Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 111: Manifestation

Dylan’s words rang out like a gong in the tense silence. The fourth creature—the one with the unnervingly calm eyes—still didn’t move.

It crouched beside one of the black stones. Smaller than the others, but its posture radiated a chilling authority. Its fur was a dark anthracite gray, almost gleaming under the pallid light of the rising dawn, and its pale yellow, intelligent eyes never left the trio.

Then, without a growl, without a twitch, it tilted its head slightly.

That was the signal.

The other three beasts, who had seemed half-asleep, burst into motion. Not with the frenzied rage of the previous wolves—no. With brutal, silent coordination. Two flanked to the left and right, encircling the hill, while the third—the largest—charged straight at them, head lowered, fangs like daggers aimed directly at Maggie, who was bringing up the rear.

"Spread!" Maggie barked, more command than cry. Her axe swept the air in a horizontal arc, forcing the central beast to slow its charge.

Élisa was already moving. She didn’t go for the flanks. She went straight for the gray one—the one giving orders. Her blades whirled, drawing silver arcs in the gray air. At last, the gray beast reacted. With a fluid, unsettling speed, it rolled to the side, dodging the blades by a hair. A rasping breath escaped its jaws—almost a chuckle.

Dylan felt his mark burn suddenly—a sharp sting between his shoulder blades.

He dove forward without thinking, rolling on his shoulder. A dark mass swept through the space his head had occupied a second earlier—one of the flanking beasts, lunging for a rear grab. He landed on one knee, machete striking upward. The half-blade bit into the beast’s side, but this one, tougher than the others, only snarled in fury and pivoted, one front paw slashing toward Dylan.

Maggie was locked with the massive brute. Every blow from the beast made her arms ring to the bone. She didn’t back down, planted like a boulder, axe parrying blows with bursts of sparks when fangs struck metal. But the force was titanic. A wide swipe knocked her off balance. She staggered. The beast lunged, jaws wide, ready to snap shut around her chest.

A sharp whistle sliced the air. One of Élisa’s daggers, thrown with deadly precision, buried itself in the brute’s eye. The scream of pain that followed was horrifying. The beast reared up, half-blinded, giving Maggie the split-second she needed to regain her footing. "Thanks!" she barked, then slammed her axe into the creature’s neck.

A sickening crack echoed—and the brute collapsed in a wet thud.

But Élisa paid for the intervention. The gray beast, seeing its opponent distracted, leapt. Not to bite—but to strike. Its front paw, tipped with curved black claws like sickles, slashed down with terrifying speed. Élisa tried to dodge—too late. The claws shredded her t-shirt at the left shoulder, ripping three deep, vivid gashes into her flesh. A muffled cry escaped her lips. She stumbled back, already unable to move her arm.

Dylan saw the blood burst out. Rage flared in his veins, hotter than the burn of his mark. The beast that had attacked him was circling back, drooling. He didn’t even look. He lunged forward, slipping under its outstretched neck, and drove his machete up to the hilt into its soft belly. He gave a wild twist and wrenched it free in a rush of hot viscera. The beast dropped, whining.

He didn’t stop. He ran to Élisa, who now faced the gray creature with only a single dagger, her face pale but defiant. The gray beast advanced slowly, methodically, its yellow eyes gleaming with a calculating light. It knew she was injured. It knew it had the upper hand.

Maggie, now free, came charging in, axe raised. "Pinch it!" she shouted to Dylan. They understood. Maggie went head-on, a roar ripping from her throat, drawing the beast’s full attention. It turned, ready to meet the warrior’s assault.

Dylan took the opening. Slipping through the shadow of a black stone, he came in from the right side. Not to strike—but to break its stance. He threw all his weight into a vicious low kick at the back of the beast’s front knee. It connected. The joint gave with a sharp crack. The gray creature let out a piercing cry—eerily human—and collapsed sideways.

That was the opening Élisa had waited for. Ignoring the burning pain in her shoulder, she leapt, using every bit of power in her legs. Her lone dagger drew a straight, lethal line—not for the heart, but for the throat, just beneath the jaw, where the fur was thinnest.

