CHAPTER 17: "THE BOAR"

One second it was on Speed's shoulder, warm and comforting and the only good thing that had happened to him since arriving in this nightmare world. The next second it was gone—shooting skyward, diving into the canopy, disappearing into the jungle like it had never been there at all.

The silence that followed was wrong.

Not just quiet. Wrong. Like the world had held its breath and forgotten to let it out. The waves that had been crashing against the shore moments before now seemed muted, their sound filtered through something dense and oppressive. The birds that had been singing somewhere in the jungle stopped.

Everything stopped.

Speed pushed himself to his feet, his hands shaking.

"What's—" he started.

A branch snapped.

Not in the distance. Close. Close enough that Speed could pinpoint the location, close enough that his body responded with pure instinct, flooding with adrenaline, preparing for something his conscious mind hadn't caught up with yet.

The jungle parted.

And the boar emerged.

It was massive. Not Titan-massive, but massive in the way that suggested this thing could kill Speed without even trying. The creature's skin was cracked with veins—not blood vessels, but literal veins of fire that glowed red-orange from within, like the animal was burning from the inside out. Its tusks were the size of Speed's forearm, glowing that same molten red, practically dripping heat into the sand.

The boar's eyes locked onto Speed.

Orange. Burning. Hungry.

"Hell no," Speed whispered.

He backed away slowly, his hands coming up in that universal gesture of please don't kill me. The sand shifted under his feet. His breath came in short, controlled gasps. Don't run. Don't make yourself look like prey. Just move slowly and—

The boar snorted.

The sound wasn't just a noise. It was a physical force. The sand beneath the creature trembled. Waves rippled backward. The entire beach seemed to recoil from that single exhalation.

Speed's hands started shaking worse.

"Hey, hey, chill, chill," Speed said, his voice pitched higher than he wanted it to be. He was trying for calm. It came out as terrified. "I don't want no smoke, bro."

The boar's nostrils flared.

Then it opened its mouth, and Speed saw teeth—thick, yellow, ancient-looking teeth that had probably tasted a lot of flesh over however long this thing had been alive.

And then it roared.

The sound wasn't just loud. It was impossible. It was the sound of an animal that shouldn't exist roaring with a volume that shouldn't be physically possible. It shattered something in Speed's chest. Shattered his resolve. Shattered his ability to think about anything except run.

Speed ran.

His feet hit the sand and immediately sank slightly, slowing him down. This wasn't a solid surface. This was beach. This was chaos. This was a place where running was inefficient and that made it the worst possible place to be running from a massive boar with tusks that glowed like molten metal.

But he ran anyway.

Behind him, the boar thundered forward.

Speed didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. Looking back would slow him down, would make him trip, would end this in the worst possible way. He just kept his eyes forward, kept his legs pumping, kept trying to put distance between himself and the thing that was chasing him with the single-minded determination of a predator that had finally found prey that would actually run.

The ground shook with every step the boar took.

Speed risked a glance over his shoulder and immediately regretted it. The creature was gaining. The sand might slow Speed down, but it didn't seem to slow the boar one bit. If anything, the boar was faster on sand, like it was built for this terrain in a way that soft, panicked nineteen-year-old boys weren't.

Speed's lungs were already burning. His legs were already screaming. He'd survived the void, survived the cornfield, survived holding the hand of a ghost boy as he was crushed by a Titan—and he was going to die on this beach, trampled by a boar with fire in its veins.

There.

A rock. Not huge, but big enough to hide behind. Maybe big enough to stop the boar, or at least slow it down enough for Speed to figure out a new plan.

Speed veered hard to the right.

He put on a final burst of speed and dove behind the rock, sliding in the sand, scraping his shoulder on stone but not caring because caring hurt and he had bigger problems.

The boar didn't stop.

It didn't try to turn. It didn't try to avoid the rock. It just lowered its head and charged.

The impact was cataclysmic.

The rock exploded. Not broke. Exploded. Like someone had detonated C4 inside it. Fragments of stone flew in every direction. Speed covered his head, curling up as small as he could make himself, feeling rock fragments tear across his back and shoulders.

When the dust cleared, the rock was gone.

And the boar was already turning for another charge.

Speed scrambled to his feet and ran again.

His back was bleeding now. His shoulders were torn. His legs were barely responding to commands anymore—he was running on pure adrenaline and the absolute certainty that stopping meant death.

The boar lowered its head.

This was it. This was the final charge. Speed could feel it. The creature had gotten tired of the chase. It was going for the killing blow, and Speed's tired body couldn't outrun it anymore.

He was going to die on a beach that shouldn't exist, in a world that made no sense, right after surviving the massacre of an entire village.

The boar charged.

A blue streak cut through the air.

Not a beam of light. A person. Moving so fast they left trails of blue energy behind them. The figure intercepted the boar mid-charge.

METALLIC SHING.

