Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 167: New Encounter

The carriage moved at a slow, almost majestic pace, as if it ignored that it was rolling over the entrails of a sick city. Outside, the morning noises mingled: cries of merchants, the clatter of buckets against cobblestones, muffled quarrels from alleyways. And above all, the smell. That greasy, persistent smell, seeping through thick curtains and closed windows like a possessive old lover. The city, Martissant, didn’t let you go.

Opposite him, the man was still reading. Unperturbed. A black glove on one hand, the other holding the book open like a prayer. Dylan hadn’t managed to see the title — and at this point, it annoyed him almost as much as the silence.

He sighed inwardly and focused on the blurry landscape beyond the window. The carriage was climbing through increasingly wealthy districts. The cobblestones became more regular, the facades more arrogant. Clean windows, flower-adorned balconies, gates that closed a bit too quickly when the horses approached.

"I almost feel like a noble," he thought, a half-smile clinging to the corner of his lips.

His military trousers clashed with the decor. The shirt he borrowed from Jonas — too broad in the shoulders, but with a collar almost stiff — gave him the air of a spoiled child of some minor baron. A boy who had likely been sent to boarding school, then brought back to court once he’d calmed down. At least, that’s the role he enjoyed playing.

He had no weapon. At least, officially. He had kept his dagger, strapped to his leg, hidden under his boot’s leather. Just in case. The boots, for that matter... still stained with dried mud, split at the right seam, but still sturdy. Enough to pass if you didn’t look too closely.

And his hair... he noticed it, vaguely reflected in the window. His tight braids, slightly undone from nights without care. His mother would’ve had a fit. She’d have thrown a hairbrush and an insult at him at the same time.

"I’ve done worse," he thought, resting his elbow on the carriage’s door armrest.

The man’s silence was becoming almost provocative. Dylan glanced at him. Still the same posture. Book open. Face hidden. Not a word since they’d left.

He opened his mouth, just for the pleasure of breaking the silence:

"What are you reading?"

The black-gloved hand closed over the book. The man looked up. His gaze was just as lifeless as before, but polite, almost courteous.

"It’s not a text," he said. "It’s a list."

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "A list?"

"Of those who accepted."

A silence fell instantly, not just any silence. A true void.

Then the man added:

"And of those who refused."

Dylan stared at him for a moment.

Then he shifted slightly, legs still crossed, but looking less at ease. His smile had vanished, replaced by something calmer. More... strategic.

The carriage continued its route, climbing toward the heights, where the rooftops turned gold under the sun and the air pretended to smell better.

But to Dylan, the city would always carry the same scent. That of an animal being prepared for the hunt.

They didn’t take long to reach the gates of the Upper-Town.

One of those white, chalky walls, a bit too clean to be honest, rose before them, veined with discreet gold, guarded by two uniformed men, expressionless faces, rigid posture. Emblems sewn to their shoulders, clearly visible — a reminder that here, the world stood upright — or at least, pretended to.

But against all expectations, they didn’t stop. Not even an exchanged glance, not a hand signal.

As they approached, the gates opened.

Not slowly, and even less dramatically.

Just... naturally. As if they had sensed their arrival long before the echo of hooves on the stones.

Dylan raised an eyebrow, inwardly.

"So that’s what it’s like to have connections... Yesterday I was crawling through the sewers to get in. Today, the gates open like I’m some damned dignitary. What a wild change."

He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a red carpet unroll beneath the wheels. Instead, silence. A kind of uneasy respect born from indifference, not reverence.

They crossed the threshold.

And everything changed.

The air, first. Cleaner, drier. As if it had been filtered through an aristocrat’s nose before being allowed in. The noises too — fewer shouts, more murmurs, soft hoofbeats, politely closing doors.

Here, even the city spoke in hushed tones.

The streets widened. The houses turned into estates. Each balcony looked ready to host a tragedy or a speech, and every window gleamed like an eye polished by power.

Dylan sank deeper into the leather seat, playing the part fully. Relaxed arms, leg crossed, vacant gaze.

But inside, everything sparked to life.

He could feel the eyes, even without seeing them.

Shadows behind curtains. Figures frozen on balconies. Judgments whispered into half-empty teacups.

The carriage turned right, down an alley lined with statues whose names he didn’t know — heroic figures with vacant stares, swords raised toward some imaginary sky.

Then it slowed, and finally stopped in front of a large building of pale stone. Simple, yet tall. Discreet, yet rooted. Not quite a palace, not quite a manor. But something in-between. Like everything here — nothing was ever quite what it seemed.

And that was the problem.

The man calmly closed his book, tucked it under his arm, then looked up at Dylan.

"We’ve arrived."

Dylan straightened, smoothed an invisible crease on his shirt, and took a slow breath.

"Let’s go shake some hands... or sign some pacts," he thought.

