Wonderful Insane World

Maggie awoke.

Not like one wrestles with a heavy dream or a clinging nightmare—no. Simply: her eyes opened, and lucidity crashed down on her all at once, sharp, clean. She lay still for a moment, staring at the canvas ceiling, listening to the camp's bustle filtering in.

She felt… normal. Strangely normal. As if her body had never known pain, as if she were just an ordinary woman waking one morning, cradled by the warmth of sunlight through the tent.

Slowly, she pushed her back off the hard-packed earth and sat up. Her joints barely protested—only a faint stiffness, nothing more, as if she'd merely slept too long in one position.

She flexed her fingers, cracked her knuckles, then pressed her palms to the ground and rose to her feet. No hesitation, no wavering: she stood on the first try. Upright. On both legs.

Her neck popped as she tilted her head from side to side. She drew in a deep breath, filling her chest with sharp air, then exhaled it all in one gust, as if blowing out the last of her shadows.

A crooked smirk tugged at her lips. She lifted her arm, sniffed under her armpit, and instantly turned her head away with a grimace.

"A good shower… now that would be a luxury."

She stretched, long and leisurely, arms raised high as if she could pierce the canvas and grasp the sky. Her shoulders rolled in a supple motion—surprisingly supple—and she couldn't help but smile for a fleeting moment. It was ridiculous, but she felt almost… alive, like before.

A shout outside reminded her the camp never truly slept. Heavy boots passed near the tent, the air thick with ash and sweat. The world hadn't changed to follow her rebirth.

Maggie shoved the canvas flap aside and stepped out. Morning light blinded her for an instant, forcing her to lift a hand against it. The pale sun filtered through the trees, casting golden blades across the lingering mist.

Around her, the camp moved like an exhausted yet stubborn beast. Men hauled logs to reinforce barricades. Healers rushed from tent to tent with water basins. Further on, soldiers repaired their weapons, faces hollow, gestures mechanical. Every sound rang like a reminder: they were waiting, but not really. They were surviving, holding their breath.

Maggie inhaled deeply, then exhaled, lips tight. She absorbed it all as if it were nothing unusual, yet something gnawed at her: her body felt fine. Too fine. Where she expected to stumble, to feel the pain that had nailed her down for days, there was nothing. Only vigor. Only her.

She lowered her gaze to her hands, opened and closed her fingers. No tremors. No scars tugging at her skin. As if part of her had been replaced overnight.

A soldier passed nearby, saluted with a brief nod but didn't dare hold her eyes for long. She locked onto his gaze until he turned away. She knew. They all knew. She wasn't "normal." Not really. And yet, that was exactly how she felt.

She let out a small, ironic laugh under her breath:

"Normal… what a joke."

Gathering her tangled hair into a makeshift tail, she walked toward the central fire, where the smell of charred bread and thin broth betrayed the morning meal. Her steps were steady, confident. She no longer tried to blend in. If the camp saw her as something uncanny, she would show them she was here, standing, whole.

But in the back of her mind, one thought throbbed, heavy and insistent:

Why me? Why am I still standing?

Maggie lingered by the fire for a moment, saying nothing, watching the silhouettes come and go, prisoners of their routines. Yet unease clung to her. Not pain—she felt none—but a subtle dissonance, an impression her body wasn't truly her own. Each smooth movement felt too perfect, too oiled, as if her joints had been replaced by fresh cogs.

Her gaze drifted to a corner of the camp: the water barrels and basins set aside for the soldiers' rough washing. It wasn't much, just enough to scrub off sweat and yesterday's grime. But she wanted more. A shower, she had thought earlier. A real one. She would settle for a tub, but she needed to feel water running over her skin, washing away the sense of being… false.

She moved toward it, steps hesitant at first, like someone taming her own flesh. A few soldiers turned, startled to see her walking unassisted, but none dared question her. Perhaps they still remembered her broken body, nearly dead, just three days earlier. To see her upright already bordered on the inexplicable.

