Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 181: Even in the Mud

Dylan didn’t move right away. He felt the gem beating in his hand, like a heart that wasn’t his, and the white lines on his arm pulsed in unison.

The officer stared at him, mouth slightly open, an expression wavering between fear and outrage. Behind him, the beasts hesitated, their yellow eyes still hypnotized by the silver light.

A dry breath escaped Dylan’s throat, a laugh without joy.

"Another stigmate just like that? Was it always this easy to find one in the wild?"

But he didn’t have time to marvel at it; he needed to deal with the officer first. A pity, but he couldn’t let him live. An awakened fighter appearing out of nowhere? They’d connect the dots too quickly.

The officer tried to push himself up, one knee on the ground, blood dripping from his side.

"Who... who sent you? What are you?!" he spat, his sword trembling as he pointed it at Dylan.

"Me?" Dylan gave a thin smile, almost tender, and stepped forward.

The captain instinctively backed away, as if the light vibrating along Dylan’s arm was a blade ready to cut him down.

"I’m..." Dylan tilted his head, studying the lines pulsing across his skin.

"...just a laborer who had some really bad luck."

Then he struck.

He didn’t need a sword, only his flat hand slicing the air. It moved in a bright arc, grazing the officer’s throat. The man froze, eyes widening with incomprehension. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a red line formed beneath his chin, split open, and a hot gush of blood sprayed in an arc.

The captain staggered, his hand dropping the sword. Dylan caught him halfway, almost a compassionate gesture, as if to prevent him from collapsing too hard.

"You should have looked away," he whispered in his ear.

The body fell heavily into the mud.

Dylan took a deep breath. His arm trembled, the light on his stigmate dimming, as if the gem itself was calming after the carnage. The beasts, meanwhile, watched the scene in silence. The chief, wounded, fixed Dylan with a mute hatred but did not move. Maybe he understood he wouldn’t win. Maybe he feared this unknown power.

Dylan turned to them, raising the sword like a warning.

"Get out."

A rumble rippled through the pack. Then, slowly, they withdrew. The chief spat a spray of black blood into the mud, a final growl of defiance, before vanishing into the shadows of the trees.

Silence fell. A silence of the end of the world—thick, damp. Dylan lowered his gaze to the captain’s body, his face already drained of color.

"I need to move fast."

He dragged the corpse to the side of the wagon, arranging it in a grotesque pose, as if he’d been cut down mid-attack. The blood of the beasts, mixed with the officer’s, would erase any clear trace of what really happened. Nobody would believe a simple laborer had defeated an awakened captain... even if he wasn’t fully awakened.

Dylan tucked the gem under his shirt, feeling its heat pierce the fabric. It burned, but not with a fire that destroys. A fire that changes.

"I have to get this out of here. Before others come sniffing for its scent."

He tightened his grip on the chipped sword, swept his gaze over the blood-soaked scene, then sprinted toward the road leading back to the construction site, ready to invent a lie before even seeing the next face.

——

Dylan walked with a staggering gait, his muscles still twitching from the aftershocks of the energy the gem had poured into his veins. Each step echoed like a dull thud in his skull. The muddy path leading back to camp felt endless, longer than the way there. Behind him, the echoes of the slaughter were already swallowed by the forest—no cries, no growls pierced the silence anymore. The beasts had vanished.

He pressed the gem to his chest, hidden under his blood- and sweat-soaked shirt. It was still beating, but softer now, as if it had fallen asleep after its burst of energy. It still has plenty left in it, he thought, a bead of cold sweat sliding down his neck.

When he finally reached the edge of the construction site, the flickering torchlight revealed tense silhouettes. Soldiers were on guard, bows drawn, as if they expected the forest to spit out more monsters. The entire camp vibrated with a dull tension.

A stocky captain with a scruffy beard spotted him first.

"Hey! You!" he shouted, rushing forward. "By all the gods, where the hell did you come from, laborer?! Where’s Officer Henslow?"

Dylan drew in a breath and played the part of the dazed survivor.

