Wonderful Insane World

Three days.

That was all that had passed, and already it felt like an eternity. Three days since the reconnaissance teams had left. Three days in which Élisa had found herself—without ever truly choosing it—bearing a weight that exceeded her wounded flesh.

She was the only one still able to fight—more or less, at least enough for the others to see her as a pillar. So they had given her that responsibility, and she had accepted it, without a word.

The camp, however, had seen no major assault. Shadows prowled, tested the defenses, but nothing crossed the boundary—nothing that could truly shatter their fragile balance. Those skirmishes, far from exhausting her, had almost been a blessing. Through them, Élisa had gathered anima gems—small, yes, but enough to feed her spiritual core. Each absorption purged a little more of the impurities in her body, stitched together her wounds, restored breath to the inner machine that pain had slowed.

The other team leaders had already returned. On the first day, one had been forced to turn back: too few men, the risk too great. They retreated, shame burning on their faces, but alive. On the second day, Tonar and his group came back. The zone they had scouted showed no trace of Pilaf's forces. An absence which, far from reassuring, only deepened the suspicion. That left Zirel.

It was up to him and his squad to confirm—or shatter once and for all—that gnawing dread.

But now. Three days had passed. Three days, and no word. Not a signal, not a silhouette, not even a whisper of their return.

Élisa knew: this silence weighed heavier than any attack.

She finally turned away from the makeshift ramparts. The camp still breathed fatigue; the smoke of the fires clung to clothes and nerves alike. She walked to the place where Tonar usually stood, near the central tent, as though he had sworn never to stray too far from it.

"Still nothing from Count Martissant?" she asked bluntly.

Her tone was sharper than she had intended, but fatigue was already gnawing at her manners.

Tonar raised his eyes, his face unreadable, then shook his head.

"No word," he said. "But don't worry… stubborn as he is, he won't give up. He'll make sure help comes. Even if he has to force it down their throats."

Élisa gave a slow nod, though her jaw remained tight. Maggie, lying in the tent, still burned with fever. One of the pioneers, one of the first to fight for them—reduced to silence by wounds that would not close. If the Count delayed much longer, then Maggie…

She clenched her fists and cut the thought short.

"And Zirel?" she asked, lower now, as though even the name carried too much weight in the already tense air.

A pause. Tonar's eyes narrowed—not with panic, but as if a shadow slipped across his usual confidence.

"Nothing," he admitted. "Still nothing."

Élisa held his gaze. No need for words: she had seen the hesitation, that tiny falter in his voice. She could recognize doubt.

"You're worried too," she whispered.

Tonar looked away.

"Zirel… he can handle himself. He and I are cut from the same wood. His arm is no weaker than mine, his blade dances like mine. But…"

He trailed off. His hand brushed absently along the scabbard of his sword.

"But if he's found something he couldn't handle… then I doubt even I could."

Silence thickened, filled only by the distant sounds of sentinels and the steady breathing of flames. Élisa felt her chest tighten—not from fear, but from that brutal lucidity that eats away at the proudest warriors: if Zirel wasn't coming back, it meant they faced something beyond their ordinary world.

A cry split the air. Not human. Too raw, too hungry.

Then came the echo of running feet, the sudden shouts of alarm from the guards.

Élisa and Tonar exchanged a glance—no words needed. Almost in unison, they tore through the tent's flap.

At the southern edge of the camp, a shape was already bounding through the brush. A long, muscular body, half-hyena, half-serpent, its maw gaping with two rows of teeth. Behind it, two more burst forth, smaller but no less ravenous.

"Take cover!" Tonar bellowed to the guards.

The nearest soldiers fell back, their spears too fragile. But Élisa was already veering left, her spear hissing as it slid free of its sheath.

The largest beast lunged straight for the first circle of firelight—where a wounded man stumbled out, dazed. Élisa surged forward, her boots biting into the dirt. Her spear split the air, intercepting the snapping jaws. A brutal crash, the crack of bone. The beast staggered back, startled, before spitting a viscous drool that hissed as it hit the ground.

"Back!" Élisa ordered, shoving the wounded man behind her.

