Wonderful Insane World

Tonar advanced with a firm stride, but his stomach clenched as if invisible fingers had dug claws into it. Each breath felt too short, swallowed by the heavy mist that blanketed the village. His men formed a wall of steel and flesh behind him, disciplined, yet he knew how quickly discipline splinters when the invisible begins to whisper.

Already, he could hear it.

Not words. Not yet.

A faint rustling, like the brushing of insect wings inside his very bones. It tickled the nape of his neck, crawled along his temples. He furrowed his brows, straightened to his full height, and gripped his sword's hilt tighter. He would not allow those voices to dig into his skull before the battle had even begun.

Ahead, the first blades had already struck flesh. War cries mingled with the monsters' howls, a brutal music that rattled Tonar's ribs. Metal clashed, flesh burst. Yet, despite this orgy of real noise, the whispers persisted, seeping through like water in cracks.

He turned slightly. On his left walked Élisa, her face closed, her eyes clear, fixed straight ahead. She held her spear the way one holds a certainty: fist tight, arm firm, no hesitation. On his right, Zirel strode with elastic steps, ready to spring, bow already drawn. All the team leaders were there, forming a spearhead that cut through the night and the rot of the village. And even Maggie, though weakened, had insisted on coming. She walked slower, a little behind, but her gaze burned with that stubborn resolve that nothing could strip from her.

They were all there. All of them.

It gave Tonar the illusion of total strength, of an invincible unity. But he knew too well the whispers sought to crack that unity. The strength of an army was worthless when the enemy was already seated inside your thoughts.

A soldier in the second rank stumbled. Tonar heard the sharp clatter of his shield striking his neighbor's.

"Hold the line!" he barked without even turning his head.

The voice snapped, dry, military. Just as he wanted: authoritative, flawless. Yet he knew that soldier had not tripped over a root. No, it was the first bite of the whispers. And there would be more.

In the distance, the outlines of the village became clearer: twisted huts, moss-covered palisades, wandering shadows that already froze at their approach. The puppets. Those poor devils emptied of will, marching stiff as training dummies. Tonar clenched his teeth. He knew what his men were about to see: human faces, lifeless eyes, awkward gestures. Half his troops would hesitate to strike.

He had to break that hesitation before it killed them.

"They are not living!" he roared, his voice carrying beyond the ranks. "They are only shells! Strike them like dry wood, don't let their eyes deceive you!"

The soldiers growled, tightened their grip on their weapons. A chant of rage rippled through the line. But Tonar could see it, in some eyes—the doubt still lingered.

At that instant, a cry rang from the front: one of the beasts had leapt, a massive body covered in fur and spines, hurling two soldiers to the ground before being pierced by Élisa's spear. Blood spurted, black, thick, splattering the earth. The ranks tightened, struck back. The battle was truly igniting.

The puppets now advanced, steady, silent. They did not run, they carried no weapons. They simply stretched out their hands like children reaching for a cloak. And already, the whispers grew stronger.

Tonar felt a whole phrase carve itself into his skull:

Lay down your weapon. Go home.

He growled, shook his head, squeezed his sword harder. He glanced at Maggie. She was swaying, but her lips were moving: whispering a counter-chant, a prayer or a spell. Perhaps it shielded her. Perhaps not.

Zirel loosed an arrow. It pierced through a puppet's skull. The body collapsed without a cry, and two others stepped over it as if nothing had happened.

Élisa shouted:

"Hold your lines! If you yield even one step, it's over!"

Tonar felt her rage, but also her fear. They all shared it. Even him. But he knew his role was not to falter. His role was to make them believe fear did not exist.

He raised his sword high.

"Keep advancing! As long as we hold together, the wooden mask will not come! It only shows itself when we weaken!"

No sooner had he spoken than a new shiver passed through his skull. Like laughter. Low. Deep. He had spoken too soon.

The shadows within the village stirred. The huts seemed to breathe, roofs bending, doors swinging open on their own. And in that agitation, Tonar understood: the wooden mask was already watching them. It was waiting.

Élisa tightened her spear. Zirel spread his arms, ready to unleash a rapid volley. Maggie stood behind them, panting, but the fire in her eyes did not waver. The team leaders had clustered together, as if instinct told them they were nearing the very heart of the trap.

