The forest had been whispering warnings since the night before, but Escanor hadn't wanted to listen.He had seen the glowing eyes by the river yesterday, had felt the weight of a predator's gaze, but a part of him had convinced himself that it was only curiosity. That maybe, just maybe, the wolf would lose interest and leave.
Now, as dawn painted the sky pale gold, he knew he had been wrong.
The growl was low and deep, vibrating through his chest as much as his ears. Escanor froze, his body turning stiff, the sword gripped so tightly in his hands that his knuckles turned white.
From the shadows ahead, a gray form emerged. Yellow eyes glinted beneath the trees, focused on him with deadly hunger. A wolf—larger than he expected, lean and powerful, its teeth already bared.
His stomach knotted. He had seen wolves before—on screens, in books, documentaries where calm narrators explained how they hunted in packs, how they tested their prey before striking. In 2025, wolves were numbers on conservation charts, symbols of wilderness.
But here, now, it was no symbol. It was death, and it was looking at him.
And then more shapes moved. One to his left. Another to his right. The forest seemed to shift as three, then four, then five wolves crept into view, their growls weaving together in a chorus that made his skin crawl.
This is it, Escanor thought. This is how people die out here.
He took a step back, his boot crunching against the leaves. He pressed his back to a tree, forcing himself to breathe. His heart slammed against his ribs like a war drum. "Stay back," he muttered, his voice hoarse, trembling. "Stay… back."
The wolves didn't care. They crept closer, their paws silent, their eyes never leaving him.
The first lunged.
Instinct—not bravery—made him move. His sword flashed, clumsy but desperate. The blade scraped across fur and muscle, and the wolf yelped, stumbling back. Escanor gasped in shock, his arms shaking. He had cut something alive. Blood spotted the ground.
But there was no time to think. Another wolf came from the side, slamming into his leg. He staggered, nearly falling, and only by thrusting his boot out did he kick the beast away. Pain raked up his arm as claws tore skin, hot blood spilling. He screamed.
Panic clawed at his throat. I can't do this. I can't kill. I can't—
But the wolves gave him no choice.
They surged, one after another, snapping at his arms, his legs, testing, pressing. Escanor swung wildly, grunting, shouting, tears stinging his eyes from fear more than pain. Each time the sword connected, each time he shoved them away, he felt a piece of himself break inside. He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted blood.
But survival was merciless.
A set of jaws clamped down on his thigh, dragging him down. He roared, smashing the hilt of the sword down onto the wolf's skull again and again until it released. His leg throbbed, wet and hot, blood soaking his trousers. He looked down and nearly retched at the sight.
That's too much… I can't… I should already be fainting…
Yet his body refused to fall. His chest still dragged in air, his legs still held him. He was bleeding, but strength still filled his arms.
"Why… why am I still standing?" he gasped.
The wolves circled again, their snarls filling the air. They were cautious now, but not done. One darted in, snapping at his arm. His sword lashed out by reflex, catching it across the shoulder. Another rushed from behind, and he spun, his size and weight crashing into it.
Every second stretched into an eternity. Pain burned in his body, but beneath it something else surged—endurance, unnatural, impossible. He should have collapsed long ago. He should have been meat for the pack. Instead, he still roared, still swung, still fought.
Minutes dragged. The wolves pressed, testing, retreating, lunging again. Escanor's fear never left him, but beneath it a strange realization grew. He wasn't fighting like a man about to die. He was fighting like someone who refused to.
Finally, the wolves hesitated. They growled, pacing, but he remained upright—bleeding, trembling, but towering, sword still raised, eyes wild with defiance.
One whined. The leader snarled but didn't leap. Slowly, one by one, the pack slipped back into the trees, their glowing eyes fading into the shadows until only silence remained.
Escanor stood frozen, chest heaving, sword heavy in his hands. He waited, terrified they might return, but the forest stayed still.
Then his knees buckled. He collapsed to the ground, gasping. Blood soaked his arm and leg, dripping into the dirt. His vision blurred, but not the way it should. He was weak, but not fading. Broken, but not broken enough.
"I should be dead," he whispered. His voice cracked. He pressed trembling fingers to his wounds. The bleeding had slowed, far faster than he expected. The pain was real, but his strength remained.
Confusion twisted inside him. Fear mixed with awe. Something in his body was wrong—different. Stronger.
Shaking, he forced himself up, leaning on the sword like a crutch. Every step toward the cave was agony, but his legs carried him. Somehow, impossibly, they carried him.
The cave welcomed him like a tomb. He fell inside, dragging his sword with him, gasping for breath. For a long moment, he lay there on the stone floor, staring at the ceiling, waiting for death to come.
It didn't.
His mind from the future kicked in. Stop the bleeding. Clean the wounds. Infection kills more than blood loss.
He tore strips from his shirt with trembling hands, pressing them against his arm, his thigh. He hissed in pain as he poured water from the river over the cuts, forcing dirt and blood out. The sting made him grit his teeth, but he knew it was necessary.
It was messy, clumsy, but it worked. The bleeding slowed even more. His head stayed clear. He tied the strips tight, crude bandages, but they held.
He leaned back, chest heaving. "This… this isn't normal. I should be half-dead by now…"
But he wasn't. His body was battered, but it wasn't failing him. The fire in his chest still burned strong.
Another thought rose in his mind, sharp and terrifying: Maybe I can't die like other men.
He shoved it aside, focusing on the next task. Fire. He needed fire.
From the wreckage he had scavenged, he had a pot, some damp wood, a bit of rope. He struck the edge of his sword against stone, again and again, sparks flashing. Ten times, nothing. Eleven times, smoke. On the twelfth, a spark caught.
Escanor bent low, blowing carefully, feeding the tiny flame with dry moss. His hands trembled, both from exhaustion and hope. Slowly, the fire grew, spreading to twigs, then branches, until orange light flickered against the cave walls.
He sat back, watching the flames dance. Warmth touched his skin, chasing away the cold. For the first time since he had woken in this strange world, he felt something like safety.
The fire reflected in his eyes, and he whispered, "I don't know what I am anymore."
His wounds still hurt, but already the edges looked tighter, cleaner, healing faster than he could believe. He touched the bandage on his arm, shaking his head. "Not normal… not human…"
Fear lingered, but so did wonder. If his body refused to break, if he could endure what should have killed him, then what future lay ahead?
He stared into the fire, the shadows shifting on the cave walls like ghosts. His thoughts burned as hot as the flames.
"This world wants me dead," he whispered. His voice was low, steady, a promise to himself. "But it will have to try harder."
The wolves had tested him. The forest had scarred him. And yet, he lived.
And as the fire crackled into the night, Escanor began to believe something dangerous.
He wasn't meant to die