Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 82: Forbidden Words

Dylan stepped out of the house, closing the wooden door behind him. It creaked softly on its hinges, just like every morning.

The autumn sun had already opened up in the sky, pale and golden, dusting the slate rooftops with a gentle light. The air was crisp, carried by a light wind that swept up armfuls of dead leaves, dancing through the alleys like whispered secrets.

The city lived — vibrant, murmuring.

The church bells rang out the half-hour with a voice both clear and deep. In the distance, the clock tower in the market district beat the rhythm of morning. Hooves clattered against cobblestones, pulling carts filled with fabric, apples, steaming baskets. Soldiers’ boots clicked in cadence, crossing paths with children running and laughing, a loaf of bread under one arm.

Dylan descended the porch steps, carefully carrying his bucket — two fine hands, measured movements, back straight, just like Mama had taught him. His dress brushed the stone, the fabric breathing with each step.

He liked this neighborhood.

The open shutters, the smell of fresh bread, the cloths hung between windows... There was peace here. Something simple, something right. An ordinary morning in an ordinary town. But everything felt too right.

As he crossed a small square, he spotted other girls gathered near the well.

They were laughing, passing around a letter, commenting on a new poster nailed to the wall — one for the traveling theatre troupe that had arrived two days ago.

One of them wore a blue dress a bit too light for the season. Another held a sleeping cat in a basket. They talked about their mothers, a boy they’d seen at the bakery, a neighbor who’d fallen ill, what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Simple things. Natural.

Dylan walked up quietly, head slightly lowered out of shyness — or habit. One of the girls looked up and smiled at him.

"You look pretty today, Dylan," she said gently. "You should come with us this afternoon. They say a cohort of Awakened will be visiting the city soon. If we’re lucky, maybe they’ll stay, swear loyalty to the lord... and then we wouldn’t have to fear the demon beasts anymore."

He opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out.

His heart beat a little too fast.

He simply nodded, not knowing why a part of him hesitated.

"The Awakened prefer staying in the capital or exploring the occupied zones," said another girl, more disinterested. "I doubt they’d stay here, in a town lost in the middle of nowhere."

Dylan lowered his eyes, staring at the well’s stone rim.

His reflection floated on the clear water. A young girl with a soft face, red hair, and green eyes. She was smiling.

And for some reason, that smile chilled him to the bone.

"But still?" said the first girl again, her voice lighter. "Let’s stay positive. If they’re coming here, it’s because they were sent by nobles from the capital. Maybe they’ve been tasked with dealing with that orc village that’s been terrorizing our lands every winter."

"Oh, right, those damned orcs," the other added with a shrug. "I’ve never seen one in my life. Every winter, they shut the whole city and forbid anyone from leaving. What if it’s all just stories? Something the lords made up to keep people from celebrating the Witches’ Festival?"

At those words, Dylan looked up. A strange feeling rose in his throat. He opened his mouth, hesitant.

"The Witches’ Festival?"

A silence fell. Light, but long enough to be uncomfortable.

The girls stared at him, as if he’d just asked whether the sun rose in the east. One of them frowned.

"You don’t know what that is?"

She giggled, but her eyes stayed on him, a bit too long.

"It’s when everyone gathers in the square, dresses up as witches and does all sorts of things. Bonfires, shadow games, ancient tales... But the Church forbids it. They say the Awakened are blasphemies — mistakes that defy the gods."

"Shhh!" hissed the girl with the cat. "You’re too loud. If the paladins hear us, we’re dead."

But it was already too late.

A grating sound rose nearby, dragging across the stone like scraped metal. Then a sharp clack. Another. Footsteps.

Slowly, the girls froze. A shadow appeared at the end of the alley — long and dark, cast against the cobblestones by the veiled sun.

Dylan turned his head.

Two figures had just stepped into view, rounding the corner. Draped in long coats of yellowed white, trimmed with dirty gold thread. Their faces were hidden behind expressionless helms. They carried halberds — but not military weapons. More like execution tools than spears.

