Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 93: An Old Man’s Burden

Dylan woke up, his body numb, as heavy as the stones he walked over each day. The fatigue of a day’s labor had overtaken him. At his age, he should have retired long ago. But he lived alone with his wife—a gentle woman who couldn’t have children—and he had to keep providing for them. No one else would do it.

It was late. The sun was already low in the sky, casting long, pale shadows between the trunks. It must have been around five o’clock. He had given in to a short nap, right there amidst the wood he had gathered. The logs were tightly bound with a rope, grouped into a single pile, easy to transport. Well... more or less.

His body trembled. His arms were heavy. But he had resigned himself: even if it took all day, he would make the round trip. He took breaks when needed. He was no longer ashamed to slow down.

But this last nap... had hit him harder than the others.

He straightened up slowly, a hand on his lower back, and glanced at the sky. What he saw tightened his throat.

Time had passed. Far too much.

The sun had almost set. And here, in these woods... the night was never peaceful.

He stood up with an awkward jolt, hastily tying the ropes of his load.

If he didn’t hurry back to the village, he would end up like all the others. Devoured in the dark by a demonic beast from the area. And this time, no one would be left to tell his story.

"Anyway, my little Raviel would be devastated. I can’t inflict such sorrow on her," he muttered, tightening the knots and slowly hoisting the pile of wood onto his back.

His legs bent slightly under the weight, but he held firm. His breath rasped a bit in his throat—a dry cough, stifled. He straightened up, knees slightly bent, then began to walk.

Step by step, he ventured onto the path that wound between the trees. The ground was uneven, dead leaves concealed the roots. He had to watch every step. Falling here, now, was out of the question. He wouldn’t have the strength to get up with the wood on his back.

"I hope she remembered to bring in the herbs... or that she hasn’t forgotten the pot on the fire." He chuckled softly, half to muster courage, half to mask a persistent worry.

Raviel had always been dreamy. But her smile... her smile was enough to make one forget the aches, the years, even the fear.

So he walked.

Despite the cold starting to bite his fingers.

Despite the shadows lengthening, animated by a wind without source.

Despite the fact, too, that he no longer quite remembered the way.

The wind had changed.

Dylan sensed it before he understood it. The air no longer had quite the same smell. Less humus, less sap, more... iron. A metallic scent, warm, floating like an invisible warning.

He slowed his pace, frowning.

The wood on his back was heavy, but that was no longer what bothered him. It was something else. A silence too perfect. As if the birds had stopped singing. As if the forest itself was holding its breath.

He took a few more steps... then stopped short.

She was there.

Lying in the middle of the path, in the heart of a halo of fading light, a little girl. Lying on her side, belly against the moss, her black hair scattered around her head. Her dress—or what was left of it—torn, soiled with dirt and dried blood.

A chilling shiver ran down his spine.

He dropped the wood with a dry crash, rushed toward her.

"Hey... hey little one...!"

He fell to his knees beside her. His hand hesitated a moment above the frail shoulder, then gently rested. She didn’t react.

He carefully turned her onto her back.

Her breathing was weak, but still there. Her belly bore a long gash, not deep, but dirty. He could already see signs of infection. Scratches, perhaps. Or worse.

His heart clenched.

"Good heavens..."

She couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

How had a child ended up here, alone, in such a dangerous forest? No nearby village had reported a disappearance—he was certain. And yet, she was there. As if fallen from a too-real dream.

Or from a nightmare not yet over.

Dylan didn’t think. He was already acting.

He slid one arm under the girl’s back, the other under her legs, and lifted her against him. She was light. Far too light. A barely warm breath against his neck. Her head fell limply on his shoulder, and he felt the moisture of her blood soak into his shirt.

He stood up as best he could. His back protested. His knees too. But he no longer cared.

He turned on his heels and started running.

The pile of wood, though so precious, remained behind him, abandoned in the middle of the path, still tied. He didn’t even think to look back.

He ran.

His boots struck roots, slipped on wet stones. He pressed the little girl against him as much to protect her as to ensure she didn’t fade away. That she didn’t disappear. That she remained real.

The village was still far—a good thirty minutes at a brisk pace—but he had no choice.

"Hold on..." he murmured between breaths, his voice hoarse with dust and panic. "Hold on, little one..."

But she didn’t respond.

And in the air around them, the forest seemed to thicken. As if the path lengthened, curved, closed in. As if something followed his steps... or preceded them.

But Dylan saw nothing but the pale silhouette against his chest.

And he ran.

The village finally appeared between two rows of trees, at the edge of a fallow field. A modest hamlet, but lively. Stone houses with dark roofs, an inn at the center, a small square swept by winds, and the familiar silhouettes of neighbors who knew too well the harshness of the world.

Dylan passed the last barrier like a gust, breathless, legs on fire. He still held the little girl against him, more inert than ever. Her blood had soaked his sleeve up to the shoulder. He felt the warmth escaping from her—and that warmth was diminishing.

A child saw him first.

Then another.

And in an instant, the whole village seemed to recognize him.

"It’s Dylan!" someone shouted.

"He’s carrying a child!"

"But what the..."

Voices surged, footsteps gathered. Women, men, kids, all rushed toward him. And he, without stopping, eyes wide, heart pounding to the breaking point, shouted in turn, his voice torn:

"Help her, please!"

He nearly fell to his knees in the middle of the square. Arms still wrapped around the girl, trembling.

Hands reached out, grabbed her, gently lifted the little one. An old man—a former herbalist—immediately gave orders.

"Bring her to my place! Quickly, let’s clean the wound!"

"Prepare hot water!" a woman called. "And compresses!"

"She’s still breathing!" someone shouted, checking her pulse.

Dylan stayed there for a moment, frozen, his hands stained red, chest heaving, mind still unable to grasp it all.

He watched her disappear into the crowd that opened for her, as if the entire village had started to beat with one heart. Then someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

It was his neighbor, a stocky man with arms knotted like stumps.

"Come, Dylan. You need to catch your breath. We’ll take care of her, I promise you."

But Dylan didn’t respond right away.

He no longer looked at the faces around him.

He looked at his hands.

And in his hands, the still-warm blood of a stranger.