Tonar had not slowed. His massive frame plowed forward, his sword carving a wide arc that cleaved into the flank of the second beast. Black blood sprayed, splattering the earth. The creature shrieked and writhed, but Tonar finished the swing with a swift, merciless stroke that snapped its spine.

The third, quicker, had already circled wide. It lunged toward the corner where civilians huddled, terrified. Élisa pivoted, eyes locking on it. Her arm lifted, heart racing faster than thought. She hurled her spear—a desperate, instinctive throw. The blade spun through the air and buried itself deep in the beast's throat.

A wet gargle, then the body crumpled in the dust.

Silence returned in fragments, as though the camp itself was holding its breath. Only the moans of a wounded man and the crackle of the torches remained.

Tonar wiped his blade with a flick.

"Scavengers," he muttered. "Drawn to the flesh. Nothing more."

Élisa, breath ragged, gripped the shaft of her weapon still lodged in the corpse. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her eyes burned with a resolute fire.

"Nothing more," she repeated. "But if they keep coming like this, sooner or later, it won't be 'nothing.'"

Tonar studied her. He knew she was right. Each attack was only a prelude, a test. And one day, the shadow hiding behind these hordes would step forward itself.

Élisa tugged her spear free. The flesh tore with a wet sound, black blood dripping from the blade. She shook off the gore, then crouched beside the still-warm carcass. Her gloved fingers dug between its scales, between bulging veins, until she felt the familiar vibration.

A greenish glow ripped itself free from the carcass in a final spasm. The anima gem pulsed faintly, fragile but alive. Élisa clutched it in her palm, a shiver coursing through her nerves. A small stone, a meager consolation—but every fragment mattered. Every fragment pushed her body's limits a little further.

A few steps away, Tonar bent over the beast he had slain. His blade had carved a deep gash through its flank, and from the wound he pulled another gem, darker, almost opaque. He rolled it between his calloused fingers, weighing it, before slipping it into a leather pouch.

Élisa came closer, still holding hers tightly. She stood beside him, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve.

"I'm getting sick of these attacks," she muttered, voice low but sharp. "It's like they're testing us. These beasts… they're getting stronger. As if someone were throwing them at us as fodder."

Tonar lifted his gaze. The torchlight etched deep lines into his face, tracing the scar across his temple. His eyes were not surprised. He had thought the same; she only had to look into his pupils to see it.

He didn't answer right away. His silence was heavy, more unsettling than any confirmation. Then, slowly, he slid his sword back into its sheath.

"If it really is a test," he said at last, "then someone's keeping notes on our weaknesses."

The night wind snapped a canvas overhead. The shadows of the wounded, gathered near the fire, still trembled. None dared break the silence that followed.

Élisa tightened her grip around the gem. In her palm, it felt heavier than stone. It carried an unseen menace.

She weighed the gem a moment longer, as though torn between keeping it or casting it far into the night. But the truth was, she needed it. Every fiber of her body screamed for it. Her wounds, hastily stitched, were nothing but flesh disguised as whole. Her breath, at times, unraveled, as if her lungs remembered they had almost stopped. Without these stones, she was nothing but a body on borrowed time.

So, with a firm motion, she pressed the gem against her chest. The vibration coursed through her gloves, her skin, down her veins. Her spiritual core, buried deep within, opened like a wound forced to breathe.

The heat was brutal. At first a bite, then a burn that made her clench her teeth. Slowly, the stone dissolved inside her, becoming flow. It was acrid, metallic, like swallowing liquid fire. Her eyes closed in spite of herself. Behind her lids, she saw the impurities in her body twist, shatter into gray filaments that vanished into nothing. Her muscles hummed, as if invisible strings were being tuned to a sharper pitch.

When she opened her eyes again, her breath was steadier. The pain was still there, but clearer, framed, as if it belonged to another body.

Tonar had watched her in silence. His own gem, darker and weaker, had been absorbed with calm, almost habit. For him, it was nothing more than routine.

He studied her, and in his gaze there was that rare blend of respect and warning.

"You're barely standing," he said. "And still you go on."

Élisa shrugged. Her voice was rough, but steady:

"We don't have a choice. If we fall, the camp falls."

A short laugh escaped Tonar—bitter, joyless.

"That's why I don't like working with idealists. They're always ready to die for a truth."