"I will kill you, bastard!" I shouted while running at full speed, my lungs burning with each desperate breath.
Bhauu! Bhauu!
The thunderous pounding of several creatures echoed through the twisted forest, accompanied by barks that sounded more like the growls of demons clawing their way out of the abyss.
Then suddenly, around ten to twenty dogs burst out of the blackened bushes—all running behind me like I'd personally killed their mother.
Well... yes, I did kill their mother. But in my defense, that was just a misunderstanding! Surely that's not enough reason for them to hunt me down with such murderous intent, right? Right?!
Now, you might be wondering where exactly I was and why I was being chased by these hellish mongrels.
The answer should be simple: my pretty and absolutely loving instructor decided I was too weak for his refined tastes. So naturally, being the benevolent mentor he is, he would take me to some mythical forest, slay a legendary beast, hand me its precious core, and—exhausted from his heroic battle—leave only the "small fries" for me to handle as training.
At least, that's what I wanted to happen.
But as we all know, life is a bitch. And when you're at your most comfortable, it comes to bite you without warning.
My ugly, giant bastard of an instructor had dragged me to this forest at dawn—a place that looked less like a training ground and more like the seventh circle of hell. The ground beneath my feet was scorched black, cracked like ancient charcoal, and the trees... the trees were a nightmarish crimson red, their bark seeming to pulse with veins of dark energy. Twisted branches reached toward the ash-grey sky like skeletal fingers, and the air itself tasted of sulfur and decay.
And the dogs?
These weren't normal dogs.
Each beast stood nearly four feet tall at the shoulder, their muscular frames covered in matted black fur that seemed to absorb the dim light. But the truly horrifying part? Each one had three heads. Three snarling, frothing maws filled with rows of serrated teeth that looked capable of tearing through steel. Their eyes—six per creature—glowed a sickly yellow, tracking my every movement with predatory intelligence. Saliva dripped from their jaws, sizzling when it hit the blackened earth.
Cerberus hounds. Juvenile ones, but still deadly.
When I'd asked my instructor—no, when I'd begged him to explain why he'd thrown me into this literal hellscape—he'd simply yawned, stretched his massive arms, and said:
"I was bored. Yesterday's training was poor and slow. Thought I'd get some entertainment watching you run for your life."
Then he'd laughed. The bastard actually laughed before disappearing into the crimson shadows, leaving me alone with a pack of three-headed nightmares.
I thought he would at least say something along the lines of "this is for your own good" or "adversity builds character" or some other profound mentor bullshit. But no. He literally said this was for his entertainment.
"That bastard," I whispered under my breath, pumping my legs harder.
SNAP!
"OUCH!"
Pain exploded across my left buttock as razor-sharp teeth grazed my backside, tearing through my training pants and leaving burning scratches. One of the hounds had gotten close enough to take a bite—its middle head snapping back with a satisfied growl, a piece of fabric dangling from its jaws like a trophy.
"MY ASS! YOU BIT MY ASS!" I screamed, nearly tripping over my own feet from the shock.
I stumbled forward, clutching my wounded pride—literally. The momentary disruption in my stride gave the pack precious seconds to close the distance.
Oh God. Other transmigrators get to fight eldritch abominations or at least respectable monsters like dragons or demon lords. They farm experience points battling worthy opponents in epic showdowns that get entire chapters dedicated to their glory.
But here I was, struggling for my life against a pack of dogs. Not even cool mythical beasts with tragic backstories and complex motivations. Just oversized, three-headed mutts with a grudge and apparently very strong family bonds.
Yeah, life was truly unfair.
"OUCH!"
Another hound snapped at my heels, this time catching the edge of my boot and nearly yanking me off balance. These bastards were getting faster, their coordination improving as they herded me through the twisted forest like a sheep to slaughter.
My new body was stronger and more agile than my original one—thank whatever gods governed transmigration for that small mercy—but I had no idea how to actually use it in combat. The original Rishi had been training, sure, but that lazy bastard had barely paid attention. And my instructor? That giant asshole had only taught me how to swing a sword. Just swing it. Forward. Backward. Diagonal. That was it.
No footwork. No tactics. No "how to survive when twenty three-headed murder machines want you dead" training.
Just swinging.
The spatial storage bracelet on my wrist bounced uselessly with each stride—a mocking reminder that having emergency rations, spare clothes, and a water flask meant absolutely nothing when you were being hunted.
Wait.
Emergency supplies.
An idea began to form in my panic-addled brain. A stupid, desperate, absolutely ridiculous idea.
But when you're running through hell with a bitten ass, stupid ideas start looking pretty appealing.
I reached for the bracelet while still running—nearly face-planting in the process—and focused on the rations inside. The bracelet grew warm, and suddenly I was holding a wrapped bundle of dried meat.
