Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 102: Unleashed (2)

The beast reared up higher.

A bestial roar burst from its throat — not a cry of pain, but a call. A howl of violated territory, a declaration of total war. Its hooves tore at the ground, gouging the stone. Its breath grew heavier, hotter, denser, like fire rising in its gut.

Part of the beast was still trapped in the pit, struggling to move freely — and its massive body wasn’t helping with any sudden movements.

It was too heavy to jump out.

Truly, it was trapped.

It tried to shake Dylan off.

To throw him.

Or at least, to crush him.

But he held on, clinging to its back like a living spear.

He struck without restraint. His blows grew more frenzied, more instinctive — but somehow, every one still landed true.

His arms were bleeding. His claws — because they were no longer just nails — had dug into the joints, between the red veins, between the hardened plates. He could feel the beast’s life pulsing beneath his fingers.

He wanted to take it. All of it.

And that’s when Maggie finally moved.

She sprang to her feet, stumbled as she rose, and wiped the blood from her eyes. Then she screamed — not a plea for him to stop, not an order.

Just a scream.

Sharp enough to pierce the fog.

"Dylan!"

It wasn’t meant to command. Just... to remind him — and herself — that she was still there.

He didn’t respond.

Élisa, though, had already sensed it. She’d slid to the left, using the chaos and the beast’s faltering strength. Her gaze stayed clear, but a tension furrowed her brow. She saw Dylan.

And she hesitated.

Should she join him?

Or stop him?

Dylan no longer saw anything else.

There was no Maggie. No Élisa. No forest. No sky.

Just this mass of flesh and bone, this burning breath, this red pulse under his claws.

His whole world had shrunk down to just her.

And the fierce, obsessive need to make her fall.

He struck again, his arms soaked in blood, his shoulders drawn tight like bowstrings. He wasn’t aiming anymore. He was digging. He was tearing through flesh like a frenzied beast. The machete shook in his hand, but it still bit.

And the beast, cornered and wounded, let out a deep growl — a sound that vibrated through the earth, and then—

It spun.

A sharp, brutal motion.

Faster than anyone could predict.

And its horn lashed out.

Dylan didn’t have time to dodge.

The creature’s left horn drove into his right shoulder, almost straight through him, tearing flesh and bone like soaked paper.

The world tilted.

Dylan’s breath caught — gone, instantly.

His body tensed from the shock.

His mouth opened in a silent scream.

Blood erupted in a thick, dark burst — impure, foul.

But—

His fingers tightened. Gripped the horn.

As if refusing to be cast off.

As if needing to stay — rooted in pain, in the fight.

And his eyes — white, lifeless — flashed with feverish light.

It wasn’t his humanity returning, or some dramatic epiphany.

It was just a refusal.

Brutal.

Savage.

Absolute.

The refusal to let go.

As if nothing else mattered anymore but triumph over this prey.

Not even his own life.

A deep, animal scream burst from him, straight from his gut, and he pulled on the horn impaled through his body to draw himself closer.

As if he wanted to fuse with the beast.

As if pain was a bridge — not an end.

He raised the trembling machete in his other hand — the only one still free — and struck.

Again.

And again.

Each blow sent out spurts of blood and steam. He hacked blindly, with the rage of someone who was no longer quite human.

The beast, shaken by this impossible resistance, staggered, stumbling deeper into its own trap — but Dylan held fast, clinging like a cursed thorn no one could pull free.

His body was faltering. His blood dripped in thick globs down the beast’s flank.

But he didn’t stop.

And in the distance...

Maggie gripped her axe with both hands, her heart pounding wildly — but her mind stayed calm.

Élisa had stopped moving. Her breath held.

Because none of them knew...

How much longer Dylan could hold on before he stopped being himself.

Or worse:

Before he won.

Dylan clenched his teeth.

The machete... was useless now.

Its blade slipped over the beast’s taut neck, barely scratching, bouncing off the dense cords of nerves and bone. Even now, even wounded, even exhausted, the creature’s body was still armored like a living nightmare.

But Dylan was past logic.

He wasn’t fighting anymore.

He was devouring.

And when the steel failed him, his hands did not.

He tossed the machete aside.

His fingers spread wide, palms slamming against the beast’s throat.

His claws — because they were claws now — dug deep, right where the veins bulged. He felt the resistance — the tension beneath the skin, the heat, the pulse that practically begged to be torn open.

And so, he pulled with every ounce of power in his arms.

He ripped open the creature’s throat with his bare hands, like tearing through hardened leather, like slicing through a balloon swollen with blood and rage.

The flesh gave way with a sickening, wet pop.

A scorching rush exploded onto him — blood, dark essence, and pure heat. It drenched him, nearly drowned him. But he held on.

His arms shook.

His shoulders screamed.

His breath faltered with every motion.

And it only fed his joy.

He tore the beast apart with laughter — with the twisted joy of inhuman ecstasy.

Inch by inch, the neck split wide, a reverse maw, gaping and red. The beast choked on its own blood, thrashed, tried to rise — but Dylan clung to it like a fragment of nightmare. He had no body anymore. No limits. Just a savage, demonic will.

The beast convulsed — once — the final spasm of a once-awakened life.

Then, with a wet, pathetic thud... it collapsed.

Its entire weight crashed down.

And Dylan, still clinging to its throat, fell with it.