Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 68: Sacred Mercy

Time had passed. The storm never came, but the sky wept slowly.

The macabre spectacle was over.

At last, Dylan decided to leave his perch. He leapt from the tree without a word, boots slipping on the wet grass. The others followed. One to the east, the other to the west.

Each descended at their own pace, but all eventually converged.

A human triangle slowly closing in on the charnel pit.

At the center, the remains of a massacre. Twisted bodies. Blackened blood. Flesh half-torn. And in the midst of it all... the grey orc. Still upright. On his knees. His gaze lost somewhere between the earth and the dead.

While the two camps had torn each other apart in a brutal battle, the three watchers hadn’t lifted a finger.

No better than scavengers.

Or parasites.

They had waited. Bided their time. Now, in the heavy silence, they finally appeared — like creeping shadows from the woods.

Above them, the sky had turned a heavy grey, almost steel blue. It seemed to mourn the loss of its children.

And the drops falling one by one onto dead flesh looked like the tears of a grieving god, helpless witness to the cruelty of the living.

But for these three, it wasn’t a tragedy.

It was an opportunity.

And in Dylan’s eyes... there was neither respect nor pity.

Only hunger.

They stepped cautiously toward the creature, forming a threatening arc around it, their weapons raised, ready to strike at the slightest move.

Their boots sank gently into the blood-soaked mud. The wind barely stirred. The world seemed to hold its breath.

And there, among the carcasses, the grey orc.

He was nothing but a heap of flesh, warped by pain and rage.

Dylan stopped two steps away. His eyes lingered on the kneeling creature. At that moment, he no longer saw the warrior monster. Just a mass of battered muscle, torn flesh, a bare shoulder — the white bone sticking out of the wound like a thorn ripped from the earth.

He was still bleeding. But slowly. As if even his blood wanted to leave him.

And yet... he breathed. A broken, ragged breath, but still real.

Dylan’s gaze hardened. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

This was no longer an enemy. It was a survivor. A relic of a battle too fierce.

"Pathetic," he thought. "After such a display... only to end up on your knees."

That’s how the world works, he told himself, a strange bitterness clinging to his throat. It’s never been fair, anyway.

That’s when the orc slowly lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

Dylan froze.

That look... it wasn’t fear. Nor submission. Not even hatred.

It was that raw defiance, that primal, untamable flame. The same he had seen in the eyes of the young orc by the river. The one he had killed — heart trembling, breath short.

"Ah... that look..."

Dylan bit his lower lip. A shiver ran through him — not fear, but something like a bitter smirk.

Last time, that look had rattled him. Shaken him.

But now...

He almost laughed. A laugh without sound, stuck in his throat.

"Pathetic," he whispered, narrowing his eyes.

Silence fell again. Heavy. Charged. Almost sacred.

---

Dylan had expected to feel rage, that old grudge he’d carried like a personal demon since the beginning of the hunt. But instead, he found only a strange void.

A mix of silent admiration and deep weariness.

The way the orc had fought, like a rabid beast refusing death, had impressed him more than he wanted to admit.

And yet, seeing him now... half-crushed, drained of strength... almost inspired pity.

He found himself wanting to end it quickly. Not out of anger or vengeance. Just... out of mercy.

"Maybe he deserves that, after all..."

"Don’t tell me you’re hesitating now?"

The voice snapped him back to reality. He looked up.

Still standing in front of him, upright silhouette, golden eyes gleaming, a smile clinging to her lips like a blade ready to strike.

Élisa stared at him, mocking, as if all this tension were just another game.

Dylan grimaced inwardly. He recognized that tone. That carelessness. That disdain hidden beneath elegance.

He also knew that, to her, this was just a beast. Intelligent or not, humanoid or not, the line was clear in her mind.

And he wasn’t blind: in this world, the hatred for demons was ancient. Etched into flesh and legend. No need for reason — just well-rooted prejudice.

"Maybe we’re no better than them..."

But he didn’t go further. He tucked his thoughts back into a dark corner of his mind.

Now wasn’t the time for philosophy.

He tightened his grip on his weapon.

And with theatrical flair, he tilted his chin up and declared:

"Who, me? Darling, please — Dylan doesn’t flinch over such trivial matters."

A smile without warmth curled his lips.

He took one step forward.

The orc looked up. One last time.

And once more, tension froze the air.

Silence dropped like a curtain — heavy, sticky, almost sacred.

Dylan approached, his boots stirring the wet dust. There was nothing left to say. Just one last act to perform.

The orc didn’t move.

He remained there, kneeling, broad back slumped forward, flesh torn, breath ragged, his axe buried in the mud like a monument to his defiance.

His eyes met Dylan’s one final time — not to beg, not to plead.

Just to stay proud. Until the end.

Dylan exhaled through his nose.

"You fought well," he murmured.

He raised his weapon — a military machete of polished black steel, fine and precise.

With a flick of the wrist, the blade rose in a clean, surgical motion.

And in a breath — no hatred, no fury — he brought the blade down on the creature’s neck.

A dull thud followed, then the soft sound of slicing.

The head rolled into the mud with a quiet plop, as if the earth itself accepted this final offering.

Dylan stood frozen for a few seconds. Breathing short.

Then he flicked his blade with a sharp movement.

Behind him, Élisa nodded slightly, almost satisfied.

"Much better," she said simply, turning on her heel.

Dylan stayed a moment longer.

Gazing down at the fallen warrior.

At that heap of muscle and rage, now just a corpse.

"I wish I’d fought him," he whispered to no one. "I’d have savored his death more."

Then he turned away too.

The rain was falling again. Gentle. Light. Like a caress over the battlefield’s scars.