I woke up choking on saltwater and sand. My body ached like I'd been trampled by a herd of horses, and my boots—still laced tight—were soaked through. The sun stabbed at my eyes, too bright, too wrong.
"Where the hell...?" I pushed myself up on trembling arms, spitting out a mouthful of grit. The last thing I remembered was the whirlpool's jaws closing around me, that thing in the deep watching as the ocean swallowed me whole. And now... this. Some piss-poor stretch of beach I didn't recognize.
I patted myself down. Same clothes. Same knife missing from its sheath. Even the damn compass on my belt was gone. But alive. Somehow.
"Scheiße. Either I'm dead, or the world's playing a sick joke."
The tide lapped at my boots like it wanted to drag me back. No ships on the horizon. No footprints but mine. Just dunes and scraggly pines that didn't look like any coastal flora I knew. My head throbbed—not just from the seawater I'd inhaled, but from the nagging sense that something else had changed. Something I couldn't see yet.
And then I noticed it: the smell. Not salt and rot, but something sweet and metallic underneath. Like blood and burnt sugar.
"Nein. Not good. Not natural."
I let instinct drag me forward—until the grass shuddered. Then I saw it: a wolf, but wrong. Too large, its fur the color of dried blood, fangs jutting like broken knives. Our eyes met. It lunged.
I bolted for the treeline, lungs burning. The thing snarled behind me, close enough I could smell its rancid breath. I vaulted onto the lowest branch, scrambling upward just as claws scraped bark beneath my boots.
"Scheiße! What kind of wolf is this?!" Its muscles rippled under that crimson pelt, too intelligent for any natural beast. "None of this is normal. Where the hell am I?"
Ssshhhk—
"FUCK—"
The tree snake struck from above. My hands moved on their own—military reflexes—snapping its head in my grip before I even registered the fangs. The creature went limp instantly, its body coiling once around my wrist like a grotesque bracelet.
I stared at the corpse. My grip strength shouldn't have... No. Something's changed.
Crimson Fenrir (Red Wolf Variant)
Threat Level: ★★★☆☆
Traits:
Size: 1.5x normal wolf
Pelt: Blood-red, absorbs moonlight
Weakness: Fire (fur highly flammable)
Behavior: Hunts in pairs, intelligent enough to set traps
Special: Blood frenzy (+50% speed at <30% HP)
Strangler Vine Snake (Tree Snake Variant)
Threat Level: ★★☆☆☆
Traits:
Camouflage: Matches tree bark perfectly
Speed: Strikes at 60mph
Weakness: Crushing head (spinal cord fragile)
Behavior: Drops silently from canopy
Special: Silent drop (no warning rustle)
Günther stared at the dead snake in his grip—its skull crushed to pulp between his fingers. Below, the crimson wolf paced, its growls vibrating through the tree roots. No hesitation. No mercy.
He measured the drop in a single glance, then let gravity do the work.
The moment his boots left the branch, the wolf's head jerked up—just in time to meet his descending elbow. The impact cracked its jaw upward with brutal precision, fangs punching through its own tongue in a spray of black blood. The beast reeled, a choked whimper escaping its ruined muzzle.
Günther hit the ground rolling and came up in a crouch. The wolf shook its head, one eye already swelling shut, but the fight wasn't over. It lunged, breath reeking of rotting meat.
This time, he didn't dodge.
His hands shot out, clamping around the wolf's lower jaw. A sharp twist, a savage pull—the vertebrae at the base of its skull separated with an audible *pop*. For one grotesque second, the head hung limp in his grip, tongue lolling, before he flung it aside. The body collapsed mid-leap, legs still pumping at empty air.
Günther wiped his palms on his trousers, staring at the twitching corpse.
"Pathetic."
Bad fucking luck. The second I finished crushing that first wolf's windpipe, the forest erupted in snarls. Ten more crimson shadows emerged from the undergrowth, eyes glowing like embers in the dusk.
They attacked like starved strays—no tactics, just brute aggression. A snap-dodge left, break the first wolf's foreleg. Pivot right, drive my elbow into another's throat. Their bodies piled up around me in a grotesque ring, bones cracking under my boots like dry kindling.
BRAKK! – A skull shattered under my heel.
DARR! – A spine snapped over my knee.
AUU! – The last one died with my fingers buried in its eye socket.
Silence.
I stood there, chest barely rising, not a single drop of sweat. At sixty-two, I should be wheezing. At twenty, this would've left me bleeding. Now? Just the coppery taste of wolf blood in my mouth and this... this wrongness humming in my veins.
My hands told the truth—knuckles scarred from a lifetime of fights, skin leathery from decades at sea. Same old Gunther. Same wrinkled face when I touched my cheeks.
Yet I'd just torn through a pack of mutated wolves like they were made of wet parchment.
