Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 183: Delicate Tortures

Heavy and sticky eyelids, Dylan was awakened by a sharp pain in his forehead. The world was still blurry and spinning, but the clinking of the chains that held him, suspended in the air, eventually pulled him fully awake.

He opened his eyes wide and, despite the pain, scanned the room. It was a place without light, damp and filthy, yet still more welcoming than the first cave where he’d once woken up.

"Honestly, in this world, whether it’s humans or beasts, they all seem to share this hobby of chaining their captives up naked," he said, seeming to ignore the man who had just dragged him out of his sleep.

The man didn’t seem to understand Dylan’s words, but his gaze remained cold, steeped in sadistic pleasure—like that of a specialist who truly enjoys his craft.

"Ah, shit..." Dylan groaned, trying to gather his thoughts through the broken shards of memory that remained from before he passed out.

"Even with all the prayers in the world, I doubt I’d be lucky enough to end up in this room with a... specimen like you."

The man’s voice was hoarse, resonating with a low violence. Dylan lifted his head and shot him a disgusted look, the metallic taste of blood still fresh in his mouth.

He was completely naked, all his bandages removed, exposing the mark of his stigmate on his back and arm, glowing with a faint white light—too weak to illuminate anything, but still visible in the dark.

"What is it exactly, the power of your stigmate? Accelerated healing? Wound negation? I noticed that after every hit you took, it lights up faintly, and your wounds fade away. I’m curious," the man said.

"They say curiosity can sometimes be a virtue," Dylan replied. "But I beg you... this sin might just consume you, brother."

Dylan spat out some blood-tinged saliva, a tight smile on his lips—more drawn from pain than from genuine provocation. His voice trembled with the remnants of fever, but there was a mocking, almost tender honesty in his tone, as if he were speaking to an old friend about to make a terrible mistake.

The man didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, shadows sliding over his angular features, revealing a half-smile that had nothing human in it.

He stepped closer, slowly, the clinking of spurs or small metal tools at his belt echoing through the room. The kind of things that told stories without words. The kind of jingles that made even the sanest tremble.

"I’ve seen beasts gnaw off their own limbs to escape. Awakened ones driven mad as their nerves burned from the inside out. But you..."

He placed a gloved hand on Dylan’s chest, right above the sternum.

"You just keep talking."

Dylan grimaced. The glove wasn’t warm. Nor cold. Just unpleasantly present. Like an intention crawling across his skin. He wanted to pull away, but the chains barely creaked. The pain in his arms was turning dull, deep, reptilian.

"What about you—got a name? Or are you just a pervert with a degree in barbarism?"

He smiled again, this time more openly, despite the taste of iron and the throbbing in his ribs. He didn’t know how long he’d last, or if he even had enough essence left to heal again. But if he was going down, he’d do it with style.

The man straightened, eyes gleaming with a sickly light.

"You talk to forget the pain. A good technique. Very human. Very... disappointing."

He took a step back, then pulled a small, fine blade from his belt—almost surgical. Not a sword, not a butcher’s tool. A scalpel. The kind used to dig into secrets.

Dylan felt his throat tighten.

"The truth is... I want you to resist.

The Marshal believes you’re hiding something useful.

And me... I’m very good at digging up truths."

"You just had to ask nicely. I’m a very accommodating guy," Dylan murmured, voice weaker now. "Sometimes I even tell stories. Want one? I can tell you about a guy who had a thing for orifices. He ended up impaled by his own curiosity. You’d love it. The moral’s... quite literal."

The man let out a low chuckle, almost mechanical, as if Dylan’s joke amused him despite himself. But his eyes remained frozen, devoid of anything resembling humanity.

"You think your words will save you?" he whispered, spinning the blade between his fingers with unsettling dexterity. The dim light of the room slid along the metal, drawing a cold gleam.

Dylan’s heart pounded faster, but his smile didn’t waver. He’d known fear before—the real kind, the kind that turns your legs to water and your mind to ash. But today... today he chose to laugh.

"No, but they keep me distracted. And honestly, with your face, I need all the distraction I can get."

The man didn’t flinch. He simply pressed the blade’s tip against Dylan’s collarbone, just enough to draw a single bead of blood.

"Together, we’ll explore the limits of your stigmate."

Dylan closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. The smell of mold, sweat, and rust brought back other rooms, other chains. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t make it out.

But when he reopened them, his gaze remained as sharp and mocking as ever.

"Go on, doc. But warn me before you open me up—I hate surprises."

The man tilted his head, as if studying a scientific curiosity.

"You know... most beg, at this point."

Dylan burst out laughing—a hoarse, broken laugh, tinged with pain but genuine.

"Well, I’m not ’most’. And you? You’re not my type. So if you’re trying to seduce me, you’ll have to do better than a little knife and second-rate threats."

A cold silence settled easily between them.

Then the man gave a wide smile. Almost sincere.

"That’s it... resist."

The blade sank in.

Not deep. Just enough to make the nerves scream, to open without killing, to explore without ending it. A trickle of blood ran down, joining the others. The pain was sharp, immediate, searing. And yet, Dylan stayed silent. His body trembled, the chains groaned—but he didn’t scream.

The stigmate reacted. A faint white glow pulsed on his skin. Like a breath. A promise.

A warning.

The man stepped back, intrigued. He reached out a finger and touched the stigmate’s glow, just with the tip. Almost reverently.

"Fascinating."

He looked up at Dylan.

"You don’t even know what it is yet, do you? What you’ve become."

Dylan opened his mouth, his voice raspier than ever.

"I told you—I’m a storyteller. And I think we’re about to write a new one, you and me."

He grinned, though his lips trembled.

"It’s called The Legend of the Sick Bastard Who Thought He Could Probe a Mystery Without Getting Eaten by It."