The wave of forest beasts stormed towards Anton, with a certain devastation if he failed to act. He brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, piercing whistle—a command Meeks would understand immediately. Meeks' ears perked up, awaiting instructions.
Anton gestured toward the forest's edge with sweeping arm movements. Running back to Kirkvalor was futile; even if they fled now, the beasts would overtake them on open ground. The trees offered their only chance for survival.
"Go!" he shouted and pointed to Meeks. "Forest! Take them!"
The dog sprang into action circling the flock. His urgent barking jolted the sheep, who began to move as one confused but obedient mass toward the treeline. Even the most stubborn sheep responded to Meeks' herding, sensing the danger approaching.
As the flock began to move, Anton's hand flew to his pocket, fingers closing around the alert rune paper he'd tucked away this morning. A precaution he'd taken in case his vision manifested in some unexpected way last night—and now it would save his life for entirely different reasons.
With practiced movements, Anton crushed the small crystal embedded in the corner of the paper. The rune pattern etched across its surface flared to life, glowing with arcane energy. He hurled it skyward with all his strength, watching as it soared above the field.
Twenty feet up, the paper erupted into a brilliant shower of crimson sparks that arced across the sky like a firework. More than fireworks, the magic would transmit a distress signal directly to the nearest guards and guardhouse, alerting them that someone was in mortal danger and required immediate assistance.
"Yes! Yes!" one of the fleeing adventurers called out, his voice carrying across the field. The archer's face split into a triumphant grin as he spotted the flare. "That NPC has an alert rune! We struck gold this time."
"Grom, maintain the aggro till the guards arrive," the archer continued, addressing a burly companion with a massive shield strapped to his arm. "We're gonna farm the shit out of these beasts today and NPC guards are gonna be our meat shields. Let's get some gear!"
The shield-bearer—Grom, apparently—grunted in acknowledgment. "Yeah, yeah, just keep healing me, alright? My AOEs are still in cooldown."
Anton's stomach turned as understanding dawned. These weren't innocent travelers being pursued by beasts—they had deliberately provoked this stampede and were leading it toward settlements. And now they planned to use Kirkvalor's guards as sacrificial pawns.
Unlike the three adventurers from his vision, who had at least appeared competent in their villainy, these four were poorly equipped and apparently inept. Their mismatched armor showed dents and hasty repairs, and they moved with none of the practiced coordination Anton would expect from experienced fighters.
The robed figure at the rear of the group—presumably their healer—nearly fall as he struggled to keep pace. "I'm trying, alright?" he wheezed. "Why don't you use mitigation skills? I'm running low on mana here!"
Their incompetence might have been comical in other circumstances, but now it threatened Anton's life as surely as the beasts themselves. If the guards didn't arrive within minutes, both he and these incompetent adventurers would be torn apart.
Anton turned and sprinted for the trees, silently praying that Meeks had already guided the flock to safety. Behind him, the ground trembled more violently with each passing second as death approached on countless paws and hooves
The fourth member of their party—a slender figure with a long sword sheathed at his waist—suddenly skidded to a halt. Gripping the hilt of his weapon, he bellowed with theatrical intensity:
"CRESCENT SLASH!"
In a single fluid motion, he drew his blade in a wide arc. To Anton's astonishment, a crescent of pure energy detached from the sword's edge, shimmering with unnatural light as it hurtled toward the pursuing beasts. The energy slash tore through the foremost creatures, felling several boars instantly. Blood sprayed across the grass as their bodies crumpled. The bears and tigers behind them suffered wounds but continued their relentless advance, their rage only intensified by the scent of their fallen pack members.
Anton turned and sprinted toward the forest, lungs burning as he pushed his body to its limit. The trees promised sanctuary—if only he could reach them in time. Behind him, the ground trembled with increasing violence, the rhythm of countless paws striking earth like war drums signaling his demise.
A loud sound rose behind the chaos—a roar so deep and powerful it seemed to vibrate the air itself. Anton glanced back and saw a tiger, larger than the others, its muscular shoulders rising above the surrounding beasts. Its white fur adorned with black vertical stripes, opened its massive jaws and unleashed another earth-shaking roar.
The sound struck Anton like a physical blow. His limbs suddenly turned leaden, refusing to respond to his desperate commands. He found himself frozen in place, feet rooted to the ground as if the earth itself had reached up to claim him. Cold terror washed over him as he realized he couldn't move so much as a finger.
Around him, the adventurers suffered the same fate, their bodies locked in mid-motion by the magical paralysis.
"I lost my aggro! Be careful!" the shield-bearer bellowed, panic rising in his voice.
In response, his companions activated defensive skills—their bodies illuminating with glowing auras of different colors. The magical protections formed shimmering barriers around their paralyzed forms.
Anton alone remained defenseless, an easy target with no magical shields or armor to protect him. Hope flickered briefly as the distant sound of people and shouted commands carried on the wind—the guards were coming. But time was a luxury he no longer possessed.
One of the tigers—sleek, powerful, and driven by bloodlust—launched itself over the huddled adventurers in a single bound as it landed and charged directly toward Anton. Yellow eyes locked onto his, promising death.
Anton strained against the invisible bonds of paralysis until sweat beaded on his forehead and veins stood out on his neck. His feet remained firmly planted, betraying him in his moment of greatest need. The crushing realization that he could not escape settled over him like a shroud.
He closed his eyes briefly, praying that this would be another vision—a warning rather than reality. If death must come, let it be swift and painless, unlike the searing agony of magical flames he had experienced in his previous vision.
The tiger closed the distance with terrifying speed, jaws opened wide to reveal gleaming fangs. In the final moment, Anton saw Meeks charging toward them, the loyal dog's desperate attempt to protect its master against the fierce beast.
"Crack."
A single bite, a moment of blinding pain as powerful jaws closed around his throat, and then—
Darkness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Silence enveloped him, absolute and eternal. Then, gradually, light began to seep back into his awareness—not the golden sunlight of the pasture but the warm glow of candle. His body felt weightless, falling through nothingness, until—
"Thump!"
Anton found himself sprawled on the floor beside a wooden chair, the impact jarring him fully back to consciousness. Muri's scream pierced the air, shrill with surprise at his sudden collapse.
His mother rushed to his side, kneeling beside him with concern etched deeply into her weathered features. "Is everything alright?" Orla asked, resting a cool palm against his forehead. "Is something wrong with my dinner?"
Anton stared up at her, his mouth working silently as realization dawned. He wasn't in the field. There were no tigers, no adventurers, no waves of beasts. He was home, in the midst of the family's evening meal, as if the day's events had never occurred.
He shook his head mutely, unable to form words as his mind grappled with the implications. This wasn't merely a vision of potential death—he had lived through two days, only to regress to a point in the past when he was still alive. The memories of those days—the conversation with Rathan and Calmo, staying alert for the whole night, the grazing field, the adventurers, the tiger's fatal bite—all remained vivid in his mind despite having been undone.
As his family gathered around him with worried expressions, Anton's hand unconsciously rose to his throat where, moments ago, fangs had torn through flesh. No wound remained, but the phantom pain lingered like a grim promise. Whatever power had granted him this second chance—this third chance now—it seemed determined that Anton Weyland would not die easily. If he truly possessed this power, he is determined to not let it go to waste.