Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 81: Through the Fog

They had retreated further, far enough for the mist to completely obscure the motionless figure on the rock. None of them spoke yet. The silence had become more than tactical—it was reverent. Almost sacred.

What they had seen... was not a mere beast.

As they continued their path through the dense fog, they began to notice other things—motionless forms, half-buried in the earth, sometimes dismembered, sometimes barely recognizable.

Carcasses.

Some massive, clad in split scales; others slender and long like giant serpents, or bristling with fangs. Their bones were shattered, scattered, blackened by something older than time.

Dylan stopped before one of them—a colossus with a skull split in two, its ribs splayed open like a shredded flower.

"That’s the guardian..." murmured Élisa.

Maggie didn’t respond, but her gaze was dark, vigilant.

"These creatures... they tried to enter. Perhaps predators drawn by the energy of this place. Perhaps madmen come to steal the weapons." She straightened up, scanning through the mist. "But none returned."

She paused, then added softly:

"The guardian... he didn’t attack us... or at least not yet. He saw us. He weighed us."

Élisa slowly nodded, pensive.

"He’s not just a guardian; he’s a spirit beast, like Lady Ondine. He can think. He let us pass. Maybe because we haven’t touched the blades yet..."

Maggie frowned.

"Or because he’s waiting to see if we will."

Silence fell again.

Then Élisa spoke, more gravely:

"I’ve seen third-rank creatures before. They’re already terrifying. But this one..." She glanced briefly at Dylan, then back to Maggie.

"He’s different. He wields a weapon. He remains still, but he sees. He thinks. I believe... he’s reached the stage of Awakening. And perhaps even... is entering essence fusion."

Maggie paled slightly. This was no longer a simple monster. It was a consciousness bound to a body not limited by human mind.

"Then if he’s a spirit beast, supposed not to be hostile to humans, why is he guarding this scrap-metal cemetery?"

Élisa gently inhaled and exhaled, as if to lighten her breath.

"It’s not uncommon for great families or clans to form contracts with spirit beasts. They’re extremely loyal to their word, which can lead to situations like this. I’m almost certain this creature made a promise to watch over the weapons for a certain family. Now, nearly a century has passed since the last expedition; he must have been there ever since."

Around them, the fog seemed to grow quieter. As if it were listening.

They emerged from the mist as one wakes from a feverish dream—drenched in fog, muscles heavy, nerves taut to the breaking point.

Only the change in light alerted them: the whitish veil was slowly dissipating, revealing a more open area, a plateau with chaotic relief, strewn with standing stones and remnants of worn weapons.

A light, almost timid breeze slipped between the rusted blades.

Maggie took the lead, her boots scraping the debris, and nodded toward a rock formation: three massive blocks collapsed against each other, forming a sort of natural shelter. Not large enough to conceal an attack... but sufficient for a rest.

"We’ll set up camp here."

Dylan didn’t protest. His steps had become slower, heavier. The scant light filtered through the breaches in the sky, cold and gray, like a veiled eye.

Élisa, meanwhile, was already scanning the surroundings. Not just seeking shelter—but signs. Other traces. Of predators, of remnants left by those who had passed here before them.

They settled in silence, backs against the stones, without a fire.

The cold seeped into their bones, but better that than attracting the attention of a creature with a flame or a scent.

Dylan had sat down, leaning against the rock, eyes half-closed.

A long silence passed. Then Maggie murmured:

"Tomorrow... we begin the hunt."

No one responded, but all understood.

At dawn, they would plunge into the depths of the cemetery to hunt for anima gems, risking their lives against these demonic entities—all for a chance—a single chance—to pull Dylan away from what was gnawing at his soul.

Tonight, this shadowed nook between three broken stones would be their only light.

And outside, in the mist... the dead waited.

---

Dylan awoke in the gentle warmth of a calm morning.

The bed creaked slightly under his movements. A brocaded blanket, embroidered with pale lilies by hand, slid down his bare leg. He stretched with the languor of a body that did not suffer. His muscles were supple. No pain. No weight.

His eyelids lifted slowly.

The ceiling was of light wood, the beams worn by time, with their familiar small veins. A scent of soap, of warm ashes, floated in the air. And that music... that old music box, placed on the dresser near the window. Its gears creaked faintly, but the melody tinkled just enough to fill the room—a fragile tune, like a held breath.

He had not yet moved. His eyes remained fixed on the box.

The dancer turned.

A small wooden doll, hand-painted. Her pale pink dress opened like a flower frozen in mid-twirl. Tiny lace edged her arched arms. Her face, though motionless, seemed to smile—a smile a bit too wide, a bit too tight, but graceful.

And Dylan... no, the young girl on the bed finally rose.

Her bare feet touched the floor without a sound. She crossed the room with light steps, gliding her fingers along the edge of the table, brushing the wicker chair. She opened the wardrobe. The wood groaned faintly. A dress awaited her, carefully hung: an ivory fabric adorned with glass pearls, almost too beautiful for an ordinary day.

She put it on without thinking.

In front of the mirror, she sat down, placing her elbows with an almost studied grace. Her reflection smiled at her: a young girl with diaphanous skin, deep green eyes like damp moss, and red hair that she began to brush patiently, strand by strand. The brush rustled softly. She hummed, or perhaps it was the music box that continued the melody alone.

She was fourteen years old. And at that age, a girl had to be pretty, even if no one really came to look.

She smiled.

All this seemed natural to her. So familiar. She didn’t wonder why she was wearing this dress, nor why the mirror reflected this face. It was her, and that was all.

Then she stood up, picking up two buckets near the door. The wood was smooth under her fingers.

Today again, she had to fetch water from the well. And not keep mom waiting.