Wonderful Insane World

The next day, they pushed deeper into the forest. They had long since abandoned their crude cabin to begin their long march toward war.

But Julius never did anything in haste. Their grim hunting tour, in a way, indirectly benefited Count Pilaf. By wiping out these vermin on his lands, they spared him the waste of time, money, and soldiers' lives. A fortunate coincidence, though that had never been their intent.

Their goal was indeed to reach the battlefield — but not under Pilaf's banner. Julius and Dylan were both wanted as spies and criminals in his camp, so Julius had set his sights on Count Martissant, Pilaf's enemy.

And besides… the pay would be far better.

For now, however, hunting orc villages had become an increasingly pointless affair. Julius and Dylan had grown stronger, and the spiritual essence contained within the anima gems of common orcs could no longer quench the hunger of their spiritual cores.

They faced the immutable dilemma of every Awakened: spiritual essence, once absorbed and purified, acts as divine nourishment. It forges the body, sharpens the mind, hardens the bones, and hones the senses to inhuman limits. But the body, that marvelous machine of adaptation, eventually adjusts. Once a certain threshold of reinforcement is reached, lower-quality essence ceases to trigger transformation. It merely swells the core, providing a fleeting refill of energy without true growth.

It was a cruel law: to keep climbing higher, one must feed on something ever stronger.

That was why they now hunted the gems of greater beasts. In these creatures, the essence was not only more abundant — it was better. Compressed, condensed by the beast's own strength, it became a concentrate of pure power. For an Awakened, a single such gem was worth ten sacks of orc crystals. It offered not just more energy, but a superior quality capable of forcing the body to adapt once again — to break its own limits and initiate a new phase of evolution.

As they walked, Julius broke the silence, his gaze scanning the dense shadows of the towering trees as if searching for a prey worthy of them.

"We're wasting our time with this vermin, Dylan. Their gems are nothing but clear water to a man thirsting for strong wine. We need prey that will make us *grow.* A Rock Troll, perhaps. Or a pack of Shadow Wargs. Their crystallized hearts would be worth every village we've burned."

He cast a sideways glance at his student.

"Martissant would pay well, sure. But the real reward isn't in his purse. It's in this forest. In the blood of things strong enough to make us feel *fragile* again."

Their steps carried them deeper, farther, into territories where orcs were no longer predators — but prey. And in the depths of Dylan's eyes, the impatience to materialize his breath was now mixed with another hunger: the craving to find an opponent worthy of the storm raging inside him.

The wind thickened as they advanced, carrying with it the scent of ancient mold and cold metal. The forest, once familiar, had taken on the grandeur of a foreign cathedral: the colossal trunks bore claw marks as deep as open wounds, and the twisted roots resembled the arms of buried giants trying to claw their way out of their tomb of earth and rot. The air vibrated with whispers — not quite voices, but the lingering murmur of something ancient that watched.

Each step sank into a carpet of soaked humus, heavy with the blood and rain of past days, as though the ground itself remembered the violence that had seeped into it.

"Do you feel that?" murmured Julius without stopping, his eyes sweeping the dark canopy.

Dylan nodded, throat tight. He could feel that pressure in the air — not the localized presence of a beast, but something broader, oppressive, territorial. Someone — or something — ruled here. An old reign, undisputed.

The trees seemed to lean over them, their crowns interlocking to form a vault so dense that barely a thread of twilight filtered through, as if the forest itself were watching. The wind had stopped; only the deep, damp breathing of the woods remained, heavy and suffocating.

Julius halted, pressing his broad hand against the bark of an ancient trunk, tracing a thin cut with the tip of his nail. A faint golden glow pulsed along the wound, alive for a heartbeat before vanishing into the wood.

"Too many traces of spiritual magic," he muttered, more to himself than to Dylan. "Nothing human. Nothing orcish."

"If the essence is still this fresh — and it is — then we're near a den. Not of orcs. Something more… primitive. Denser. Older."

Dylan scanned the wavering darkness. The shadows seemed to move on their own, their shapes swallowed by a mist that was not entirely natural. "Wargs, maybe?" he asked, almost hoping for confirmation.