Then he stepped out of the carriage.

And set foot into the lion’s maw.

Inside, the air smelled of fresh linen, damp stone, and a discreet, woody scent, almost medicinal. Everything was in its place — and likely being watched. Not a speck of dust. Not a single piece of furniture out of line. White walls, lined with gray molding, designed more to impress than to comfort.

Dylan observed everything. Not to admire — the situation didn’t allow for that. It was more about taking note.

Because everything here was a set piece.

Marble floors veined like tree roots. Carved columns. Drapes falling just right. Silence curated to perfection. Even the beams of light through the skylights seemed measured like stage perfume.

It was that kind of place.

No gaudy gold. No garish red carpets. No. Here, luxury whispered. Refined. Controlled. No need to flaunt. The kind of silence you pay dearly for — and where the most dangerous noise is the absence of words.

Dylan wasn’t surprised.

He hadn’t been born in a place like this, no. But he came from another world. Not necessarily better — just more advanced. More twisted. And power, no matter the setting, always carried the same scent: performance.

So no, he wasn’t dazzled.

But he remained alert.

His guide led him down a corridor flanked by closed doors, until they reached a vaulted room. Empty. No furniture, no decoration... but not devoid of intention.

A circle of tiered steps. A dome above, pierced by an oculus that dropped a shaft of light dead center. Like a target.

A forum, a theater — or perhaps... a trap.

The man stopped at the edge of the steps, turned toward him.

"Wait here."

Then he turned and walked away, book still under his arm, his steps barely echoing on the stone.

Dylan was alone.

His boots made a soft, muffled sound on the polished floor as he descended the first few steps. He stopped halfway down. Far enough from the center not to appear presumptuous, but low enough not to linger by the exit like an uneasy thief.

He scanned the room.

No furniture. No chairs. Nothing to write with. Nothing to eat.

Just the echo of footsteps that hadn’t arrived yet. And that fixed, unforgiving light pouring down almost onto his shoulders.

Dylan squinted. Not to see better — but to think better.

He knew rooms like this were meant for watching before speaking. A first test. A first unveiling. They wanted to see him, down there, alone, exposed, waiting. To see how he’d handle discomfort.

"So this is it, huh? A bloodless arena. A trap to shatter the ego."

But he didn’t bite. He stepped forward and finally sat at the edge, one foot dangling, the other folded under him, his right arm resting atop it.

He let out a slow exhale and waited.

Not calmly. Not nervously either.

Just... like a man who knows that every minute here comes at a price.

He felt the change in the air first.

No sound. No tremor in the stone. Just an impression — immediate, brutal — like the oxygen had thickened, slowed down around him. His nape stiffened.

And then they entered.

Six of them. Silent. Strangely coordinated, though they didn’t walk in formation. Not in uniform, not costumed either — each wore what seemed to suit them, but never dipped into the ridiculous. A complete absence of pretense... and that was precisely what made their presence so overwhelming.

They descended the steps at their own pace, as if no gaze could ever judge them.

The first, a man with short, bleached hair, a coat open over a lean but wiry torso. He moved like a tired pack leader — the kind you’d still follow, regardless. An unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth.

To his right, a woman with pale, almost white eyes, wearing a faded spring dress, wrinkled like she’d torn it from a clothesline straight out of bed. She wore no shoes. Her bare feet slid over the marble as if it were grass.

Behind her came a towering figure with skin the color of steel-gray. Skin dark, tinged with lead, and long, nearly translucent ears sweeping back like folded wings. A thin black line stretched from the corner of his mouth to his temple — a tattoo or scar, impossible to tell. His eyes were slitted like a cat’s.

"Not human," Dylan thought. "Not entirely, anyway."

The fourth, more discreet, wore an oversized tunic and a wool cap despite the heat. He walked with a slight drag to one foot, his face half-hidden under an uneven beard.

But what drew the most attention was his aura. That soft but constant pressure, as if his very existence forced the air to adjust itself around him.

Beside him, a girl with a wild, uneven mess of hair — short in places, long in others, like she’d hacked it off with a knife. She wore just enough not to get arrested — a sleeveless leather vest, canvas shorts, arms marked with scars. She smiled. A wide smile, not cruel... but dangerous.

And lastly, the sixth. The only one who looked remotely like Dylan — physically, at least. Young, dark-skinned, with a neutral expression frozen on his face. But his eyes were in constant motion. Scanning the room. Reading Dylan. Reading the others.

They settled in without a word. Some stood. Others sat on the steps like it was their living room. Natural. Confident. Not arrogant, no — just... right where they belonged.

Dylan felt his heartbeat slow slightly. He didn’t know if they came as allies or judges. But one thing was clear:

They were Awakened.

The real kind. Not like him — who barely grasped the essentials of a new world — but those who truly knew it. Lived it. And carried the experience in their bones.

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