be gone.
Finally, with a sickening tear, the head separated from the body. The monstrous struggles ceased. The crushing pressure on Glen's wrist vanished.
He wrenched his mangled left wrist free, sticky with blood. No time. Gulping air, he staggered towards the other corpse.
The thin man showed no signs of transformation, but Glen took no chances. He severed the head with brutal efficiency.
Only then did Glen collapse onto the blood-soaked earth, lungs burning, body trembling with exhaustion and shock.
Hell of a welcome. Almost game over already. He focused on the frantic pounding of his heart, forcing his nerves to steady.
The wounds still bled. After a few precious moments of gasping recovery, he did his best to bind the worst of them, tightening the makeshift bandage on his stomach and wrapping his ravaged wrist.
Then, teeth gritted against the symphony of pain, he hauled himself to his feet. Every step was a torment as he began the slow, limping trek towards the place he now, horrifyingly, had to call home.
Unseen by him, unnoticed in the aftermath, the fingernails on his left hand briefly elongated into sharp, obsidian-black claws before shrinking back to normal.