The black blood dripping from my fingers seemed darker than it should be. Thicker. Almost... pulsing.
Something's inside me now.
The thought should've terrified me. Instead, I felt my lips peel back in something too sharp to be a smile.
Günther stepped over the carcasses, his boots sinking into moss so thick it muffled all sound. The trees here grew unnaturally close, their trunks twisted like the spines of starving men. No birds sang. No insects hummed. Just the creak of branches and his own steady breath.
Odd.
He crouched, brushing fingers across a cluster of mushrooms. Their caps were pure white—not the creamy ivory of common deathcaps, but a translucent, almost glowing pallor. When he snapped one stem, black sap oozed out, smelling faintly of iodine and rotting citrus. New species? Or something... else?
Deeper in, the undergrowth changed. Vines with thorns like surgical needles coiled around tree trunks, their tips glistening with moisture. Günther didn't touch them. He'd seen enough jungle rot in his time to know when flora meant harm.
A clearing opened ahead, dominated by a single massive oak. Its bark had split open in jagged fissures, revealing wood grain that pulsed with slow, rhythmic contractions. Breathing. Günther's hand drifted to his missing knife. The tree's roots formed perfect concentric circles—too symmetrical for nature.
Then he saw them: bones. Dozens, maybe hundreds, arranged in spirals radiating from the oak's base. Not scattered. Placed. Some still had strips of flesh clinging to them, desiccated but untouched by scavengers.
"Not a forest," he realized. "A digestive system."
The dying light painted the forest in shades of rust and old blood. Günther moved with deliberate precision, his boots carving a wary path through the unnatural undergrowth. He selected his campsite not for comfort, but for tactical advantage—a shallow depression between the gnarled roots of a lightning-split cedar, far enough from the pulsing oak to avoid its rhythmic vibrations, yet close enough to monitor its disturbing contractions. With practiced efficiency, he snapped branches in precise patterns around his perimeter, creating a makeshift alarm system that would crack like gunshots if disturbed.
The mushrooms burned with unnatural reluctance, their white flesh curling into blackened scrolls that released thin, acrid smoke. It coiled around his makeshift spit like living mist as the wolf meat dripped blue-tinged fat into the flames. Günther's nose wrinkled at the chemical stench, but hunger overrode caution. As the dubious meal cooked, he honed his weapons—a wolf femur ground sharp against stone, vine thorns carefully threaded through his collar's stitching, a single curved fang wedged into his boot heel. Each movement carried the economy of a man who'd spent lifetimes turning scraps into survival.
When darkness fully claimed the forest, he smeared the blackened wolf blood in jagged symbols around his nest. The substance clung to his fingers with disturbing persistence, crawling across his skin like sluggish ink. Some ancient part of his brain whispered that this was sacrilege, that he was marking himself as much as warding the space. He ignored it. Survival had always demanded payment in stains no soap could cleanse.
Wedged upright between the roots, his back to solid wood and his bone knife balanced across his thighs, Günther allowed himself the approximation of rest. The forest breathed around him—a symphony of creaking timber and skittering limbs that moved with too many joints. Something heavy dragged itself through the underbrush twenty paces east. Something else answered from the canopy with a wet, clicking chatter.
His fingers tightened around the femur.
"Come and try me," he murmured to the hungry dark, and closed his eyes in something that was not sleep, but a predator's wary stillness. The last thing he registered before slipping into watchful dormancy was the distant, rhythmic pulsing of the oak's roots—a heartbeat that somehow matched the strange new tempo of his own blood.
The night passed in fractured moments—half-sleep punctuated by the snap of twigs and the whisper of unseen things circling just beyond the fire's dying glow. Günther's body remained still, but his mind sharpened with each rustle, calculating trajectories, escape routes, kill zones. The black blood on his skin itched fiercely now, as though reacting to some lunar phase only the forest understood. When a many-legged shadow finally dared breach his perimeter, slithering over the broken branches, his hand shot out on instinct. The creature—all chitin and needle teeth—exploded under his grip with a wet pop, its innards sizzling where they splashed against his ward-lines.
Dawn came grudgingly, light filtering through the canopy like tarnished silver. Günther rose stiffly, his joints protesting despite the unnatural strength humming beneath his skin. The forest floor told stories in the fresh light: claw marks scoring the earth where something had paced endlessly just beyond his defenses, the mangled remains of three more creatures that had tried and failed to cross his blood-marked boundary. Most telling were the footprints—not animal, not quite human—pressed deep into the soft soil near the breathing oak. They hadn't been there yesterday. Someone, or something, had watched him all night. He rubbed at the now-dried blood flaking from his hands, staring at the disturbed earth where the prints vanished abruptly, as if their maker had simply dissolved into the morning mist.
After days of trudging through that godforsaken forest—its whispering trees and blood-drunk predators—I finally broke through the treeline. And there it stood: a goddamn medieval fortress straight out of a history book.