"No. Something older than counts and their petty wars. Wargs don't mark territory with negative essence. This… this is a *signature.* A mark."

A silence followed. Then — the crisp snap of a branch, to their right. Dylan turned instantly, sword in hand, every sense taut like a drawn bowstring. Nothing. Not even the tremor of a leaf. Yet his instincts screamed — something was there.

Julius smiled, a faint gleam of amusement in his sharp gaze.

"Good. Stay like that. Let the air tell you — not your eyes. If your breath syncs with the forest's, you'll *see* before you understand. You'll *feel* before you see."

Dylan inhaled slowly, deeply, trying to match the rhythm of his breathing to the slow, terrible pulse of the place.

The energy in his meridians quivered, sensitive to the slightest vibration, the faintest ripple in the ambient flow.

And suddenly — he *felt* it. A presence, heavy, throbbing, hostile. Not a single beast, but several. A pack. Distinct pulses of energy, yet coordinated — like drums beating in unison across the dark.

"Three… no, four. No, shit — five." His eyes widened as he realized the trap closing in. "They're surrounding us. How long have they—"

Julius calmly unbuckled the straps of his fur cloak, letting it slide off his shoulders with a disconcerting grace.

His muscles, laced with thin golden filaments that glowed like molten amber, vibrated gently beneath his skin, ready to erupt. "Perfect," he said softly. "Finally, something interesting."

A rumble rose from the ground — faint at first, then clearer, closer. The shadows between the trees thickened and took form: massive beasts, half-wolf with bulging muscles, half-reptile with dull scales, their unnaturally long fangs gleaming with a sickly green light. *Shadow Wargs.* Their eyes, like cracked gems filled with psychic venom, glowed with a violet gleam that seemed to drink the light around them.

Dylan felt his breath quicken despite himself. The ground seemed to tighten beneath their feet, the air thick and hard to draw in.

"Julius… those things are too—" His voice caught in his throat, swallowed by an ancient, animal dread.

"Too strong?" Julius finished for him, his grin widening to something nearly feral. "Good. They'll make perfect teachers."

He stepped forward unhurriedly, as though entering a dance whose steps only he knew. In answer, the beasts roared in unison — a sound that tore not just through the ears, but through the soul itself.

The ground exploded.

The four Shadow Wargs lunged at Dylan in perfect synchrony. Their forms seemed to swallow the light, leaving only fleeting silhouettes rimmed by violet shimmer. Their claws sliced through the air with a shriek, ripping through even the dense air of the forest.

Dylan dove aside, narrowly avoiding a blow that could have split an oak. His sword came up reflexively to block a second strike from his left. The impact was brutal. A surge of violet energy flashed at the contact point, and pain shot up his arm — a vibration that felt as though his bones were singing in agony. He gritted his teeth, countered with a quick slash. The blade met the beast's scales with a dull metallic clang, sparking briefly but leaving only a thin black line that oozed an acrid smoke. It was like striking stone.

"They're too hard!" he growled, dodging a third lunge and rolling through the dirt.

Across the clearing, Julius was *dancing* with the pack leader — the Awakened one. Their movements were blinding, flickers of amber and violet clashing with each heartbeat. The rumble of their fight was a deep, constant hum that shook the forest floor.

A piercing shriek, dripping with malice, split the air — a psychic scream. It wasn't sound but raw pressure, drilling into Dylan's mind. His vision swam, nausea rising. One of the Wargs swept his legs with its powerful tail. Dylan was thrown backward into a tree, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He crumpled, his sword slipping from numbed fingers.

He looked up, gasping. The four beasts were circling now, their mouths steaming black vapor that warped the air around them. Their cracked, glowing eyes fixed on him with a cold, intelligent hatred.

"Impossible." The thought burst through, sharp and desperate. "I can't even *scratch* them."

He forced himself to his feet, muscles screaming, his mind still fogged. One beast charged, jaws wide.

Dylan tried to parry, but the blow sent his blade flying, wrenching his wrist painfully. Another came from behind; he felt the air shift, ducked — too late. Claws tore through his fur cloak, ripping across his back.

He shouted, more rage than pain, and spun to strike back.

His sword scraped along the creature's flank, uselessly — a burst of sparks, nothing more.