Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 77: Divine Canvas

They had been walking for an hour now. Maybe two. The path twisted through the plains, sometimes disappearing beneath the tall grass only to reappear a little further, as if playing hide and seek with them. The upturned skull, always on the horizon, never seemed to get any closer. A monstrous optical illusion. Almost cruel.

Dylan walked at the front, hands clasped behind his head, whistling a tune with no conviction. Maggie brought up the rear, silent, clearly focused on the road... or something else. Élisa, meanwhile, struggled to keep pace. The terrain wasn’t difficult, but the accumulating fatigue, the sleepless night, and the energy spent purifying the gems were catching up with her.

Eventually, she let out a long sigh and called:

"Dylan... carry me."

He turned around, one eyebrow raised, half amused, half suspicious. "You serious?"

She raised her arms toward him dramatically. "I’m dying... Look at my legs, they’ve melted."

"That’s called sweating, Élisa. And no, I’m not carrying you." But he stopped anyway, dropped his bag, and opened his arms with mock resignation. "Come on then, princess of the bald elves."

Élisa jumped onto his back with a liveliness that completely contradicted her complaints, clinging to him like a tired koala and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Are you purring right now?" Dylan muttered as he started walking again.

"I’m recharging. Leave me alone."

Behind them, Maggie rolled her eyes.

"Seriously... You two are like children." Then, more quietly: "And I’m supposed to lead these weirdos..."

Despite her exasperated tone, there was a discreet warmth in her voice. The kind of rough-edged tenderness you allow when things are calm. Too calm.

The light slowly climbed. The grasses rustled under each passing breeze. The landscape felt unreal, frozen in a fragile peace, as if the universe had offered them a truce.

And yet, deep down, all three of them knew it wouldn’t last.

The skull, still looming on the horizon, stared silently as the trio kept it as their fixed landmark — knowing that whichever route they took, if the skull was still ahead, they were on the right path.

The Cemetery of Heroes was still about twenty kilometers away, and now the skull appeared even more massive, as if it had been painted onto the world — part of a colossal canvas depicting the head of a dead god, whose carcass still haunted the earth.

The closer they got, the more the skull’s shape seemed to warp the reality around it. Not that it moved — no, it remained there, frozen in its toppled posture, jaw gaping at the sky, its teeth like jagged obsidian fangs — but the air around it trembled. Almost imperceptibly. As if space itself vibrated in its presence.

Dylan slowed his pace. Élisa, still clinging to him, opened one eye.

"Getting tired, old man?"

"No." He was staring straight ahead. "But don’t you feel like... the air’s heavier?"

She took a careful breath. She understood what he meant retroactively. There was weight. A kind of pressure, like an invisible hand pressing down on their shoulders.

Maggie stopped too, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the monstrous shape in the distance.

"We’ve entered its zone of influence."

Dylan turned his head. "The creature’s?"

"Not just that. Places like this... they hold imprints. Memories. Pain. It’s more a battlefield than a tomb. And every inch of dust here speaks of what was lost."

A silence settled between them, not heavy, but solemn — tinged with quiet respect.

Then Élisa slid off Dylan’s back and stretched.

"I’m good. I can walk now."

"See? All it takes is a bit of doom and gloom to get your energy back," Dylan shrugged. "Nothing like the looming threat of death to get your legs moving."

They resumed their march, this time walking in line, saying nothing more than necessary.

The plain dipped slightly, forming undulations in the ground — giant wrinkles left by something ancient... or perhaps shaped by wind, time, or sheer forgetfulness. The grass grew shorter. The soil darker.

And then, rounding a shallow dip, they saw the first signs.

Stones. Aligned unnaturally. Some standing, others half-buried, etched with faded symbols. A path of weathered steles, winding into the unknown like a procession frozen in time.

Maggie stopped, frowning. "We’re not at the cemetery yet... but this isn’t a good sign."

Dylan knelt beside one of the stones, brushing a half-erased inscription. "Old dialect? Or your world’s language?"

Élisa, leaning over his shoulder, murmured, "They’re names. Titles. Memory fragments... people who passed through here and lost someone along the way. Maybe they wanted to leave a trace... Classic humans."

A gust of wind swept by — colder, drier. A chill ran down all three of their spines. This was no longer just a plain.

It was a memory. One that hadn’t forgotten.

They continued in silence, the wind now more fickle, cutting in brief, almost playful gusts, lifting hair and cloaks, as if something was trying to get their attention... or warn them.

The steles grew denser as they walked. Some snapped clean in half, others fully toppled and weather-worn, and still others untouched, standing tall like stubborn sentinels. Maggie approached one, hand outstretched, hesitating for a moment before placing her fingers on the cold stone.

She closed her eyes. Just for a second.

"It pulses," she said, almost to herself.

"Sorry?" Dylan asked.

"There’s something beating in there. Not life. More like... will. Like the land refuses to forget."

Élisa passed by, brushing another stone with her fingertips. "Places like this absorb everything. Screams, regrets, vows left unkept..."

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t this supposed to be a cemetery? Because right now, it feels more like a haunted museum."

Élisa smiled softly. "The cemetery’s further ahead. This... is the path you take to reach it. And sometimes, the path holds more than the destination ever could."

They moved on, slowly, almost reluctantly, as if their legs sensed what their minds couldn’t yet name. Maggie kept her eyes sharp, scanning constantly from one point to another, as though searching for something — or someone — hidden between the cracks of the present.

Then came a noise. Faint. A barely audible rustle in the tall grass skirting the path.

They froze.

All three slipped instinctively into a defensive stance, back to back like a trained pack. Élisa had already drawn her daggers, light and swift as if they’d always been there. Maggie tightened her grip on her axe, resting it on her shoulder, feet planted. Dylan held his chipped machete low and sideways, like an overgrown dagger.

They held their breath. Eyes swept over rustling grass, the steles, the shadows warped by wind but never scattered. Even the insects had gone silent, swallowed by a deeper, heavier stillness.

And then...

Their weapons vibrated. A sharp, sudden, deep tremor. Not physical resonance — a wave. Spiritual. Guttural. Something brushed the core of their beings like a cold tongue.

Their eyes widened. And slowly... slowly... they all turned to Dylan.

He said nothing. But his face had gone pale. His hand trembled around the machete’s hilt. He lowered it slightly, unconsciously, as though his body betrayed fear before his mind could form it.

And then they understood.

"She’s here..." Élisa whispered, barely audible.