The closer one raised his hand.

"You mentioned the Festival?"

His voice was calm. But it carried — as if the stone itself had heard it.

The girls didn’t move. The cat leapt from the basket and vanished beneath a cart.

Dylan felt his heart racing. He had the distinct feeling he’d made a mistake. But he no longer knew which one.

And deep inside, something ancient stirred... a familiar unease... as if he’d lived this moment before.

---

The bells rang again.

But it wasn’t the cheerful chime of morning.

It was a death knell. Slow. Heavy. Inevitable.

Dylan blinked.

The light had changed.

He was no longer near the well. Not even in the alley. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

He was on the great square. The sky had turned to lead, heavy with an unfallen storm. In front of him, his friends — the same ones who had been laughing moments ago — were tied to blackened wooden posts, arms bound behind their backs, hair tangled by fear and wind.

They were crying. Or staring into nothing. One of them was trembling so hard the rope quivered against the wood.

The crowd had formed a circle around them. Dense. Silent.

Mothers screamed:

"She’s just a child!"

"Take me instead!" others cried.

But others... just stood there, heads bowed, lips sealed by fear. By cowardice. By survival instinct.

And among the crowd, already broken children, sitting or kneeling, eyes hollow, drugged or beaten until they could no longer scream. They would die without a word.

Dylan stood among them, watching.

Eyes wide. Shaking.

His heart slammed in his chest, but no sound came from his throat.

The paladins stepped forward.

Their torches lit one by one, with a dry crackle — like breaking bones.

Their voices were gentle. Prophetic.

"These are not children."

"They are the fruits of sin. The seeds of blasphemy. The hosts of corruption."

"We are only purifying their souls."

And the first torch reached the straw at the foot of the posts.

"No... no, no, no..." Dylan murmured, barely audible.

But it was his friend — the one who’d smiled at him that morning — who burned first.

Her screams tore through the crowd.

Then another. And another.

And the fire rose.

So did the cries.

Until the entire city became a chorus of agony.

Then, the rupture.

The explosion.

A dull sound. A shockwave. A brutal blast that knocked several paladins to the ground.

Houses were ripped open by invisible blades.

Soldiers began to scream.

Fire rained down from the sky.

And amidst the ashes, an Awakened crashed to the ground, wielding a living sword wrapped in spectral flames.

The paladin commander stepped forward, a golden aura forming around him.

They lunged at each other — steel versus shadow, spells bursting in flashes of light and blood. Bodies piled up. Innocent or guilty, child or executioner — the Awakened killed everyone.

Dylan screamed.

Or thought he did.

He hadn’t fled. He had stayed, frozen.

The fire was on him. His dress burned. His skin cracked, melted.

But it wasn’t the pain that stole his soul.

It was seeing his friends go before him.

Seeing his parents fall, slaughtered in the crowd by one of the Awakened who no longer saw anything.

Not the faces.

Not the cries.

And Dylan burned. Slowly. Until he could no longer feel his legs. Until death brushed against him...

But it didn’t come.

Like a cruel joke from the world itself, rain began to fall. Cold and heavy. It doused the pyre with a harsh hiss.

Dylan lay there. Half-charred.

Eyes fixed on the sky, unable to cry.

And that’s when she appeared.

A girl, no older than twelve.

Dirty. Malnourished. Her black hair clung to her hollow cheeks.

Her torn dress barely clung to her thin frame. She was covered in wounds, scars, bruises that had never healed.

She walked up without a word, knelt before him.

And stared.

Her eyes were not human. A deep black that refused even the reflection of the world.

"You’ve suffered enough, haven’t you?"

"This world... it was never kind to us."

"Come into me. Give me your pain, your tears. And rest."

Her voice was soft. Tired. Like that of a mother comforting... or of poison slipping in without pain.

And the world faded to black.