The moment Glen pushed the door open, he spotted a tall, slightly hunched figure on the neighbor's lawn, calling out while holding something in his hands.
The old man heard the door and turned—saw it was Glen, cut his shout short, like he meant to ask something, then stopped himself.
Instead, he gave a creepy smile.
If this had been the old Dylan, he'd probably have sprinted inside and locked the door tight, scared out of his wits.
But Glen? He wasn't afraid. He returned a faint, calm smile of his own.
The old man froze, clearly wondering why this spineless punk was acting bold today.
With a cold grunt, he turned and went back into his house, shutting the door with a loud bang.
He didn't find the dog's body? Glen took his eyes off the neighbor and looked at the spot where the bulldog had died last night.
Sure enough, nothing was there. His expression grew serious.
He walked over and crouched down.
Up close, he spotted faint bloodstains—scraped clean or licked away by something.
So yeah, something does roam these nights. No idea what yet… I'll check later. Glen stood, glanced once more at the old man's house, then went back inside.
Straight to the storage shed, he grabbed a random wooden stick—no clue what it was for—and gave it a test swing. Felt decent in his grip.
"You'll do."
Glen trusted his skills, but that didn't mean he'd drop his guard. The guy had a gun, after all.
The big-bearded guy's revolver was still back in the forest—he'd pick it up after looting, as long as he found bullets… Glen mulled it over, then stepped outside.
Bayek was still dead quiet. Mist swallowed the distant view—common weather here. Sunny days happened, but rarely. Without Dylan's memories, outsiders would think this was a permanently fog-shrouded ghost town.
Glen left his yard, staying alert while mentally running through plans in case things went hot.
With a light leap, he cleared the fence and landed on the old man's lawn. Stick hidden behind his back, he reached the front door and knocked.
Knock. Knock.
Two crisp knocks. Then he waited.
And waited.
Nothing. The wooden door didn't budge.
Weird. Shouldn't this cranky old coot storm out ready to pound me? Glen's eyes narrowed. He knocked again.
"Hey, old man! Got business—open up! Won't hurt you, I promise!" Glen called, adding mentally: Just robbing you, that's all.
Still nothing.
He switched from knocking to pounding—louder thuds, but still no response.
Did he vanish into thin air? Glen stopped, thought a sec, then called out:
"Don't you wanna know where your precious Tore went?"
Inside, something metallic clanged—ding clang.
Okay, now he'd come out… Glen tensed, eyes locked on the door.
Nope. Still nothing. Glen's eye twitched; veins bulged on his forehead.
"Fine. Don't blame me for breaking in!" He backed up a few steps and kicked hard!
BOOM!
The not-so-sturdy wooden door flew open. Glen didn't rush straight in—he darted left, and sure enough, a gunshot cracked.
BANG!
The old man, aiming to shoot, hadn't expected Glen to dodge. He hesitated a beat, then started reloading for a second shot.
Too slow. Glen charged in and brought the stick down hard on the old man's head!
Caught off guard, the old man could only raise his rifle to block.
A huge shock ran up his arm, making him flinch.
Before he could react further, a heavy punch smacked his gut, nearly blowing out yesterday's dinner.
He swung the shotgun wildly, trying to land a hit, but against a trained fighter like Glen, it was useless.
Glen had elite military training from his past life—plenty of tricks for dealing with armed opponents.
Taking advantage of the old man's dazed state, Glen yanked the shotgun away and kicked him back.
"Old man, I suggest you behave. Or else…" Glen rubbed the shotgun's grip, glaring at the tall, bruised man as he slowly rose.
The guy was about six-foot-three, thick-armed—clearly strong. But his current mess made him look less threatening.
"Kid, I don't know what's gotten into you, but don't get cocky. Our neighbors won't appreciate rowdy residents." The old man spat blood, voice hoarse.
He must've sensed something off about me and ditched his usual bullying act… Glen didn't answer, just said:
"Where's your food? Tell me, and I might graciously spare your life."
The sudden topic shift threw the old man. "…What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? I'm robbing you! Can't you tell? I'm starving, so don't waste my time, or you'll regret it." Glen's tone oozed impatience.
The old man's face darkened. Finally, he pointed slowly to a room inside. "…All… all in the kitchen."
Without hesitation, Glen slung the shotgun and marched toward the kitchen.
Soon, the old man heard cabinets being tossed, then chewing sounds.
Sitting on the floor, he didn't know what to think.
What the hell happened to this kid? Completely different person, moves like a pro… Possessed by a spirit?
The old man's kitchen was better stocked than Glen's—cupboards stuffed with food. Glen ate to his heart's content.
Only after filling his belly did he get curious about his own condition.
From the fight, it was obvious his body was stronger than an average person—or even his past self. That final punch, if he hadn't held back, would've kept the old man down for good.
Yesterday's wounds? Fully healed, barely a mark. Strange…
Felt like something had filled parts of his veins, boosting muscle power. When did that happen? Too weak to notice anything right after transmigration… Glen clenched his fist, feeling the surge of power.
Shaking off the thoughts, he walked back to the old man.
"Thanks for the meal. No need to feel too wronged—you used to bully me the same way. Today's just karma. Oh, and I'm taking this shotgun."
Under the old man's glare of barely restrained rage, Glen stepped out the door.