Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 121: Midnight Apparence

It wasn’t a violent quake, not really. More like a deep, dull throb, alive somehow—like a pulse welling up from the earth itself. A low frequency, almost organic, like the heartbeat of something buried under centuries of stone and silence.

It made the creatures stagger—even the one mid-leap towards Maggie. Its momentum shattered, not by force, but by a terror that froze it from within.

Its beastly look of triumph hung in the air for a heartbeat, then twisted. Its bloodshot eyes widened—not fixed on the vulnerable girl anymore, but turned to the shadows beyond the circle. Toward the source. Toward what was coming.

The mist stirred, twisted, then began to spin violently, sucked by a colossal breath. The air shifted—heavier, thicker, weighted with a pressure so dense it made teeth ache, knees buckle, sweat pour. Dylan stumbled a step. Élisa grimaced, one knee to the ground, daggers still ready—but her arms trembled.

Even the Guardian... even he shifted his posture slightly, as if a thunderous echo was striking his foundations. His blade still carried its methodical, unstoppable arc—but his gaze had shifted. Torn. His attention now split between the beasts, Maggie... and this thing.

Because this wasn’t just danger anymore.

This was a presence.

Something enormous, ancient, and deeply sinister, slowly rising through the layers of the world. Something that no longer needed a body to inspire fear. A bare, raw consciousness brushing the surface of reality with unbearable slowness.

And the creatures knew before the humans did.

The one that had been ready to rip Maggie apart reared back, screamed—a sound torn from it by sheer terror—and clawed at the earth in a frenzied retreat, scraping the ground with ragged desperation. The others followed, pushed by an instinct older than hunger, fleeing the circle, the mist, the moonlight... fleeing the pulse.

Because it came again—and this time, the ground cracked.

A sharp report, like the bark of ancient wood splitting, rang beneath their feet.

A tear opened in the sticky earth, jagged and black, winding just beyond the circle’s protective edge. It exhaled a glacial breath, stinking of cold stone, rusted metal, and something unspeakably old and foul.

The creature who had nearly gutted Maggie froze completely. Its triumphant roar twisted into a shriek of pure terror—high, shrill, and bestial. Its claws, a breath from Maggie’s skin, scraped backward frantically, digging furrows into the mud.

The fear pierced it deeper than any blade. The others, near Dylan and circling the Guardian, reacted instantly. A low, contagious groan rose in their throats, thick with panic. They dropped all strategy, all obsessive hunger.

Raw, primal survival took over. They retreated fast, claws raised not to strike but to ward off something unseen, eyes wild and rolling toward the black rift.

"What the fuck..." Dylan whispered, swaying under the crushing pressure that pressed the air down like an anvil. He saw the beasts flee their prey, and it was almost more terrifying than watching the earth itself tear open.

Élisa was kneeling, raised her blade with a trembling hand—aimed not at the retreating monsters, but at the split in the ground. Her eyes were locked on that dark line. "That’s it..." she murmured, her voice strained by the weight in the air. "That’s what was coming."

The Guardian hadn’t moved his feet. But his left arm—about to crush Maggie’s attacker—had lowered slightly, palm now open toward the fissure. His right blade finished its arc in the void where the wounded creature had been.

His face was hidden behind his mask, but for the first time, he seemed... tense. Deeply focused, almost painfully so, the crimson light in his helm narrowing like a squint.

He could feel it. And it seemed he knew. Whatever it was, it demanded full attention—ripping his awareness between defending the circle and facing this vast new threat, now literally rising from the ground.

Maggie, still at the center, shivered violently. A muffled moan escaped her lips, even in her trance.

The anima gem in her hands flickered, its glow pulsing erratically, as if the essence it absorbed was resonating—or clashing—with the icy energy rising from the rift.

From within the crevasse, a rumble rose. Not a sound, but a vibration that shook the guts—deep, cavernous. Then something moved in the darkness. Not a shape, not yet. More like a suggestion of mass—thicker than night, shifting slowly before unfurling.

Pale glints—like shards of moonlight trapped in obsidian—flashed fleetingly in the dark. Eyes? Scales? Impossible to say. But the gaze emanating from them was tangible. A look brimming with cold intelligence and a hunger that made the third-rank creatures’ seem like petty cravings.