The sound of metal meeting flesh. Not a dull thud. A sharp, clean sound that suggested this was a trained fighter meeting an animal with a weapon designed specifically to hurt things.

The boar screamed.

It tried to change direction, tried to gore whatever had just cut it, but the damage was already done. Cracks of blue light spread across the boar's hide—not random cracks, but precise, surgical cuts that glowed from within.

The creature's momentum carried it forward for one more step, two more steps, and then it just... collapsed.

Its legs gave out. Its massive body crashed into the sand. Smoke hissed from the wounds, from the places where blue energy was still crackling and burning.

The boar didn't move again.

Speed collapsed on the sand, his chest heaving, his entire body shaking with the kind of intensity that suggested his muscles were ready to just stop functioning entirely.

He couldn't breathe. His lungs were on fire. His legs felt like jelly. His back was torn and bleeding and probably going to get infected in this world that had two moons and creatures that shouldn't exist.

But he was alive.

He was alive.

Speed gasped for air, his eyes wide, his mind not quite processing what had just happened. Someone had saved him. Someone had cut through the boar like it was nothing, like this was Tuesday for them, like they dealt with massive fire-veined monsters on a regular basis.

Through the settling dust and smoke, three silhouettes appeared.

Speed squinted, trying to focus, trying to see who had just saved his life.

The one in front stepped forward.

He was tall. Maybe early twenties, maybe thirty—it was hard to tell with his face half-hidden in shadow. Dark hair tied back in a practical knot. A cloak that seemed to shimmer with its own light, drifting in a breeze that Speed couldn't feel. And in his hand: a sword.

The blade was glowing with that same blue energy that had cut through the boar so cleanly. The light pulsed gently, like a heartbeat made of electricity and ice.

Speed stared at him.

The man's expression was unreadable. Cold. The kind of face that had seen too much, experienced too much, cared too little about the outcome.

This was not a friendly person.

"Who..." Speed started, his voice hoarse from screaming and running. "Who are you?"

The man didn't answer immediately. He just stood there, looking down at Speed with an expression that suggested the teenager on the sand was something to be evaluated, analyzed, judged.

Behind him, the other two figures remained indistinct. One was holding a bow, Speed could see now. The other had the faint glow of a staff.

But Speed's attention was locked on the man in front.

On the sword.

On the cold eyes that were now turning toward the boar's corpse, examining their handiwork, and then turning back to Speed.

"You're not from here," the man said simply. His voice was calm. Controlled. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who didn't raise it often because most people listened the first time.

Speed tried to stand.

His legs didn't respond immediately. He managed to push himself to one knee, his hands shaking too badly to be of much help.

"I... I don't know where I am," Speed said, and it was the truth. "I don't know what's happening. I don't—"

"Pathetic creature," the man interrupted. He glanced at the dead boar, then back at Speed. His eyes were unreadable, but something had shifted in them. Some calculation was happening behind those cold eyes.

He took a step closer.

Speed instinctively backed away, still on one knee, still trying to process whether this man had saved him or was about to kill him. In this world, it was hard to tell the difference.

That's when the man's eyes caught on something.

Speed's chest.

His jersey.

The red-green crest—the Portugal flag—was clearly visible. Blood and sweat and sand had stained it, but the colors were still unmistakable.

The man's entire demeanor shifted.

His jaw clenched. His hand tightened on his sword. The temperature around him seemed to drop about ten degrees, like his cold had a physical manifestation.

"Wer bist du?" the man asked, speaking in German, his voice dropping to something darker.

Speed blinked, confused. He didn't speak German. He didn't—

"Where did you get that crest?" the man continued in English, switching languages like it was nothing. His hand was unsheathing his sword again, and Speed realized the blade had only been partway sheathed. "Answer me."

Speed's hands went up in surrender.

"I—" he stammered. "It's mine. I don't—"

The man stepped closer, his sword unsheathing further.

"Answer me, or you lose a finger," he said with absolute calm. Like threatening dismemberment was just part of normal conversation.

Speed's panic spiked.

"It's just a jersey!" he blurted out, the words tumbling over themselves. "I bought it at a store! That's all, man! I don't—I don't know what you're talking about!"

The man stared at him.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Speed was on his knees, hands raised, bleeding, terrified. The man was standing over him, sword partially drawn, eyes analyzing, reading, judging.

Then a voice called from the ridge.

"Williams! Found their hideout!"

The man's gaze flicked away from Speed, toward the voice. His jaw tightened. Whatever conclusion he'd reached about Speed, it was being cut short.

He slid the sword back into its sheath. The blade clicked into place with a finality that suggested the threat had been closed, for now.

He looked down at Speed one final time. His eyes were cold. Unforgiving. The kind of eyes that belonged to someone who'd seen horrors and decided the world deserved worse.

"Follow me," the man said flatly. "You're not from here... I can see it."

He turned and walked away.