A basin half-filled with clear water waited, set atop stones for balance. Maggie brushed aside drying linens and crouched beside it. She dipped her fingers into the cold liquid. A shiver ran up her arm, and she trembled. The chill bit, but it was a welcome bite, proof she still existed.

She poured some over her face, then her neck. The sense of rebirth deepened. Then, decisively, she shed her rags, stiff with blood and sweat, sat down in the basin, and sank in up to her chest.

The shock was brutal, an icy blade down her spine. But she drew a deep breath and let the water close over her skin, as if to soothe the invisible fire burning inside her. Her muscles loosened, her shoulders sank, her eyes closed. For the first time in days, she was nothing but a body breathing.

Then came the thought.

The core.

The healer's voice echoed in her memory: It isn't broken, not cracked. But it has swollen, five times larger. It spends more than your body can supply.

Maggie's trembling hand brushed her chest, where her spiritual core nestled. Once discreet, almost silent—now heavy, greedy, demanding. She couldn't ignore it. She had to see. To feel. To control.

She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. The camp's noise faded, replaced by the steady beat of her heart. She searched for the flow, the trickle of essence that once ran in her like a clear brook. But what she found was no brook.

It was a river.

A wide current, too wide, pounding against the walls of her being. With every heartbeat, essence surged, shaking her mind. She snapped her eyes open, water splashing. Her fingers clutched the basin's edge.

"Too… too strong."

She inhaled again, shut her eyes, and dove back in. This time, she tried not to drown in it. She pictured her hands—not flesh, but inner—gripping the banks of that river. Channel it. Restrain it. Guide the flow instead of choking it.

The effort drained her. Sweat broke on her brow despite the cold water. Each second felt like a battle: let go, and essence spilled wild in every direction. But by squeezing, tightening her grip, she narrowed the torrent, made it less destructive. Not a river, not yet a stream—something channeled.

A twisted smile touched her lips.

"So… I can."

Yes, she could control her core, but at a price. It demanded constant attention, ceaseless vigilance. Like holding a rope tied to a beast that never stopped pulling. The moment she faltered, she would be swept away.

She opened her eyes and stared at her wavering reflection. Her features were the same as before, yet something glimmered deep in her pupils. A new intensity, almost frightening.

Her hand pressed against her chest, where her heartbeat still thundered.

I'm alive. But for how long?

The water around her warmed with her heat. She closed her eyes, exhaled deeply, and for one brief moment, she forgot the war, the forest, the wooden mask. This moment was hers.

She lingered in the water until the cold reclaimed her. Maggie breathed in, then, with a resigned sigh, spread her arms and rose. Water slid off her body like a second skin that refused to part. She hauled herself from the basin, leaving behind a faint splash that dissolved into the camp's din.

Her clothes, stiff with dried blood, lay waiting on the ground. She eyed them with faint disgust, as if the fabric no longer belonged to her, but she pulled them on anyway. Her movements were steady now, precise—too precise, mechanical, as if every fiber of her was rehearsing a dance she had never learned.

A soldier further off had dared to watch. She shot him a brief, sharp glance, and he looked away at once. None dared question her. She had come back from too far for anyone to break that mystery.

She straightened her sleeves, fastened her crude belt, then ran a hand through her dripping hair, tossing it back. Her steps, hesitant at first, grew firmer as she left the circle of basins. The evening air bit her damp skin, but she pressed on, head high, toward the great tent at the camp's heart.

From within came muffled voices: curt orders, flares of anger, the nervous drumming of fingers on a wooden table. Strategy meetings. Hours bled away as commanders schemed, relentless, about the next moves, the next losses to come.

Maggie drew a deep breath. Each inhale reminded her of the core's strain, that monster coiled in her chest, but she held steady. Her fingers brushed the rough canvas of the tent's entrance. She could remain outside, blend into the shadows—or push through and claim a place in the circle where war was decided.

She swept the flap aside. The warm glow of oil lamps embraced her, along with the sudden silence of every gaze turning to her.

Maggie stepped in.

"Gentlemen…"

Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried.