Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 106: Engraving

Dylan stared at the gem.

It was still pulsing in his palm—warm, almost alive. Like a heart torn out but still beating.

There was nothing left to say. No more hesitation.

So he closed his eyes.

And took a deep breath.

He curled his fingers around the crystal, tightening his grip, and began to pull on the thread of essence. It was an inward act, instinctive as always—like opening a door he hadn’t known he’d built. He reached inward, toward the core beneath his chest where his spiritual breath was centered, and the connection snapped into place...

Heat surged up his arm like a flood. His body tensed, an electric arc vibrating through his muscles. The gem cracked in his palm—not physically, but in essence. He felt the first wave enter.

It was... dense. Alien. Different from any gem he’d absorbed before.

It felt like swallowing a tornado. Like drinking living fire. Every vein in his arm flared. His spine arched under the impact. His teeth clenched. Cold sweat broke over his skin.

Élisa stepped back—just a bit, out of caution. She watched him silently, hands ready, just in case.

But Dylan wasn’t seeing anything anymore. He was caught in a storm of red and black energy, a tide trying to overwhelm him. He tried to channel it—through his meridians, to his core.

But the beast’s soul fragment wasn’t docile.

It fought back, resisting Dylan’s will to make the spirit essence submit.

Moments later, he felt his own essence stir within him—tense, like a hound catching the scent of blood.

But he seized it with a will that was fierce yet controlled.

He clenched his fists. Pushed the essence harder, faster. Forced it to spread through his body. He felt his injured shoulder twitch, vibrating under the pressure. His flesh started to react. To regenerate. Slowly.

And then... the gem emptied.

It finally cracked for real, crumbling between his fingers into a small pile of crimson dust, like scorched sand.

Dylan fell back, gasping, his back hitting the rock with a jolt.

His eyes half-opened, breath ragged—

Élisa watched him, saying nothing.

And for a moment, neither the fire, nor the wind, nor the mist dared disturb the silence.

Dylan had changed.

And something else... had rooted itself within him.

He sat up slowly, still panting. His head spun. His skin was slick. And yet... something was different.

Instinctively, he leaned on his left hand to push himself up a little more.

He winced, expecting a sting.

But... nothing.

Not a trace of pain.

Not even tension.

He looked down.

His hand—his arm, the very one that had been pierced by a horn just hours ago—moved normally. He curled his fingers, flexed his shoulder, and made a fluid motion. Clean. Unhindered.

He frowned, slipped his fingers under the torn fabric of his shirt, searching for the wound.

But there was no scab, no scar—not even a bruise.

The flesh was smooth. Intact. As if the injury had never existed.

Dylan inhaled slowly.

Something had happened.

Not just regeneration. Not simply accelerated healing. There was a new tension in his body. A strange equilibrium. As if his skeleton had been reset. As if pain had been eradicated—

Or... replaced with something else.

He slowly rolled his shoulders, testing each joint... Everything responded. Perfectly. Better than before.

His fingers brushed the spot where the horn had gone through him.

And against all odds, he felt... nothing. Not even a tickle.

He stayed there for a moment, still, eyes blank. He wasn’t worried. And he wasn’t relieved either.

Just... lucid.

Something had repaired him.

But he wasn’t sure it was a good thing.

Élisa stepped closer, soundless.

Her gaze remained fixed on him, intense—almost... troubled. A shadow of concern passed through her golden eyes, but it wasn’t fear. Not quite. More a blend of hunger and confusion—something instinctive, visceral. A fascination she didn’t fully understand herself.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

She reached out, hesitated, then placed her hand on Dylan’s chest—right where the wound should’ve been. Her palm brushed over the warm skin, gliding slowly, lingering as if to make sure it was real.

"...It’s... calmed down," she whispered, her voice uncertain, barely audible.

Dylan raised his eyes a bit, still tense.

"Yeah... I do feel like my spirit essence is quiet." He paused. "But... what’s the difference between this calm and the usual one?"

Élisa frowned slightly, not moving her hand.

She stepped back just a bit—just enough to meet his gaze.

"I don’t know." She shook her head, visibly irritated by her own ignorance. "But it’s not supposed to be like this."

She backed off for real this time, arms crossed, still watching him—like she expected something to happen. A flicker. A glow. A crackle. Anything.

But nothing happened.

Just silence... and that strange calm.

Too strange to be comforting.

She stared at Dylan a moment longer, her eyes drifting from his face to his chest, then back again. Her expression shifted. No longer just worried. It was analytical now. Instinctive. Almost clinical. freeweɓnovel.cøm

And she said, sharply:

"Take off your shirt."

Dylan raised a brow, half amused, half wary.

"I’m filthy. Not tonight."

His words left a pause. Then, with an annoyed click of her tongue, Élisa snapped, her voice rising:

"Take off your shirt, idiot!" Her tone was a bit too sharp to fully hide her embarrassment.

Her cheeks, in fact, had gone a little pink.

Not really out of modesty—Élisa was usually unfazed by that sort of thing. It was more the irritation of having to spell things out.

Dylan rolled his eyes, groaned softly, and grabbed the hem of his shirt with his good hand. The fabric, sticky with sweat and blood, clung to his skin for a second before peeling away with a muffled sound.

He pulled it off.

And sat there, bare-chested in the firelight.

Élisa leaned in.

Her eyes traced over Dylan’s skin—not like a woman looking at a man, but like a healer examining a patient... or a sentry checking for cracks in a wall.

What she saw made her pale slightly.

There, along the length of Dylan’s spine, etched deep into his flesh, were markings.

Fine, intricate lines, as if carved into the bone itself.

They pulsed softly with a white light—almost lunar—standing out against the bronze of his skin still streaked with dried blood and soot.

It was beautiful. Strangely so. And terrifying too, because it wasn’t a scar. Not a wound.

It was a stigma.

A living engraving left behind by essence too dense to fully absorb. A trace of power. Of mutation. Something that completed the evolution of an awakened one.