Wonderful Insane World

The next target was a village further east, or at least that's what Julius had announced before heading there, as if programming the destination for a deadly stroll. And surprisingly, Dylan had naturally followed like a puppy trailing its master, without a single question, without a moment's hesitation.

It was as if, from spending too much time with this giant and his twisted philosophies, he had ended up buying into his wildest delusions, adopting his relentless rhythm. The line between necessity and pure madness had blurred, replaced by a macabre routine.

Dylan could count more than thirty beast villages they had massacred together. It was never out of spite, never because these creatures had blocked their path. No, it was for a simpler, vainer, and more terrifying reason: to satisfy their selfish desire to become stronger. A quest that justified everything, even the smell of cooked blood that now permeated their clothes and dreams.

For a month, it had been an immutable cycle. Massacre after massacre, they retrieved the anima gems after each fight, clutching them in their palms until the stone dissolved into a raw energy they injected into their veins. They would then sit, silent, to integrate the spiritual essence into their core, then train with a methodical fury to engrave that essence into the memory of their muscles. They gorged themselves on any meat and any fruit the forest could offer, and the next day, they started again. The same circus, the same dance under the same indifferent sky.

"No better than savages," thought Dylan, slipping behind the titanic silhouette of his companion through the tangle of dense woods and forest roots. Julius's shadow consumed him, protected him, and imprisoned him all at once. Every step he took in the soft earth was another step deeper into this predator's skin he was donning more and more each day. He looked at his own hands, already marked by battles and the burns of poorly controlled energy. Were they still capable of creating anything other than gashes and wounds?

The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, as if it knew. The birds had fallen silent. Only the sharp crack of a branch under Julius's heavy foot broke the silence. Dylan felt a shiver run down his spine, an unhealthy anticipation mixed with a lingering nausea. He knew what awaited them. The crackle of flames, the grunts turning into death rattles, and that gleaming gem, warm and alive, that would finally land in his palm, promising a little more power, one step closer to the spiritual breath that eluded him.

He raised his eyes to Julius's broad back. The master and the puppy. The smith and the hammer. For how much longer? Until he finally learned to make his own storm sing, or until the storm consumed him from within? The question hung in the humid air, unanswered, as they advanced, inexorably, towards the east and its bloody offering.

---

The forest grew sparse, the trees giving way to a rocky moor swept by a biting wind. The air changed too, now carrying the acrid smell of greasy smoke, raw leather, and an unwashed crowd. They no longer needed to exchange a word; the predator's instinct had taken over. The hunt was over. The kill was about to begin.

They emerged from the treeline without the slightest attempt at concealment, like two wolves stepping out of the woods to claim a herd.

Below, nestled in a hollow of the hill, sprawled the orc village. It was just a cluster of low huts made of stacked stones and hide roofs, surrounded by a crude stockade of rough-hewn posts. Campfires burned, illuminating massive green figures going about their brutal, simple tasks. Guttural shouts, booming laughs, and the dull clash of weapons could be heard even from this distance.

Dylan and Julius stood on the ridge, observing the scene for a moment. This was their theater. The set changed, but the play remained the same.

Julius slowly turned his head towards Dylan. There was no trace of feigned mockery or enigmatic wisdom in his expression now. Only a sincerely sinister grin, a pure and raw excitement at the coming chaos, stretched his lips.

"This time, you handle their chief," he declared, his voice a low rumble that carried over the wind. "I'll handle the others and watch you work. You need to face someone on your level."

He paused, letting the weight of the words settle, his smile widening.

"Or perhaps a bit more. Adds a little spice, doesn't it?"

Dylan's heart beat faster, not from fear, but from that unhealthy anticipation he had learned to recognize. It was an order, a test, and a reward. Finally, a real challenge. Finally, the chance to prove that the storm within him could be channeled, that it could strike with the precision of a blade and not the blind fury of an inferno.

He said nothing. He simply nodded, his grey eyes locking onto the largest fire, in the center of the village, where the most massive silhouette undoubtedly presided. The chief.

He drew his sword. The metal rang out, clear and sharp, a promise in the twilight.

They began to descend the slope, side by side, without haste. Two figures against an entire village. The hammer was about to fall, and this time, the apprentice was holding the handle.

The entrance wasn't guarded, which was rare for an orc village – beasts that loved to imitate human ways as much as they loved devouring human flesh. Throughout their grim little adventure, they had almost always encountered at least one guard posted at the entrance, ready to prevent anyone from entering or to signal any intrusion.

But this time, strangely, it wasn't the case. And these two demons didn't care either way, whether there were guards or not. They had no intention of relying on surprise anyway.

They entered the village calmly, as if they had been invited. Dylan's gaze remained fixed straight ahead, piercing through the growing agitation, while Julius's, sharp as a blade, swept the surroundings with a quiet intensity, seeming to have every orc, every movement, already registered, already counted.

Then, without a shout, Dylan sprinted.

It was an explosion of motion, an acceleration so insane it verged on the sonic. The air tore like fabric. In less than a heartbeat, he was no longer at the village entrance, but at the center, at the spot he had targeted from the ridge. In his momentum, he spun his body, his sword describing a perfect arc, and struck.

The target was an orc at least three meters tall, seated on a throne of wood and bone, more massive and scarred than all the others. Dylan's blade came down with the force of a thunderclap, meeting the war axe the beast had raised with lightning-fast reflexes to parry. The impact was so violent the metal rang, shrill, and a palpable wave of force erupted from the clash.

The power of the blow traveled through the orc's arm, twisting muscles and tendons. Thrown by the concussive force, the giant was hurled from his seat, his back hitting the stone floor, which cracked sharply, starred with fissures.

A hoarse grunt, more surprised than pained, escaped its throat. Then, a sinister rictus spread across its thick lips, revealing yellowed tusks. It lifted its head, its single eye fixed on its attacker.

Dylan returned the smile, a wild, cold glint in his grey eyes. No words. No useless provocation. He performed a backflip, landing with feline grace on both feet, but didn't even take time for a single breath.

He charged again.

This time, he aimed for the torso, the tip of his sword directed at the creature's heart, with the clear and precise intention of running it through. The air whistled around the blade, tracing a deadly line in the gloom. The macabre dance had begun, and the first act belonged to the apprentice.

Dylan's blade almost found its mark, but the orc chieftain, with monstrous agility for its size, twisted its torso aside. The sword's tip only gouged its flank, opening a vivid red gash that spattered the ground with black droplets. The giant roared, no longer in surprise, but in pure fury. Its axe, a monstrosity of jagged metal, split the air horizontally with a deadly whistle.

Dylan didn't block. He danced.

He flowed under the trajectory of the blade, feeling the wind of its passage whip through his hair. The ground where he had stood a fraction of a second earlier exploded under the impact. In the same motion, he pivoted on his standing foot and launched a vicious heel kick at the giant's knee. The sharp crack of the shattering kneecap was muffled by the orc's howl.

"You die, vermin!" the beast growled in a ragged voice, its spit flying like burning spittle.

Without replying, Dylan exploited the opening. His sword became a whirlwind of steel. A high feint to force the axe up, followed by a low, precise strike that severed the tendon of the orc's good leg. The orc crashed down heavily, knee and ankle shattered, its own weight becoming a weapon against it. The ground shook with its impact.