Wonderful Insane World

Julius had gathered the anima gems with a mechanical gesture, his own body aching from the clash with the Awakened Beast. Without a word, he lifted Dylan's limp body onto his shoulder — the newly grown arm, pale and smooth, swinging with an unsettling weightlessness. On the other shoulder hung the massive Warg haunch, a grotesque trophy nearly as large as the boy himself. Then he set off into the forest, senses sharp, searching for shelter.

He found it where the cold, clear river had carved out a hollow beneath a tangle of roots and a jutting rock wall. It wasn't a real cave — barely deep enough to stand upright — but it would keep them safe from the wind and the rain threatening to fall from the heavy gray sky. Most importantly, the spot was defensible.

The river between them and the opposite bank was wild, surging over slick stones, but for an Awakened like Julius, it was a trivial obstacle. He stepped into the current, the icy water lashing his thighs. His balance was unshakable, every step a deliberate anchor against the pull of the torrent. He crossed the chaos without a misstep — the cold was nothing more than a nuisance against his sharpened senses.

Inside the rough shelter, the air was damp and cool. He carefully set Dylan down on a flat, dry stone, arranging him as best he could. The colossal Warg haunch landed with a dull thud near the entrance, and the small pile of collected anima gems — stones pulsing with hues of violet and deep amber — was placed safely to the side. Their strange glow painted shifting shadows along the cave walls.

He studied the gems, then Dylan's pale, tormented face. The boy's spiritual core was damaged, struggling desperately to mend itself. Forcing the dense, corrupted essence of fourth-rank demonic beasts into that fragile system now would be like pouring molten lead into a cracked vessel — it would shatter him. His core would regenerate naturally, refilling the void, but the process would be slow and agonizing. This rest, brutal as it was, was necessary. The path of hardship was often the only one that worked.

Leaving Dylan to his healing slumber, Julius stripped off his torn, bloodstained tunic and returned to the river. He didn't simply wash — he immersed himself in the freezing current, letting the water carry away the blood, the sweat, and the stench of violence. For a moment, the water around him darkened before the flow swept away the last traces of battle.

He emerged minutes later, clean and intensely alert, the cold sharpening his mind like a blade. Steam rose faintly from his skin in the crisp air as he returned to the hollow. His gaze immediately sought his unconscious pupil. The real work was only beginning.

Hours later, Dylan stirred. It started as a shallow exhale, then a rasping groan strangled by the pain that washed over him like a tide. Every muscle, every nerve, every fragment of his being screamed. He blinked, his vision blurred, trying to understand where he was — the low, dark stone ceiling, the hanging roots like snakes… and Julius's broad silhouette sitting cross-legged near the river, watching the gray water flow.

"You came back," Julius said simply, without turning. His voice was low, worn from battle.

Dylan tried to speak, but only a hoarse sound escaped his dry throat. He tried to move his left arm — a deep, foreign ache answered him. The limb was there, intact, but it felt alien, hypersensitive, as if even the touch of air burned.

"Don't talk. Drink." Julius handed him a makeshift flask fashioned from a folded leaf. The water inside was cold and pure. Dylan drank greedily, feeling it soothe his throat and spread through his body like a benediction.

"Your core's in shreds," Julius went on, still not looking at him. "You drew from your life force. You used the Breath. Wildly. But you used it."

The memories of the battle came back in a rush — the bite, the severed arm, the monstrous regeneration, the anima-charged punch that burst the Warg's skull. And finally… that sharp sound. Clack. The shockwave that had crushed the beast from within.

"I… I didn't know…" Dylan whispered, his voice gaining strength.

"Of course you didn't. No one knows. You feel." For the first time, Julius turned. His bright blue eyes struck Dylan with almost physical force. "You didn't survive, Dylan. You mutated. You crossed a threshold. Many die at that moment — their own bodies consume them. Yours held on. Barely."

He rose and picked up one of the violet gems, rolling it between his fingers. "Your core is regenerating, but too slowly. Far too slowly for the dangers out here. You'll have to absorb this."

A knot of fear coiled in Dylan's gut. The essence in those gems was heavy, impure, hostile. "You said… it was too soon. That it would break me."

