Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 188: CB29

The smell of dried blood had long since mingled with that of the cold stone, and Dylan no longer knew how long he’d been there. The intervals between waves of pain had become a shaky but consistent unit of measurement.

He could still feel the chains gripping his wrists like unwanted limbs. His skin, however, was healing slower and slower. Each pulse of his stigmata brought back a fragment of awareness, a flash of lucidity he would have rather avoided.

There were no windows. Just the harsh, flickering light dangling above him, wavering as if even the light hesitated to stay.

The sound of quick footsteps echoed down the hallway, and a few seconds later, the metal door opened without a sound, letting in a gust of drier, colder air. A man entered—the same one as last time. Tall, wearing a coat with metal hooks adorning the shoulders. His face was smooth, almost youthful, but his eyes... no, his eyes held no youth.

He closed the door.

And approached without a word.

Dylan lifted his gaze. His voice, rough, cut through the silence:

"I’m guessing you didn’t come back to sing me a lullaby."

The man didn’t answer right away. He pulled out a small black leather notebook, flipped through it slowly, then finally looked up.

"Dylan. Awakened with active stigmata. Rapid regeneration ability. Unstable, incomplete form. Approximate age: 20. Military training: none. Affiliation Guild: unknown."

He paused, set the notebook on a small table he effortlessly pulled closer to Dylan.

"But you know what intrigues me the most?"

He leaned in, mere inches away.

"It’s that your mind has stayed closed. You’re young, but you’ve got some serious guts to resist the pain. But... that’s the bare minimum for someone with your kind of ability."

He straightened up.

"So, I’m going to ask questions. And you’re going to answer."

He paused, just long enough for the silence to crackle with tension.

"First question: where is the gem?"

Dylan didn’t answer. He stared at a point behind the man, as if the ceiling had something more important to say.

A sharp thwack. A baton struck his side. Not to injure—just to remind him that pain was always an option.

"We can keep this up for a long time, you know. Your body heals, but your will? It wears down."

The torturer continued:

"Second question: who do you work for? You’re not a freelancer. You don’t have the resources or the profile. Who sent you into the convoy?"

A shiver ran down Dylan’s spine. He let out a twisted smirk.

"I’m an amateur, a fool, a kid lost in a war way over his head. You should know that, right? You’ve got your little notebook..."

Another strike. This time, on his collarbone. A dull fracture that mended in seconds, but the pain lingered.

"You can play the tough guy. It’s part of the process. But eventually, the ego crumbles. Even in the Awakened."

The man spoke again, softer now, almost reasoning with him:

"Third question: what’s the true nature of your stigmata? Regeneration is a side effect. It’s not the core. We can sense it, even through the interference. There’s something else. A structure. A foreign imprint. Where does it come from?"

Dylan could have lied. But what was the point? He wasn’t even sure he understood what this power truly was. He had endured it as much as he had wielded it.

The torturer then drew a thin, trembling blade, like a strand of glass.

"Do you know what I’m about to do?"

He crouched, pressing the blade against Dylan’s chest, right where his stigmata pulsed.

"I’m going to slowly carve out the area where your mark manifests. We’re not just after information anymore. We want the imprint. A physical trace of the link."

He pressed down.

The pain was instant, precise, excruciatingly localized. Dylan screamed for a second before biting his lips until they bled.

The flesh was already knitting itself back together. But the blade returned. Again. Again.

And between each incision, the man asked his questions.

"Where is the gem now?"

"Who was your accomplice in the convoy?"

"Did Gael send you?"

"How many Awakened are under his command?"

"Have you ever seen another gem like it?"

He continued, relentless. Not always expecting answers. He planted his seeds—a word, a flinch, a glance, anything was worth taking.

But Dylan held on. Not out of bravery. Out of absence. He retreated elsewhere. Into a memory, a face, a promise whispered between two nights without shelter.

He thought of Elisa and Maggie.

Not to beg them to come.

But to remind himself he was still alive.