The blade sank deep. A surge of thick, black blood gushed, splattering the gray stone. The gray beast went rigid, its yellow eyes wide with cold disbelief—then the light faded from them. It crumpled, lifeless, its gaze fixed on the gray sky, now pale with the coming dawn. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

A heavy silence fell, broken only by the survivors’ ragged breathing. Maggie, soaked in blood and sweat, leaning on her axe. Dylan, trembling with adrenaline, his machete dripping. Élisa, ghostly pale, clutching her ruined shoulder as blood slid between her clenched fingers. The two remaining beasts, seeing their leader dead, vanished into the brush without a sound.

No time to rest. No time to tend wounds. The gray sky was turning milky in the east. Dawn was coming. Relentless.

The silence shattered with a sudden crack. Maggie was already on her knees beside Élisa, her thick fingers tearing at the bottom of the girl’s cotton shirt. The fabric ripped with a harsh snap. "Don’t be a baby," she growled, her voice rough with an urgency that brooked no argument.

Blood flowed freely from the lacerated shoulder, dark in the pale dawn light, soaking the dry ground. Élisa’s arm trembled uncontrollably, wracked with sharp spasms that dragged muffled moans from her clenched mouth.

Dylan rushed in, grabbing a long strip of cloth Maggie had torn. His hands shook slightly, covered in fresh and dried blood. He began wrapping the makeshift bandage tight around the deep wound, just above the shoulder joint, trying to compress the torn arteries. He felt Élisa’s hot blood under his fingers, the tension of her locked muscles. "Tighter, Dylan, tighter!" barked Maggie, shredding another strip.

That’s when the lightning struck him.

A blinding pain—searing, absolute—suddenly engulfed his right arm, right where he was pressing on Élisa’s wound. It was as if a white-hot iron had pierced through flesh, muscle, bone. A raw, animal scream tore from his throat, echoing unnaturally in the silent woods. He let go of Élisa’s arm like it burned, curling in on himself, clutching his arm to his chest. His machete hit the dirt with a dull thud.

"Dylan?!" Maggie shouted, her gaze swinging from Élisa’s wound to her companion writhing in agony.

Élisa, face drenched in cold sweat, blinked. A strange sensation had just washed through her. The devouring pain—the unbearable burning in her shoulder—was fading. Rapidly. As if it were being pulled away. She looked at her arm. The wild tremor had stopped. The pain was still there, sharp—but manageable now. Surface-level.

"What the...?" she murmured, confused, eyes shifting to Dylan, who groaned and rolled on the ground, clutching his right arm.

Instinctively, she reached with her good hand to the wounded shoulder, where the improvised bandage was coming loose from Dylan’s spasm. She pulled on the knot. The bloody cloth slipped off.

Beneath the fabric, where deep, gaping wounds had been—there were only raw, inflamed scratches. Painful, yes. But nothing like the terrible lacerations from before. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle.

"No..." whispered Élisa, staring in disbelief from her shoulder to Dylan’s arm, clutched in agony.

Dylan let out another cry, raspier this time. His suffering peaked. He slammed his fist into the dirt, teeth clenched, neck veins bulging.

Maggie, who had witnessed the change in Élisa’s wound and Dylan’s torment, froze. Her eyes, normally hard with brutal resolve, widened in horrified realization. She pointed a trembling finger at the arm Dylan was clutching.

"Dylan... your arm..." Her voice was a hoarse breath.

Dylan, dazed, lifted his head, his face streaked with sweat, dust, and blood. Slowly, painfully, he loosened his grip on his right arm. The sleeve was torn at the exact same spot as Élisa’s wound. And underneath—

Three deep gashes, identical to Élisa’s, bled freely. Wounds that hadn’t been there moments ago. Flesh split open, red and black, exposing the glisten of deeper tissue. Blood flowed in thick, blackish streams—just like the blood that had once gushed from Élisa’s shoulder.

A deathly silence fell—heavier than the one after the fight. Only Dylan’s ragged breaths and the soft drip of blood onto dry earth broke the dawn’s eerie stillness.

Élisa stood slowly, shoulder aching but usable, her gaze fixed on Dylan’s new wound. A wound that had been hers. Transferred. Stolen. Her throat tightened. The words came, heavy with frozen disbelief:

"He... absorbs injuries?"

Maggie, face ashen, looked from Dylan, to Élisa, then up to the sky, now glowing with nacreous dawnlight.

The sun was rising—and nothing would be the same.