The fire from last night had died into gray ash, leaving only a faint trail of smoke curling toward the roof of the cave. Escanor stirred awake, his body stiff, the wounds from the wolves wrapped tightly in dirty strips of cloth. He blinked into the dim light, the events of yesterday replaying in his mind—the snarling jaws, the pain of teeth sinking into his leg, and the shocking truth that he was still alive.
Alive when he shouldn't be.
He pushed himself upright slowly, his muscles aching, but not broken. His hands pressed against the cave wall for support as he stood, the sword clattering softly against stone when he lifted it. His bandages were dark with blood, but the bleeding had stopped almost completely. That alone told him what his mind couldn't ignore: he was healing too quickly.
He pulled the cloth aside and stared at the wound on his thigh. The flesh was torn and ugly, but already the edges were tighter, knitting together as though days had passed instead of hours. His arm bore the same sign. The sight was disturbing, yet strange relief washed over him.
"This… body isn't normal," he muttered.
He touched his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Too strong. In 2025, he'd been average—no more, no less. He remembered the gym membership he never used, the desk job that kept him staring at a screen for hours. He had eaten too much junk food, spent too many nights awake, his body soft, untrained. He had never been a fighter, never an athlete. Just a normal guy.
But here? Here he was something else.
The memory of yesterday's fight was burned into him—the way he had kept standing even with blood pouring down his leg, the way his body refused to collapse. And now, this fast healing. It was like he had been rebuilt from the inside.
He exhaled slowly and looked around the cave. A small shelter for the night, yes, but not enough. If he wanted to survive in this wilderness, he needed something stronger, safer. Something that would last.
"First shelter," he told himself. "Then food. Then training."
The words steadied him, gave him a plan. In 2025 he had never planned further than the weekend, never thought about survival. But this world demanded it.
He gathered what little he had scavenged from the wreck—the broken barrel, scraps of rope, the dagger, and the rusted sword. Not much. His gaze turned to the forest outside the cave, sunlight breaking through the trees. That was where he would build.
The forest air greeted him fresh and cool. Birds sang overhead, the same chorus that had seemed so foreign before, but now it was background noise. Escanor moved slowly, his legs still sore, but every step grew steadier. He searched the ground for fallen branches, dragging them together in a pile. His hands worked clumsily at first, but muscle memory—not his own, but Escanor's—guided him. Spanish drills from years ago, building camps with soldiers, chopping wood, stacking it in rows.
Piece by piece, the image of a shelter took shape in his mind.
He found a cluster of stones near the cave's entrance and began arranging them into a low wall. His back strained, sweat dripping down his brow, but he did not tire as quickly as he remembered. In 2025, this much work would have left him panting, exhausted. Now, even with wounds, his arms moved steady, his grip strong.
The hours passed, the sun climbing higher. By midday he had a crude frame of branches leaning against the cave's opening, lashed together with strips of rope and twisted vines. It wasn't perfect, but it felt like progress. He layered leaves and moss on top, creating a roof that blended into the forest. The air inside felt cooler, shaded, more secure.
When he stepped back and looked at his work, a smile tugged at his lips. "Not bad," he whispered. "Not bad at all."
He sat on a stone, wiping sweat from his forehead. His stomach growled, demanding more food. He bit into one of the remaining fruits, the sweetness calming him, but his mind wandered back to the past.
The car. The blinding lights. The crash. He remembered the last seconds of his old life. The fear. The thought that everything was over. And yet, here he was, breathing in a world that wasn't his own, wearing the skin of a man who had died centuries ago.
He thought of his parents—how they would never know what happened to him. His friends, his coworkers. All the small, boring pieces of life in 2025. The smell of coffee in the office, the glow of a phone screen, the endless scroll of meaningless posts online. He had thought that was life. Safe. Predictable. Ordinary.
But now? That life felt like a dream fading away.
"This is real," he whispered, staring at his hands. "This is my world now."
The fire in his chest burned again, faint but steady. He could feel it with every heartbeat, a reminder that this body was not human—not completely. He wanted to understand it, to test it.
He rose to his feet and walked a short distance from the shelter. There, in a clearing, he began.
At first it was simple: lifting stones, carrying logs, testing the strength in his arms. He marveled at how easy it felt, how his muscles did not tremble even after long minutes of strain. He remembered struggling with small weights back in the gym years ago. Now he was carrying boulders half his size.
Then he began to run. Around the clearing, weaving between trees, his legs moving faster than he expected. The pain in his thigh still burned, but his stride was steady, his breath strong. Sweat poured down his face, but it was different—cleansing, invigorating. He pushed himself harder, faster, until his vision blurred with speed.
He stopped at last, leaning on his sword, gasping for air. His chest heaved, but even in exhaustion there was no weakness, no collapse. He stood tall.
Power thrummed through his body.
He gripped the sword and began to swing. Awkward at first, the blade heavy, but his muscles remembered the drills Escanor had once endured in Spain. Step forward, thrust. Step back, parry. The rhythm grew steadier, smoother, until the rusted blade cut through the air with a whistle.
He lost himself in the training, hours slipping away as he repeated the motions. Slash. Block. Strike. His arms ached, his shoulders burned, but it was a good pain—proof that he was growing stronger.
When the sun finally dipped toward the horizon, Escanor dropped to his knees, exhausted but alive. He looked at the shelter, the cave, the fire he could rebuild, and felt a spark of pride.
This was the beginning.
He was no longer just a man from 2025, no longer just a stranded soldier from 1392. He was something new. Something in between. Something stronger.
And tomorrow, he would push even further.