Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 192: Naked, Afraid, and Armed with a Stick (literally)

On the other side of the stone, muffled curses flared up, followed by the frantic sound of boots fleeing down other corridors. They had passed.

But in the secret passage, the silence was even heavier. Dylan strained his ears. Not a breath, not a scratch. Only the dull thud of his own heartbeat and the rustling of his too-quick breathing. The air was still, thick like damp velvet. He felt a massive presence behind him, warm and animal, and the smell of sweat and rusty iron that Julius exuded.

"Don’t just stand there, bag of bones," Julius growled, his voice low and vibrating in the tight space. "Move. Slowly. The walls have ears here. And other things."

Dylan reached a hand forward, feeling his way through the dark. The wall was rough, wet, coated with a viscous substance that clung to his fingers. The ground sloped slightly downward, uneven, littered with what he guessed were debris—or bones. Every step was a gamble. The darkness was total, crushing. He had never known such blackness; it felt like the very air swallowed light, however faint.

"Where does it lead?" he whispered, his throat tight.

"Where they won’t look," Julius replied simply. His voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere in the dark. "An old drainage shaft. Forgotten. Except by those who know where to forget."

They went on like that for a stretch of time impossible to measure. Ten minutes? An hour? The silence and darkness twisted perception. Dylan felt fatigue creeping in, insidious. The effects of the stigma’s purification, the constant tension, the adrenaline fading... His legs grew heavy. Once, his foot slipped on something slick. He barely caught himself, heart hammering, fingers clinging to a protrusion in the wall. Julius said nothing, but Dylan felt his hot breath at his neck for a moment, a reminder of his looming presence.

Then—change. The air felt slightly less stagnant. A faint scent reached his nose: earthy, almost vegetal, tinged with something fresher... rot.

"We’re close," Julius murmured, likely sensing his hesitation. "Get ready to climb down."

Dylan groped ahead. The ground suddenly stopped. He crouched, reached out into empty space. Nothing. A hole. A shaft?

"How deep?" he asked, trying to mask the tension in his voice.

"Deep enough. But not fatal for an Awakened. Unless you land headfirst." A muffled chuckle in the dark. "Climb down blind. Feet and hands against the walls. It’s rough—you’ll find grips. I’ll follow."

Dylan inhaled deeply. Trust. Always trust instinct, necessity. He turned, back to the void, and began lowering himself into it. His bare feet searched for protrusions. The wall was indeed rough, sometimes covered in thick, cold moss, other times just raw stone.

He descended slowly, methodically, every muscle tense, every sense sharpened by the open void below. The scrape of his skin against stone was the only sound, amplified in the shaft’s silence.

He counted holds. Ten... fifteen... twenty... The descent felt endless. Then, his feet touched something soft and firm. Dirt? Piled debris? He steadied himself.

"Down there?" Julius’s voice came, muffled from above.

"Yeah. On... something."

"Perfect. Move aside."

Dylan pressed himself to the shaft wall. Moments later, a heavy mass thudded beside him with a dull sound and a grunt. Julius had simply dropped down, landing with surprising grace for his size.

"There," he exhaled, standing up with a crack of his shoulders. "Now it gets interesting."

In front of them, the darkness thinned slightly. A faint, flickering grayish light filtered in from a wider opening a few meters ahead. It dimly lit the outline of a larger tunnel, low-ceilinged, the floor littered with indistinct objects and puddles of stagnant water. The smell of rot and damp earth was stronger here, almost physical.

But that wasn’t what made Dylan freeze.

It was the sound.

A slow, steady scratching, coming from the shadows, right at the edge of the gray light. Like claws on damp stone. Then another. And another still. Pairs of tiny yellowish glowing dots flickered to life in the darkness ahead. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

"Ah," Julius said, his voice suddenly stripped of all humor. He picked up a thick, half-rotted piece of wood at his feet, spinning it slowly in his massive hand. "The tenants. Forgot how many of them were home tonight." He glanced sideways at Dylan, a wild glint in his eyes catching the faint light. "Ready for a bit of spring cleaning, my hero? ’Cause this secret passage... you’re gonna have to earn it."

Dylan took a step back. His eyes locked onto the shadows. Sweat clung to his brow, and his legs trembled despite himself. He had nothing left. No energy. No essence. Even his stigma—so reluctant to die—seemed curled deep inside him like a wounded beast.

Julius stepped in front without a word. He positioned himself between Dylan and the horde, his broad shoulders blocking part of the yellow glow that swarmed at the end of the tunnel.

"Never thought I’d see the day I let a naked man follow me around like this," he muttered with a mocking smirk.

Dylan exhaled through his nose. In another life, he might’ve laughed.

The giant adjusted his grip on the piece of wood, holding it in both hands, palms open, body slightly turned. There was nothing random about it. He had the posture of a man who knew. Who had struck before—out of necessity or taste—and would strike again.

Dylan squinted, observing him despite the rising tension. "You know how to use a sword, at least?"

Julius gave a low, muffled chuckle.

"Just enough to teach you, bag of bones."

His massive frame, feet planted firm, stood like an old wall that no storm had ever managed to shake. His breathing was slow, steady. A deep, stable rhythm. As if he were preparing to sculpt a block of marble—not hack through living flesh.

The chunk of wood spun gently in his hand. Once. Twice. Then stilled. His grip tightened.

A paw scraped. A shape burst from the shadows, claws extended, jaws wide, mouth full of teeth as long as fingers.

A lean, gnarled creature, dog-sized but hunched like a hyena, with slick black skin glistening like oil and striped with pulsating pustules.

Julius didn’t move.

The creature’s cry split the air—a sound between a guttural rasp and a furnace hiss—but it was cut short by a sharp crack: Julius, in one smooth motion, crushed it to the floor, his makeshift weapon striking with surgical precision.

The skull burst like an overripe fruit. The wood creaked in his grip, but did not break.