"HEY!" I shouted over my shoulder, still sprinting. "WAIT! Let's talk about this!"
The barking didn't stop.
"I know we got off on the wrong foot—er, paw!" I continued, my voice cracking with exertion and rising panic. "But I'm sure we can resolve this misunderstanding!"
Bhauu! Bhauu!
Okay, so they weren't stopping. But maybe—maybe—I could slow them down.
"Look, I have FOOD!" I waved the dried meat in the air like an idiot. "Good food! Way better than whatever you usually eat in this hellhole!"
I risked a glance back. Several hounds were staring at the meat, their six eyes per creature tracking its movement. But they weren't slowing down.
Damn it.
"Your mother attacked first!" I shouted desperately, dodging around a gnarled tree. "I was just defending myself! It was self-defense! Perfectly justified self-defense by a perfectly justified—"
I had to jump over a fallen log, which interrupted my spectacular argument.
"—handsome nobleman who really, REALLY doesn't want to die today!"
The lead hound—a massive brute with a scar across its leftmost head—snarled. All three mouths opened in what might have been laughter. Or a threat. Probably a threat.
"And furthermore!" I continued, because apparently mortal terror had broken my brain's filter. "I am the nephew of Duke Avish von Ashvale! Do you know what that means? It means I have value! Political value! Economic value!"
I threw the dried meat behind me in a last-ditch effort.
Two of the younger hounds broke formation to snap at it, fighting amongst themselves.
"Ha! It's working!" I crowed, reaching for more rations.
BHAUU!
The scarred leader barked sharply, and the two hounds immediately abandoned the meat, rejoining the pack with what looked like embarrassment on their monstrous faces.
"Oh, come on!" I whined. "You have to respect the attempt! That was clever! That was tactical!"
Another hound lunged from my right, and I barely managed to veer left, my enhanced agility the only thing saving me from becoming dog food.
"Okay, okay! New approach!" I gasped. "I'm really, REALLY sorry about your mom! She seemed like a great lady! I'm sure she was an excellent parent! Taught you all to hunt, breathe fire, the importance of pack dynamics—"
SNAP!
Teeth closed inches from my calf.
"—and I'm sure she'd want you to honor her memory by showing MERCY to stupid humans who didn't mean to—"
My foot caught on a root, and I went sprawling forward, my hands barely catching my fall. The spatial storage bracelet scraped against stone, and for one terrifying moment, I thought it would shatter.
The pack closed in, sensing the end.
I rolled onto my back, holding up both hands in surrender. "WAIT! STOP! Before you eat me, just hear me out!"
The scarred leader approached slowly, all three heads lowering until I could smell its rancid breath—a mixture of sulfur, ash, and something that might have been yesterday's meal.
"Look," I said, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart was trying to escape through my ribcage. "I get it. I killed your mom. That's bad. That's really, really bad. But consider this—"
All six yellow eyes fixed on me.
"—she attacked first! I was literally just standing there, being handsome and noble and not bothering anyone, when she decided I looked like lunch!"
The middle head growled.
"I'm serious! I tried to be nice! I said 'nice doggy'! I was polite!"
The right head opened its mouth, revealing rows of serrated teeth.
"And yes, I stabbed her in the throat, but in my defense, she was BREATHING FIRE AT ME!" My voice had reached a rather undignified pitch. "That seems like an escalation of force! I was just responding proportionally to the threat!"
The left head tilted, as if considering my argument.
"Plus—and I cannot stress this enough—look at this face!" I gestured wildly at myself. "This face is a gift to the world! These features have been carefully crafted by generations of noble breeding! My jawline alone could cut glass! Would it not be a tragedy—nay, a crime against nature itself—to mar such perfection?"
Several other hounds had gathered around now, forming a circle. Some looked hungry. Others looked confused. One looked like it was falling asleep.
"I mean, I know I'm not as pretty as some people," I continued, babbling now because what else could I do? "My cousin Serenya has that whole ethereal silver-haired thing going on, and honestly, it's unfair how good-looking everyone in my family is except—wait, no, I'm included in that! I'm very handsome! Ask anyone!"
The scarred leader's middle head sneezed, spraying me with sulfurous mucus.
"Gross! Okay, fine, maybe not anyone. But several people! At least three! Four if you count my sister, but she's obligated to think I'm pretty because we're related!"
Bhauu? one of the younger hounds barked, its tone almost questioning.
"Yes! See? Even this one agrees I make good points!" I was grasping at straws now, and we all knew it.
The leader's three heads exchanged glances with each other—an oddly coordinated movement that would have been fascinating if I wasn't seconds away from death.
Then all three heads turned back to me.
And lunged.
"WAIT, WE WEREN'T DONE NEGOTIATING—"