The monsters pulled back further, almost pressing against the swirling mist now forming a grayish wall around the circle—a fragile barrier against the unknown awakening below. They growled low and constant, a noise of pure fear. They weren’t threats anymore. They were prey—terrified, trapped between the hammer of the Guardian and the anvil of the Abyss.

Then came a new sound from the depths of the fissure.

It wasn’t a roar. Not a cry.

But a rising.

At first indistinct, like whispers in the veins of the earth—then clearer, sharper. A scraping. Repetitive. A clicking, maybe. As if hundreds of claws—long, bony, methodical—were anchoring into the walls, retreating, and returning. Again. Again.

It wasn’t fast. Nor urgent.

It was rising slowly.

With terrible patience. As if the thing was savoring every second, drawing out the tension, unraveling their nerves, twisting the silence around their suspended breath.

And everyone, without exception, froze.

Even the creatures, huddled at the circle’s edge, curled in the mist, fell silent. No growls. No fury. Just a thick, breathless fear. Their chests heaved. Their claws dug into the ground. Some fled, others were too petrified to move.

The Guardian stood unmoved, statuesque. His mask turned to the rift, wrist slightly tilted, as if listening. But Dylan—he was no longer steady.

A shiver crept up his spine. First faint, then sharper. His whole body, strung tight like a breaking wire, began to vibrate. And it wasn’t just fear... something more macabre. More intimate. Like a string struck within his soul.

A resonance.

His eyes widened—as if something inside had awakened. As if the thing rising there, in the earth’s black depth, already knew his name.

"Not now..." he whispered. His voice cracked, almost foreign to him.

Élisa glanced at him but said nothing. She felt it too—that cold, that pressing weight in the air, like a giant hand on their chests. Something un-natural. Un-living.

Then, the sound stopped.

No more scraping. No more rising.

An abyssal silence fell—so pure it hurt. The world seemed perched on the edge of a breath. Even the wind held back. Even the fissure paused its last pulse.

And then... she emerged.

Not in a burst. Not with a crash.

But in a slow, glutinous slide. Inevitable.

As if the rift spat her out after centuries of clammy sleep.

At first, it was just a silhouette—upright, almost frail in the spectral moonlight, which itself seemed to shiver at her presence. A woman. Or something wearing the mask of one. Her skin was translucent, almost waxy. And her eyes... void and heavy, as though they had seen too much. No rage. Not even hatred. Just cold, endless, bone-deep weariness.

But it was a lie.

Beneath her, the truth slithered.

Her body stretched—or rather, tore—into a trail of twisted flesh and bone. A hundred pale, humanoid arms squirmed out of her ruptured belly like spasming legs. Some still thrashed, as if suffocating. Others scraped the ground in inhuman rhythm, pushing her slowly out of the abyss.

Each arm was different—some small and frail, others long, bony, scarred, crusted with dead skin. All moving with a will of their own—parasitic, yet obedient.

Her belly was no longer a womb but a mute, gaping maw, birthing limbs from death.

Behind, her back trailed into a sinuous mass—a long segmented spine like an ancient beast’s, undulating with serpentine slowness. The column vanished into the rift, as if it had no end. As if it was still rising.

She did not speak.

She watched.

A gaze as heavy as a blade. Slowly, her eyes turned toward the circle. Toward Maggie. Then toward Dylan. Her gaze lingered on him longer.

And something stirred inside him.

Not in his mind. But deeper—buried in his soul, where the fragment of that unleashed demoness lay coiled.

And that fragment... screamed.

A scream only he could hear.

Not a scream of rage.

But panic.

Raw, animal panic.

"No. Not her."

Dylan staggered, clutching his chest, gasping. As if something inside him wanted to escape. Or answer her.

But the creature didn’t move. She just stood there, still, impassive, her arms groping the earth, the emptiness, the very air. Silence was her voice. Her presence alone pressed down on the atmosphere until even thoughts became too dense to shape. freewebnøvel.com

The Guardian, at last, raised his blade. Slowly. As if this thing demanded not a battle, but a sacrifice.

And Élisa, on the edge of collapse, whispered without realizing:

"She finally rose..."

Then, lower, her lips trembling, almost inaudible:

"The Midnight Lady."