Tonar drew a long breath. The whispers now roared, louder than ever. Some soldiers were already raising their hands to their ears, unable to withstand the resonance in their skulls. Others banged the flat of their weapons on their shields for courage.

And suddenly, as if a single thought spoken by a hundred voices, the whispers declared:

You are ours.

Tonar swallowed, planted his feet deep in the earth, and raised his sword.

"Then come take me!"

And he advanced.

A scream tore the line. Not a monster's—no, a man's. Tonar recognized the voice instantly: Jaren, one of the youngest. He saw him convulse, shield falling at his feet, fingers twisting as if pulled by invisible strings.

"Hold him!" shouted Tonar.

Too late. Jaren's eyes were already glazing, drained of all fire. His legs stopped trembling, his body straightened. Like a puppet on foreign strings, he stood again… and turned his weapon against those he had called brothers only a minute earlier.

A cry of panic rippled through the ranks. Two soldiers stumbled back, boots slapping against the mud. A breach opened. The monsters, sensing it, poured through with gaping maws and gleaming claws.

Tonar leapt. His sword carved a brutal arc, slashing the throat of a beast with a split muzzle. Blood spattered across his armor. His voice rose at once:

"Hold the line! Don't you dare retreat—close your ranks!"

The shields pressed tighter, but panic had already spread. He saw it in their eyes—wild, uncertain—many fixed on Jaren, now a stiff puppet advancing on them, relentless.

Zirel's arrow struck true, piercing his heart. The body faltered, collapsed, but no one rejoiced. It was worse. Killing a beast was a victory. Killing a comrade turned puppet was a nightmare.

The whispers pressed harder, savoring their dismay.

Drop your weapons. You are dust. Rest.

Tonar clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might break. No. Not now. Not ever.

"He was already gone!" he barked. "Remember my words! He was no longer one of us!"

His voice cracked like a whip, but he saw not all believed it. One veteran stepped back again, eyes wild, sword trembling. Tonar did not hesitate: he grabbed him by the shoulder, shook him violently.

"You hold! You hold or you die!"

The soldier swallowed, inhaled. His gaze fixed again. Just enough to stay upright.

To their left, Élisa struck with icy precision, her spear piercing two puppets' chests in one motion. Her face was frozen, almost inhuman in its mastery. She cried:

"Look at them! They feel nothing, they suffer nothing! They are no longer your brothers!"

Her words, hard as stone, struck the troops. Some lifted their heads. Their weapons found a steadier rhythm.

Then Maggie's voice rose. She was not shouting. She was singing. Trembling at first, her voice climbed in cadence, a guttural chant, ancient. The syllables rolled like stones in a torrent. It wasn't an incantation in the usual sense—it was refusal, a line of resistance. Each note seemed to push back the whispers' bite for an instant.

Tonar felt his own thoughts breathe easier, as if the air around him cleared. He glanced at her. She was pale, her lips bleeding slightly, but she held on. That single chant became their lifeline.

"With me!" roared Tonar. He slammed the flat of his blade on his shield. The sound cracked like dry thunder. One, two, three strikes. The troops followed, soon raising a metallic pounding that partly drowned the voices. The rhythm, raw, martial, joined Maggie's chant.

One soldier, then two, regained confidence. They struck, cut through the puppet ranks. Blood and flesh fell to the mud. A beast with a skull of bone was driven back under a storm of blows.

But victory was only a breath. Already another soldier collapsed, eyes rolling back. His hands dropped his weapon. The whispers claimed him.

"No… no, no!" he whimpered.

His neighbor reached to catch him, but Tonar bellowed:

"Leave him! Strike before he rises!"

A blade came down. The body fell lifeless, before it could join the puppets. The chilling silence that followed was worse than the screams.

Tonar felt it: a crack was opening. But at the same time, a resistance was rooting itself. Each transformation, each fall, became a brutal reminder: hesitation cost more dearly than blood.

Élisa retook the front, her spear drawing a protective circle around the weakest. Zirel emptied his quiver at a furious pace, arrows sinking into foreheads, throats, chests. Maggie still sang, her voice rough, but steadier than before.

Tonar pressed on. Each step dragged him further from the whispers. Each step was a challenge hurled at the wooden mask, still lurking in the huts' shadows, watching them.

It had not yet appeared. But Tonar knew: the more they resisted, the closer it drew.

And despite the mud, despite the blood, despite the thinning ranks, he smiled.

"Let it come. We are still standing."