Two incomplete world projections surfaced in Chen Mo's mind.
His mental strength was still too weak to fully perceive them — the images appeared fragmented and blurred, flashing chaotically across his consciousness.
Focusing intently, Chen Mo studied each flickering scene, trying to distinguish shapes and details. Gradually, he began to piece together some clues.
In the first world, he could faintly see vast waves surging across the horizon, swallowing entire cities of skyscrapers, while layers of ice and snow spread across most of the planet.
The second world resembled medieval Europe — through the broken, distorted vision, he could make out dense forests, lines of armored knights charging in formation, ragged peasants fleeing for their lives, and, for the briefest moment, a towering figure with a monstrous silhouette flashing past.
Though the visions were murky and incomplete, that fleeting figure felt strangely familiar. Chen Mo's instincts told him it belonged to a world he'd seen before — one from the movies.
He sifted through his memories carefully. After recalling the full plot of a certain film, realization dawned. A small smile appeared on his lips.
Without hesitation, he made his choice.
A brilliant white light enveloped him.
When it faded, Chen Mo — clad in alloy combat armor, long sword and shield strapped to his back — stood in the middle of a shadowed forest.
Judging by the dim glow of the sky, it was near dusk. The sun was sinking, and darkness was slowly claiming the woods.
As soon as he arrived, Chen Mo's relaxed demeanor from the island was gone. His eyes sharpened, his posture steady. The holiday was over. The battle had begun.
He took a deep breath, attuning his senses to the sounds of the forest.
A faint noise — distant but distinct — reached his ears. Human voices… and screams.
He immediately sprinted toward the source.
The forest wasn't deep. In just a few minutes, he broke through the treeline and stepped into rolling fields. In the distance, a small, dilapidated village lay sprawled across the hills. Under the fading light, the glow of scattered fires flickered weakly among the houses.
Without the trees blocking his hearing, the sounds became clearer — terrified shouts, mingled with the guttural roars of beasts.
A faint metallic scent of blood drifted through the evening air.
Chen Mo frowned and quickened his pace.
As he neared the village, the coppery smell grew thicker.
When he finally burst into the outskirts, the scene before him made his pupils contract.
Several towering creatures — more than two meters tall, their bodies covered in dense black fur — were rampaging through the village, tearing apart anyone they could catch.
Their movements were swift and brutal, their muscular forms radiating raw power.
Their elongated muzzles, sharp fangs, and beastlike jaws made them look like enormous wolves — except they walked upright, like men.
The image matched perfectly with the monstrous silhouette he had glimpsed in the projection.
"Werewolves," Chen Mo murmured coldly.
The sight confirmed his suspicion — these were indeed the savage, bloodthirsty beasts of European myth.
The moment he appeared, the creatures' keen senses picked up his presence. The ones gnawing on human corpses dropped their prey and turned toward him, snarling as they charged.
Chen Mo met their feral roars with a calm, cutting smile. His hand reached back and drew his sword.
In an instant, his aura shifted.
The easygoing man who'd lounged on a hammock vanished.
What stood in his place was a warrior — eyes cold, stance grounded, his killing intent sharp as steel.
The first three werewolves lunged. Their speed was incredible — several times that of a normal human. Their jaws snapped wide, gleaming fangs dripping crimson.
Chen Mo's blade flashed like lightning. A single sweeping arc cut through the air, slicing cleanly across their throats.
All three beasts froze mid-motion, then collapsed heavily to the ground. Three severed wolf heads rolled away into the dirt.
Without breaking stride, Chen Mo sprinted deeper into the village. From within, he could still hear faint human cries.
There were more of them — far more. Each time a werewolf noticed him, it howled and attacked, only to fall beneath his blade.
Blood sprayed. Bodies fell. Step by step, he carved a path toward the densest cluster of noise.
Soon, he saw it — a small stone house at the far edge of the village.
Over a dozen snarling werewolves surrounded it, hurling themselves against its walls and door.
Unlike the flimsy wooden huts nearby, this house was built entirely from stone, sturdy and thick. Even the werewolves' claws couldn't tear it down immediately. They could only force their way in through the shattered windows and splintered doorframe.
From inside came the shouts of humans — the clang of metal, the sound of resistance.
Every time a werewolf tried to squeeze through, a spear shot out from within, stabbing precisely at the opening.
The beasts roared in pain and stumbled back, their black fur matted with blood.
Whoever was inside, they weren't just lucky survivors — their timing and coordination were too precise.
Chen Mo's eyes narrowed slightly. Someone in there was commanding them — someone disciplined, experienced, and unafraid of monsters.
A trained warrior, he thought. A veteran of battle.
And with that realization, his curiosity deepened — as did the anticipation for whatever this world still had waiting for him.