Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 184: To Not Die

The blade sank in slowly, as if it were searching for an answer in the flesh.

It cut in small jerks—precise, almost affectionate.

Dylan felt his muscle twitch, his nerves tense on their own, then relax in an involuntary shiver. The pain was sharp, yes, but not blinding—not yet. It danced just on the edge of unbearable, that cruel limit professionals love to tease without crossing too soon.

He grimaced, but his gaze remained clear. Not blurry, not lost. He was watching.

He noticed the way the man breathed: quicker, shorter—like an excited child. The blade’s movements were no longer as steady. He wasn’t analyzing anymore. He was indulging. Something filthier. A kind of pleasure. A control-fueled delirium.

And Dylan couldn’t help but point it out.

"You’re not a professional."

His voice was hoarse, cracked—but calm. Calm enough to be insulting.

"You let yourself get carried away. Look..."

He lifted his head slightly, the chains creaking softly, blood running down his sides in warm, thin rivers.

"You didn’t even ask a question. And this is supposed to be an interrogation."

A short, painful laugh escaped him.

"You confused the room with your little sadistic fantasy, huh? Cute. But in terms of efficiency? Zero. You should consider a career change."

The man froze. Just for a second.

A hesitation, barely noticeable. But Dylan saw it. And he savored it.

The blade pulled back. The metal came out slick, stained with dark red.

"You talk too much."

The voice was tighter now. Offended, almost.

"I know when to open my mouth. Some silences kill—but yours? Yours just beg."

Another cut, sharp and sudden. No grace this time. The blade sliced across his thigh with a renewed harshness. Dylan grunted, breath knocked out of him, but he forced himself to stay conscious. He had to feel it all. Every move. Every tremor in the man.

It hurt, yes. But he was learning.

He noted the slight tremble in the hand. The sweat rising, mixing with the smell of his own blood. The man’s eyes—less sure now. Murkier.

"There, you see that? That’s better."

His smile was bloodstained.

"You’re finally doing something coherent. It’s not art yet, but hey—you gotta start somewhere."

He spat on the ground, a mix of bile, saliva, and broken laughter.

"Now, I’ll make an effort. I’m gonna invent a lie. Just to see if you can spot it. It’s a test. Pass or fail."

He looked up again, eyes sharp, burning with clarity.

"But if you want the truth... you’ll have to be a hell of a lot more interesting."

"I don’t know how," the man muttered, lower now, more focused, as if something was falling back into place within him,

"but I’m feeling it again..."

"In this job, you always run into tough guys like you. Talkative. Convinced they’re resilient."

He stepped closer, slowly, until Dylan’s breath brushed his cheek.

A gloved hand rose to Dylan’s bloodied chin, gripping it tightly—almost tender.

"But with you people... I always get the same fucking feeling."

He squeezed harder—right at the edge of a fracture.

"That urge. That deep need to break you. That pathetic will you think you have..."

Suddenly, he let go. Dylan’s head dropped forward, limp. The man wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, as if finishing a taxing chore.

"You think you’re above this, huh? That your words are weapons. But they’re just bubbles. Soap popping on my gloves."

He snapped his fingers. A sharp motion. Controlled. Not an order—just a way to reset.

Dylan, gasping, looked up again. Pupils blown wide from pain, but still... smiling. Weak. Beating. But alive.

"You’ve no idea how bad I want to prove you right... just to see if you gloat or cry."

He spat blood onto his own knees, a blackish trail dripping between his legs. His breath was shallow, but his voice—still provocatively intact—teetered on the edge between clarity and manic composure.

"Go on. Break me. I don’t mind. It’s not taboo for me. Just do it properly."

He lifted his head a bit more, eyes locking into the man’s like a blade slipped into too-tight space.

"But do it right. ’Cause if you leave even one piece of me standing... I’ll make sure you regret it."

The man smiled. Not a happy smile. A weary, sickly grin.

Then he reached behind, grabbing something from the table that chimed gently: a small obsidian cylinder, rimmed in blackened copper. An old tool. Ritualistic. Not scientific. Heavy with intention.

"I’m not just gonna break your will, Dylan."

He brought the object to Dylan’s chest, just above his sternum.

"I’m gonna dig in. Until the truth seeps out on its own. Like an infection."

Dylan closed his eyes for a brief moment. A blink to swallow the fear.

...He opened them again slowly, letting the shadows reclaim his senses. No light. No escape. Just the constant whisper of metal on stone, chains grumbling under his weight.

"You know..." he breathed out, almost in a sigh.

His lips trembled, split from cold and blows, but his words stayed whole. Sharp.

"You should be careful. Scratch a wound too much... and sometimes it’s not pus that comes out."

He didn’t get to finish. The man pressed the tool against his chest.

The contact was ice-cold. Too precise.

A scream tried to escape—but Dylan swallowed it. His head jerked back violently, as a jolt shot through his entire body, snapping his nerves like overstrung wires.

The cylinder sank—not into flesh. Worse. Into something deeper. A strange burn that didn’t come from the surface, but from inside—as if someone was trying to inscribe truth directly into his bloodstream.

The stigmate reacted.

A pale flash. Fleeting.

The white trace along his arm pulsed once—like a filament pulled to its limit.

The man paused.

Just a second. Curious. Fascinated.

Dylan trembled from head to toe. The cold was gone. Now, there was heat. Toxic heat. The kind you feel when something unnatural wakes up. An ancient memory. Or a survival instinct older than memory.

His back arched involuntarily. He bit his tongue not to scream.

But he still spoke.

"You wanted truth? Here it is: I never knew what the fuck this stigmate really did."

He chuckled—eyes bulging, sweat pouring from his temples.

"But maybe you’re finding out before me. Congrats. You’re the chosen one, I guess."

The torturer stepped back slightly, still holding the obsidian tool. He hesitated. It wasn’t fear—not yet. But it wasn’t control anymore either.

A thin trail of white smoke curled from the point of contact, where the stigmate now pulsed—alive, tasting something at last.

The man stiffened, furious with himself for getting sidetracked. He raised his free hand and struck Dylan hard across the face.

A sharp crack. Followed by tense silence.

Dylan groaned... then laughed again. A broken, wheezing sound, leaking from his throat like air from a cracked pipe.

"You felt it, didn’t you?"

He lifted his chin, blood between his teeth.

"There’s something bigger than you. And it’s stuck to me. So go on. Keep digging. Maybe you’ll wake up another one. Or worse... maybe you’ll wake me up."

The room seemed to contract—or maybe it was just the man’s breathing, heavier, more deliberate. He carefully wrapped the tool in a black cloth.

"You talk too much."

"I survive, bro. Not the same thing."