Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 72: Laughter at the End

Dylan felt a sharp pain slice through his back, like a burning, brutal arrow.

A high-pitched cackle split the air right after, as sharp as the claw mark itself.

Without thinking, almost by reflex, he brought his machete down on the creature in front of him. It was like a strangled cry. A kind of limp fall.

Then he twisted, looking over his shoulder.

A goblin zipped above him, hanging from a vine like a deranged bat, its claws dripping with his still-warm blood.

Dylan growled, teeth clenched. The burn spread along his back, an open line from which his blood already flowed in dark, hot, sticky streams.

But around him, the laughter continued.

Those cracked, broken, inhuman laughs.

A raw, perverse jubilation—as if they were feeding off his pain, his weaknesses.

And Dylan felt something rise in his throat, a fire he didn’t try to contain.

"I’m going to kill these bastards."

His voice was low, raspy, but the intent was anything but subtle.

It was more a promise than a threat in the air.

Dylan kept striking, parrying, dodging... his body in constant motion, despite the pain slicing his back with every abrupt movement.

But his eyes never left the heights.

He was waiting for them.

Each time a vine swayed, each time a laugh hissed above him, he tightened his grip on his machete, ready to leap.

And then, he saw it.

A figure descending again, hanging from a vine, claws extended, smile twisted with morbid excitement.

Dylan didn’t move.

He posed as easy prey for a few moments.

He waited until the creature was within reach. Almost half a second, he took a sudden breath.

Then he turned sharply, pivoting on his heels like a released spring, he leaped onto the rope, quickly grabbing it with his available hand, the other gripping the machete tighter.

The suspended creature panicked, and the vine didn’t seem capable of supporting both their weights, but Dylan didn’t care; on the contrary.

He let himself slide lower on the rope, swinging continuously, he kicked the creature to make it fall, but it clung tighter.

As the vine moved, Dylan had his foot on the creature’s chest, and he suddenly cut the rope.

Both were pulled down by gravity, but Dylan ensured his fall by keeping both feet in the creature’s chest.

The impact was loud; Dylan heard and felt the beast’s chest bones break under his boots, but he was satisfied by decapitating the already dead beast.

Dylan slowly stood up.

His breathing was ragged, but his gaze remained clear.

He felt no panic. Nor any form of exhilaration.

Just a sharp determination. Clear as the Rivernyx’s water, cold as its current.

In front of him, the decapitated head rolled between the roots, stopped by a twisted trunk.

The laughter hadn’t ceased. But something in their rhythm had changed.

They were now less confident.

As if the assurance in their laughter had completely vanished.

The violence he had just unleashed wasn’t savage—it was controlled, as if every enemy was destined to die by their hands, as if they were merely fulfilling their quota.

And that, the goblins seemed to sense.

He looked up. Several of the suspended creatures had frozen. Some had stopped swinging. Their claws still trembled... but not from impatience.

But from a bitter doubt that had deeply taken root in them.

They had never believed that creatures weaker than them could dominate them like this, as if the world was upside down.

Behind, Maggie continued to clear the way, her back covered in claw marks, but her arms swinging her axe with the same methodical frenzy. Élisa, meanwhile, slipped between shadows, quick and silent, leaving behind convulsing bodies, slit from throat to belly.

Each fallen enemy extended their chances.

Each breath stolen from the creatures prolonged their own.

And Dylan, now, was just a fixed point in the midst of this tornado.

Driven by a pure idea sprouting from a sharpened will.

A burning desire to eliminate his enemies.

He slightly turned his machete in his hand, to feel it better in his palm.

He made another leap.

As another laugh echoed above him... He looked up... and smiled.

His gray eyes lit up with a cold, almost chilling glow.

And he moved again.

---

He was already jumping.

The air whipped his face, heavy with heat and blood.

"That one’s mine. He scratched me earlier... look at him. Still laughing... let’s see if you’ll keep laughing when I slit your throat."

His boots brushed against a branch. He ignored it.

A bit too thin. A bit too far. Useless.

His eyes remained fixed on the figure perched between two vines. Barely visible, but enough for his mind to imprint every detail of the little goblin: arms outstretched, claws open, mouth split in a twisted smile.

"Oh, how I love when they’re overconfident. Like all the others, by the way..."

Dylan brought his machete down on an approaching vine and caught himself with one arm. His shoulder pulled. His back screamed. The wound flared like lightning through his nerves. But he didn’t care.

"You slashed my back, huh? It’s my turn now."

He swung, adjusted his weight, machete raised.

The creature tried to retreat, pulling on its rope to slow its momentum.

But the vine didn’t slow down. On the contrary, it gained speed. As if something—or someone—had suddenly decided this would be the end.

"Well... They sense when we change. When we become what they fear. It’s not often they encounter someone smarter than them."

Dylan threw all his weight forward. His boots struck the goblin’s chest with a sharp crack.

The thing squealed, slipped backward, missed its grip.

Dylan planted his feet deeper, locked his position. He raised the machete.

"He who laughs last... laughs best."

And he struck.

The blade split the top of the skull like an overripe nut. A wet crack. A black, sticky geyser burst.

The body fell. And so did he.

But Dylan guided the fall. Once again.

His feet embedded in the soft chest, he used it as a cushion, crushing it to the ground like a bag of empty bones.

They hit the earth in a spray of dead leaves. But only the goblin took the impact.

Dylan sprang up.

Machete still in hand. Gaze already lifted. Silent.

The blood flowed—from the blade, from his neck, from his back, from his arms.

But it wasn’t him who trembled.

Up there, the vines had emptied.

Nothing moved anymore.

Just that silence. Heavy. Laden with fear.

He no longer needed to speak. But he did anyway.

"You understand now? It’s me... who will end up laughing."