Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 88: Joking Aside

Dylan charged.

His feet struck the ground in silence, muffled by black grass and the ashes of the old world. He kept a low profile, his notched machete gripped tightly in his hand, eyes locked on the moving beast.

Maggie ran, swift and efficient, her silhouette slipping between the gravestones and ruins like a perfectly thrown decoy. And the creature, all of it, barreled toward her. Its guttural breathing left a harsh trail in its wake. Its claws scraped against stone, and its hooves echoed like drums in a macabre melody.

But Dylan wasn’t looking at Maggie.

He was watching the space.

Reading the trajectory.

The beast was picking up speed, but it ran in a straight line. Too confident. Charging like a furious ram, convinced brute force would be enough.

"And I..." Dylan thought, "I guess I’m the rock in its path."

He cut across a circle of shattered stones, vaulted over a collapsed slab, circled a leaning pillar. He felt the rhythm in his legs. Adrenaline sang in his veins. But his mind remained clear.

Three meters from the beast, he stopped cold, pressing against a gravestone, waiting. He felt the ground vibrate beneath his feet. Closed his eyes for a beat.

"One... two..."

"Now!"

He lunged.

Bursting from cover with feral speed, he swung his machete through the air, aiming for the back of the right knee—right where the joint looked exposed, between plates of bone and muscle.

The blade bit into flesh.

Not deep—not enough—but enough to make the creature scream.

A harsh cry tore through the air, more rage than pain.

It whipped around in one motion, its whole body drawn toward Dylan, forgetting Maggie like she no longer mattered.

"Good. Come at me," Dylan thought, his gray eyes locked on the beast.

He stepped back twice, his boots sliding slightly on the damp grass. He couldn’t fall. Not now. His breath was short, his gaze hooked to the creature facing him—fangs gleaming, arms raised, ready to rip him apart.

But just before the creature could pounce—a whistle cut through the air.

A dagger flew from above, perfectly thrown, and buried itself in the beast’s right flank. It screamed, its charge broken by the blow.

Dylan didn’t wait. He charged again, like a starving dancer, blade in hand, ready to strike.

And then Maggie returned.

Not walking. Not yelling. She burst in.

A mass of muscle, blood, and fury. Her axe already raised, hair tangled, eyes hard as stone. She threw herself into the fray with a silent rage—like a contained storm finally unleashed.

Dylan barely saw her shadow pass. Just the motion, the wind, then the impact.

The axe struck the beast’s flank with a dull crack, like wood splintering under lightning. It left a wide, deep gash, open to the bone, and blood sprayed in a dark arc, splashing across Maggie, who didn’t slow down one bit.

She growled—low, guttural, animal.

The creature tried to turn on her, clawed arms raised. But she didn’t retreat. She circled it—fluid, feral—like a starving wolf defending her young. She gave no quarter. Not to it. Not even to herself.

A hoof slammed into her hip—she staggered. But instead of fleeing, she bit her lower lip, and in the same breath counterattacked. Her axe came down on the beast’s left shoulder, and it howled again, its massive body shuddering from the blow.

"Die!" she spat, her voice warped by the effort.

But that wasn’t enough to bring it down.

The creature stumbled back, disoriented, looking for an escape—and that’s when Élisa struck again.

A second dagger, out of nowhere, sank into its neck. Not strong enough to be fatal—but enough to slow it... make it falter.

Dylan charged once more.

He felt heat rise up his spine, a burning fire pulsing in time with his heart. His legs moved before thought, his body pure motion, driven by the momentum of battle.

The creature, already torn open in a dozen places, tried to turn to face him with what strength it had left.

He slid beneath its raised arms, diving into its shadow, machete gripped in both hands. He aimed high. The joint. Right there—between the shoulder and the grotesquely swollen bicep.

And he struck.

The blade split thick flesh, scraped bone, buried itself in sinew tough as stretched leather. A beastly roar shattered the air. The creature screamed, its voice shaking with pain it could no longer control.

Dylan didn’t stop.

He pivoted, brought the machete around in a circular swing, almost part of the same movement, and finished what he had begun.

The monster’s arm came off clean.

A black torrent gushed from the gaping wound—a thick, boiling rain that splattered across Dylan’s face. He leapt back, eyes wide, wiping the viscous fluid with his forearm. It was no blood of man.

The creature howled so loud it sounded like lungs tearing. It teetered, then collapsed to its knees.

It clutched its ruined shoulder with the one hand it had left, claws digging into torn flesh, as if sheer will alone could hold itself together. Its cries no longer sounded like pain—they were broken growls, twisted by agony, with a breath so ragged it seemed to come from some bottomless pit.

But its eyes... or rather those bottomless black orbs sunken into its deformed skull... suddenly flared with something new.

Not fear.

Not pleading.

But rage.

Pure. Simple. Bestial.

A primal fury, screaming and absolute, so overwhelming it drowned out the instinct to survive. Born from humiliation, from wounds, from death itself. The creature jolted upright, ready to strike one last time, even with one hand, even on its knees, even at death’s door.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Because Maggie’s axe came down the next second.

Vertical. Final.

A crack echoed—clean, brutal. Like a tree being felled.

The blade drove deep into the top of the beast’s skull, and for the first time, there was no scream. No roar. Just... silence. A break.

The body trembled. Then collapsed, crushed into the ground in a cloud of dust and mist.

Maggie stayed still for a moment, hunched over the corpse, panting, the axe still lodged in its head.

Then she pulled it free with a sharp tug.

She said nothing.

Behind her, Dylan was still wiping black blood from his face, gasping, his mind ringing with tension.

He looked at her.

And despite himself, he thought:

"She’s... a monster too."

A monster they’d managed to keep on their side.

At least, for now.