Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 66: Three Stones, Six Kills

It was around five in the afternoon. Shadows stretched behind the trees as the forest, as usual, held its breath in a deceptive calm. The spring wind blew gently, making the leaves shiver in a dance that almost seemed festive.

But beneath that peaceful surface, a latent tension pulsed. Nothing unusual in such a savage place: here, every creature lived to feed, survive, or defend its territory. Because when night fell, others would take their place.

All around—claw slashes, brutal bites, guttural roars. The weapons of those who had nothing but flesh to fight with. They hunted, they devoured—driven only by their pure, absolute instinct to survive.

But not all of them were that primitive.

Some creatures, naturally more intelligent, used other means to dominate. And in that quiet struggle for control, territorial wars broke out often. Almost always ending in bloodbaths.

All around, in the highest trees, three figures lay hidden. Odd intruders for such a battlefield. Too coordinated. Too civilized.

The first, a young man with obsidian skin and a sharp face, clung to a branch like a predator waiting to strike. His grey eyes glinted between the leaves.

The second, a pale-skinned woman with long elven ears, silently watched the carnage below, her golden gaze fixed and unblinking.

The third was another woman, crouched on a lower branch. Tall, muscular, with close-cropped hair and sharp brown eyes—every inch of her built for battle.

They had spread out to surround the clearing. Far enough not to be seen. Close enough to act together.

Below, the fight raged on.

On one side, three orcs. Massive, wrapped in crude leather, wielding clubs and cleavers thick enough to split a tree. The kind that could go weeks without bread but not a day without violence.

Opposite them, three even more terrifying beasts. Nearly four meters tall, hulking like prehistoric predators—demonic tyrannosaurs with dark, armored scales and dagger-like teeth.

Truth was, it was no longer a clean three-on-three.

Each side had a fighter barely standing. Struggling to breathe, swaying on their feet, entrails likely spilling beneath armor or flesh. They’d probably be the first to fall—if not for that twisted pride that made retreat unthinkable.

Because these creatures didn’t run. Ever.

They moved in packs. Always close. Only on rare occasions would you find one alone. To die with comrades was better, to them, than to live with the shame of desertion.

And that’s exactly what the trio up in the trees had bet on.

They’d been setting this up for more than three days. Three days of planting doubt, fear, and anger. Tugging at the nerves of both factions.

They had stolen prey from one territory and left it in the other. Scattered tracks, scents, signs. Just enough to look like a provocation. A trespass. An insult.

And it worked.

The two factions had fallen for it, just as expected. They had leapt at each other with all the fury of an ancient turf war.

You could say the trio had already won half the battle. Chaos was in full swing. The two sides were bleeding each other dry.

But for the plan to work perfectly... none of their enemies could be left alive.

Not a single one could survive, because each of them was a third-rank beast. Even wounded, their power remained formidable.

So they waited. Weapons ready to strike.

One wrong move from the survivors, and it would be over.

The trio hadn’t left anything to chance.

They had a plan. Solid. Calculated.

They knew time was against them. The full moon was coming — and with it, that grim ritual they could no longer avoid. The presence of some demon creeping around them, watching their every move, didn’t help.

To survive what was coming, they needed spirit essence gems. Powerful catalysts born from the flesh and soul of third-rank beasts.

And those down there? Perfect candidates.

So no, they wouldn’t waste time hunting each one down. Not in a forest crawling with threats. Not with the clock ticking. Instead, they had chosen to kill two birds with one stone: push the brutes into tearing each other apart... and then drop down like judgment itself to finish the job.

Their goal was simple: take the gems. And if one survived, eliminate them.

A plan as cold and cruel as its architect: Maggie.

But Dylan had an extra reason.

A bitter taste. A grudge carved deep.

Among the three ogres below, one had ash-grey skin and a battle axe way too big to be legal. That one. The bastard who had shit in front of their cave, like a dog marking territory.

Dylan hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t forget. That kind of humiliation, ridiculous or not, left scars only blood could wash away.

And that bastard? Dylan was going to kill him.

He had said it the night before, voice low, as they scoped the clearing: "I’ll be the one to end him. I want him to see me when it happens."

This wasn’t just a hunt. It was a message. A reckoning between shame and revenge.

Maggie had rolled her eyes at that, but said nothing. Élisa just gripped her daggers tighter. They knew Dylan. Once he made up his mind, there was no reasoning with him.

And deep down, all three of them knew: after tonight, there might not be a second chance.

So they had to get it right.

---

Down below, the battle hit its peak — that bastard place between fury and fatigue, where every move costs too much and backing down is death.

The orcs, big and brutal as they were, were starting to stumble. One of them, bleeding from a deep gash in his side, could barely hold his axe. His legs shook. His breath whistled through broken teeth as his eyes searched the chaos—maybe for a target, maybe for an escape. But there wouldn’t be one.

Across from him, the beasts. Tall as trees. Heavy as nightmares.

Their scaled skin gleamed in the dying light. A hot, rotten breath steamed from their half-open jaws. One of them — likely the female — had a torn throat, dark blood dripping down her chest. But her eyes never left the biggest orc, an old brute with a split jaw and a spiked club, dragging his weapon forward, ready to end it.

The sounds had grown raw. Primal.

Jaws snapping. Metal crunching bone. The sickening crack of ribs giving way. And every now and then, a sound no language could capture — a howl that screamed one thing:

I won’t die alone.

One of the beasts lunged at an orc with savage force, jaws closing around his chest. He screamed, tried to strike, but its claws dug into his back and ripped him clean in half like an overstrained puppet.

Blood burst forth — thick, heavy, visceral.

Both sides were nearly spent. No more tricks. No more skill. Just rage and that desperate urge to be the last one breathing.

From their perches, Dylan, Maggie, and Élisa watched the carnage. Muscles tight. Hearts pounding in sync with death’s rhythm.

"Just a few more moments," they thought. Enough for the final blows to land.

Then they would strike.

Like the last whisper before the end.