"That was before. Before you changed. Now it's a necessity. Either you learn to digest poison, or you die. There's no middle ground." Julius stepped closer and placed the gem in Dylan's trembling hand. The stone was cold and thrumming, like a monstrous heart still beating. "Guide the essence. Don't let it overwhelm you. Contain it. That's the next lesson."

Dylan clenched the gem, feeling his own anima — weak, ragged — stir at the contact with the demonic energy. He closed his eyes, feeling Julius's gaze weigh on him. The fear remained, stubborn and alive. But beneath it, something new had taken root: a cold determination. The understanding that pain was merely the price of continuation.

He inhaled deeply — and plunged into the gem's vibrating darkness.

The gem was a trap of violent light. As Dylan's consciousness sank into it, what met him wasn't energy, but chaos — a storm of raw, inhuman sensations that surged toward him like a starving pack.

First came the Negativity.

A freezing burn — a black, viscous hatred that sought to freeze his blood and poison his thoughts. It crawled through his spiritual channels, conjuring visions of carnage and despair, the primal urge to bite and rend. It was the residue of the Warg's demonic nature, its corrupted essence. To let it in would be to defile himself — to become a little more like those beasts.

Then came the Soul Fragments.

Shattered shards of consciousness, alien memories not his own. Fleeting visions of dark forests, fear, hunger, pure instinct. They swirled around him like deranged fireflies, searching for a host, a home. If he let them root within him, they'd warp his identity, drive him mad.

And in the midst of it all — nearly drowned — there was the Spiritual Essence.

Raw power, dense and deep violet, pulsing without intent or thought. Pure fuel. The only part he needed.

Julius's voice echoed inside his skull, clearer than his own thoughts. "Guide. Contain."

It wasn't a conscious decision — it was survival. His mind, sharpened by mutation and the nearness of death, built instinctive walls. He envisioned his spiritual core, fractured though it was, as a diamond at the heart of a storm. He didn't try to swallow the torrent. He became a sieve.

He focused on the sensation of the Spiritual Essence — its steady vibration, fundamental, like the heartbeat of the world. He clung to it, drawing it in.

For the rest, he was merciless.

The Negativity that tried to enter, he imagined as a black, oily fluid. As each droplet neared his core, he opposed it with pure will — an inner heat that boiled it into acrid vapor, expelled through his pores in an imagined exhale. It was exhausting. Every rejection felt like pushing back an ocean, and the fury trapped in that energy battered at his mind.

The Soul Fragments were subtler. They didn't force entry — they whispered. They took the shape of comforting memories, familiar voices urging him to let go. He let them drift near but denied them acknowledgment. In being ignored, they lost their strength. They dissipated like smoke, their silent cries fading in the roar of his own spirit.

It was grueling work — painstaking extraction in a poisoned mine. Drop by drop, the pure violet of Spiritual Essence was siphoned, filtered through the screens of his will, and guided toward the cracks in his core.

At first, it was bliss — cool relief on a third-degree burn. Then came the pain — sharp, reparative. The dense essence seeped into the fractures of his being, fusing them not with a craftsman's delicacy, but a blacksmith's brute force. His body, lying on the stone, went rigid, muscles locking. Cold sweat rolled down his face. He squeezed the gem so tightly his palm bled, but he did not release it.

He could feel the gem breaking down in his grasp. The rejected Negativity and Soul Fragments devoured what contained them. The stone dulled, turned gray, cracking from within.

When the final surge of pure essence entered him — flooding his core with a power both alien and familiar, stolen from the enemy and purified through pain — the gem crumbled into dust between his fingers.

Dylan opened his eyes, gasping. The physical pain remained, but the hollow ache within was filled. Not fully — but enough. His new arm no longer burned; it pulsed with a living warmth that was his own.

He looked up at Julius. The master stood over him, still, silent. There was no approval or disapproval in his gaze — only a deep, attentive watchfulness.

"The first one's the hardest," Julius said at last, his voice cutting through the still air. "Your soul remembers the poison. Next time… it'll hurt a little less."