——

The man straightened, a flicker of frustration in his icy gaze. Dylan’s passive resistance, his ability to mentally withdraw despite the pain, was more irritating than he cared to admit. A thin, humorless smile stretched his lips.

"So, done with your little inner journey?"

He pulled out a matte black cylindrical case from his inner pocket, unscrewing it with deliberate slowness. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a thick glass ampoule filled with a viscous, murky green liquid that pulsed with a faint inner light. Golden particles floated within it like trapped stardust.

"Ever heard of Chrysalis B29?" he murmured, lifting the ampoule into the flickering light. The green liquid glowed faintly, casting shifting shadows on the stone walls. "An alchemical marvel. A delicate poison for souls like yours. Thought you might appreciate it."

Without warning, he dipped the bloodstained glass blade into the ampoule. The green liquid clung to it, turning the edge slick and menacing. Dylan felt a premonitory chill run through his stigmata before the blade even touched him.

"This is going to hurt like hell," the man said, almost gently. "But the interesting part comes right after."

He pressed the coated blade against the throbbing edge of Dylan’s stigmata, where the wounded flesh seemed most alive.

The pain was immediate and vile.

This wasn’t a cut—it was corrosion, a cold dissolution seeping into the invisible channels of his power. Dylan screamed, a raw, animal sound tearing from his throat. His regeneration spasmed violently, like a trapped beast, but something was wrong.

The effect of Chrysalis B29 was instant and insidious. His stigmata—the core of spiritual energy that normally drew from a deep well to heal minor wounds instantly—felt smothered. Like a thick veil had been drawn between his will and his power. The small wound from the blade didn’t close in a second. The flesh twitched, burned, tried to fuse, but the process was slow, laborious, agonizing beyond the mere cut.

Every millimeter of skin that stitched itself back together demanded an impossible effort, a wrenching torment deep in his being. Dylan could literally feel his spiritual essence—the vital energy fueling his stigmata—draining like sand through his fingers, consumed at a terrifying rate just to accomplish what had once been reflexive.

Cold sweat drenched his forehead. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. A profound weakness, more insidious than physical pain, began to seep in, as if his bones were being emptied of marrow. Healing this tiny wound now cost him the equivalent energy of regenerating an entire limb.

The man watched the effect with clinical satisfaction. He pressed the green-coated blade against Dylan’s skin again, right beside the first cut, which still bled sluggishly, refusing to close properly.

"That changes things, doesn’t it?" he whispered. "Before, pain was an inconvenience. Now, every second of healing is agony eating you from the inside. And every new wound..."

He pressed. Again, that icy corrosion, that cut that burned and froze at once. Dylan clenched his teeth so hard he feared they’d shatter. The regeneration attempt kicked in—a devouring fire consuming his reserves at a horrifying rate. He could feel his soul emptying. The memory of Elisa and Maggie wavered, threatened by the abyss of spiritual exhaustion opening inside him.

"Where is the gem?" the man asked, his voice soft again, almost compassionate, as he watched Dylan struggle desperately against the exhaustion brought on by healing two small cuts.

The green blade rose again, poised to inflict a third wound—one that would, this time, condemn him to unbearable energetic torture. "Answer, Dylan. Before healing kills you."

The silence that followed wasn’t charged with tension, but with lethal exhaustion. Dylan’s resistance was no longer a matter of will, but of how long his essence could last before burning out entirely just to heal scratches.

Chrysalis B29 had turned his gift into a curse, and every heartbeat brought him closer to collapse.

Dylan’s breath hitched against his parted lips. A rough, short gasp, painful, as if each inhale came on borrowed time.

The blade wasn’t even touching him anymore, yet the pain remained, gnawing, relentless. His regeneration faltered over trivial wounds, and in this invisible tug-of-war, it wasn’t his flesh winning—it was oblivion.

The man watched him still, arms crossed, head slightly tilted like a man observing an insect drowning in a drop of water.

"Still nothing?" he said, tone flat. "You know, there comes a point where this stops being amusing. And just becomes... pointless."