"Dead..." he rasped, letting the chipped sword fall into the mud. "They’re all dead. The beasts... there were too many."

The captain grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him almost violently.

"All dead... what do you mean?!"

"The captain... he tried to protect the convoy..." He paused, as if the memory tore at him. "He sent a message to the marshal before... before he..."

The captain’s eyes widened.

"A message!? Which one? I didn’t see him send a message. Did he do it when the messenger left for Pilaf?"

Dylan gave a weak nod.

"Yes... that’s what he said. His message should reach Pilaf by now. And we... we got caught off guard."

He turned his gaze away, as if refusing to relive the scene. In reality, he was making sure his expression stayed neutral, so no one would sense the lie.

The captain clenched his teeth.

"Goddamn it..."

He turned to the other soldiers who were gathering.

"You heard him? Officer Henslow is dead, but he was right. The marshal will get his message any minute now. Get ready, orders will be coming!"

Dylan almost collapsed onto a crate, feigning exhaustion, discreetly observing their reactions. The lie is working. For now.

Two or three hours later, a bell clanged at the camp’s entrance. A messenger had arrived, panting, his boots coated in dust.

"Orders from the marshal!" he announced, waving a sealed scroll.

A heavy silence fell. The captain stepped forward, tore the seal, and read aloud:

"Immediately divert the convoys toward the eastern road. Reserve troops will be dispatched to the Northern Ravine. Evacuate the sector as a priority. Signed: Marshal Luckner."

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.

"That confirms what Officer Henslow said..." one of them muttered.

"He saw it coming, the old dog," another replied through clenched teeth.

Dylan inclined his head slightly, playing the part of the respectful witness.

"He fought like a demon," he murmured in a hoarse voice. "Without him... I’d already be dead."

The captain gave a grave nod.

"You owed him your life."

Dylan didn’t reply. He forced himself to cough, as if his lungs were raw from smoke and dried blood, all while thinking ahead. The marshal has reacted, just as planned. That would give them a good window to get to the silo, but... he still needed to hold his cover.

A young soldier, a little too curious, stepped toward Dylan.

"You were with him when he died?" he asked, eyes shining with morbid fascination.

"Yes." Dylan held his gaze. "He held the line to the very end. I... I ran to warn you."

"You had a weapon?"

The question caught him off guard. Dylan looked down at his blood-stained hands. The chipped sword still lay in the mud.

"I just picked that up... from one of our fallen."

The captain cut in sharply:

"Leave him be, Kleyn. Look at the state of him. He crawled out of a bloodbath and you dare question him like you’re the marshal?"

The soldier backed off, sheepish, but Dylan noted how the stares were beginning to weigh on him. Too many details could unravel a poorly built lie.

So he decided to lock the narrative. He spoke again, deliberately, in a low tone:

"The beasts... they were like dogs with humanoid bodies. Different. Organized. As if they followed a leader."

A nervous murmur rippled through the soldiers.

"A leader? You’re sure?"

"I saw his eyes. Yellow, like flames. He... he slaughtered the captain."

Such a detail chilled the group and shifted suspicion elsewhere. The captain spat in the mud.

"If that’s true, we’re dealing with a pack at least second rank. Damn it..."

He turned to the messenger.

"Stay here. Prepare a report for the marshal once we’re moving. And you, laborer—" he locked eyes with Dylan, "you’d better tell us everything you saw. We’ll debrief you at dawn."

Dylan nodded, but inside, an alarm screamed. A debriefing is exactly what he has to avoid.

He took advantage of a lull—while the soldiers were busy preparing to divert the convoys—to slip away, pretending he needed to clean his wounds.

Crouching behind a tent, he pulled back his shirt to examine his arm. The white lines of his new stigmate pulsed faintly, like embers waiting to flare up. They seemed to have imprinted themselves permanently into his flesh.

"What the hell is this..." he muttered.

The gem, beneath his shirt, vibrated faintly. It heard. Or sensed. Dylan gave a nervous smirk.

"I can’t stay here too long."