High stone walls, check. Moat with murky water, check. Even the fucking pennants flapping in the wind like this was some Renaissance fair.
"Time travel? Bullshit."
I rubbed at the black stains still clinging to my hands. The forest had been wrong. This was impossible. Yet my choices were slim—starve in the wilds or risk whatever lunacy waited behind those walls.
The gates stood open, flanked by two figures in rusted plate armor. At least, I thought they were guards. They moved too fluidly for men weighed down by steel, their faces hidden behind visors that reflected nothing. Around them, townsfolk shuffled—actual humans, from what I could tell, though their woolen tunics and leather aprons might as well have been costumes.
One woman paused to adjust her wimple, her eyes sliding over me like I was part of the scenery. That settled it. Either I'd lost my mind, or this place had never been on any map.
I spat to clear the taste of wolf blood from my mouth and stepped forward.
"Let's see what fresh hell this is."
The guard's voice grated like rusted hinges. "Hey, old man! Which kingdom do you hail from? Show me your guild card."
I kept my face blank. Guild? Card? Kingdom? None of this made sense. "I don't understand what you're saying. I'm from the south." A vague answer—just enough to deflect further questions.
The guard's eyes narrowed behind his visor. "The south? Whatever. Where's your guild card? Show it now."
I played the fool, shrugging helplessly. "I lost my belongings in the forest. Thieves stole them while I slept. Can I get a new card made?"
For a tense moment, the guard studied me. Then he scoffed. "Damn thieves. Fine. You seem honest enough." He turned and barked over his shoulder, "Hinta! Take this old man to the Adventurer's Guild in town."
A young woman—slight, with a scar across her nose—emerged from the crowd. She gave me a once-over, her gaze lingering on my worn but clearly foreign clothes. "This way."
As I followed her through the cobbled streets, I kept my senses sharp. Adventurer's Guild? The term rang with absurdity, like something out of a bad fantasy tale. But the buildings around me were real enough—timber-framed shops, the stench of open sewers, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer. People bustled past, their garb straight out of a medieval fair.
Hinta led me toward a large, weathered building with a sign depicting a sword crossed with a wand. "The Guild Hall," she said, pushing open the heavy oak door. "Get yourself registered. And try not to look so lost. It's suspicious."
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the murmur of low conversations. Men and women in armor, robes, and leathers sat at long tables, drinking from tankards and sharpening blades. A board on the far wall bore parchment notices—some fresh, others yellowed with age.
What the hell have I walked into?
I exhaled, steadying myself. For now, I'd play along. But one thing was certain—this was no ordinary town. And if these people thought I was just another washed-up traveler, they were in for a rude awakening.
The receptionist's fingers drummed against the wooden counter, her smile polished but hollow. "Welcome to Ironhold, traveler. First time?" She didn't wait for an answer before sliding a tarnished brass token across the surface. "Keep this visible after sundown. The Nightwatch enjoys making examples of those without one."
A muscle twitched in my jaw as I pocketed the token. "And if I lose it?"
"They'll find you before you do." Her manicured nail tapped a notice nailed to the wall—a crude drawing of a severed hand. "All weapons must be registered at the Citadel Armory by tomorrow. Unlicensed steel earns you matching stumps."
I glanced at the guards flanking the door, their polished breastplates reflecting the torchlight. "Efficient system."
She leaned closer, the scent of ink and lavender failing to mask the sweat beneath. "Avoid the Iron Residences unless summoned. Lady Seraphine's trials are… theatrical." A flicker in her pupils betrayed more than professional caution. "Market Zone's safest, though mind the alleys. The Shattered Chain favors fire, and the Bone Traders favor fresh meat."
My thumb traced the X-marked lanes on the map she pushed forward. "Work?"
"The bounty board pays silver for necromancer heads and rebel tongues." Her quill hovered over a ledger. "One rule above all—no killing Guild affiliates. Even the ones who deserve it." The quill's tip dripped crimson ink. "Shall I enroll you?"
My clothes reeked of forest rot and dried blood. No spare shirt, no clean boots—just the same battered outfit I'd worn since the whirlpool spat me out.
"Any jobs that pay upfront?" I ground out. "Need silver for clothes and a meal."
The receptionist didn't blink. "Beginner's loan. Two silver for F-ranks." She slid a chit across the counter. "Repay three by week's end."
"Two silver, huh?" I flicked the coin with my thumbnail. "Point me to the cheapest rag merchant. And this board—it's current?"
"Always up-to-date," she said, too smoothly.
The market stank of overripe fruit and forge smoke. I grabbed the first linen shirt and trousers that didn't crawl with lice—scratchy as hell and two sizes too wide, but better than walking around in a corpse's wardrobe. The vendor's grin showed three teeth. "Good choice! Fits like a noble's—"
I tossed the silver and left.