Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 161: Shady Business

A long breath trembled through the air, like a presence slipping in behind Dylan. Someone — or something — had entered the room, without opening a door. Without a sound. Like a silhouette barely visible in the corner of the eye. Not human. But not hostile. Or at least, not yet.

"You can leave, of course. Take your pay, do what you like with your gold. But you can also... stay. And listen. Because you’re here for a reason, Dylan. Even if you don’t know it yet."

His name. The man had said it without Dylan ever giving it.

And for the first time in a long while, Dylan felt something stir in his chest.

Not fear.

Not yet.

But the thing that comes just before.

Dylan couldn’t believe it — his eyes remained locked on the supposed man in front of him. The figure didn’t move, simply returned the stare, a fixed smile on his lips.

"You seem surprised I know your name. Is that so strange? Besides, you’ve got the kind of name that screams bastard."

Dylan raised an eyebrow. His body remained still, but inside, his thoughts were racing. Gael’s tone wasn’t mocking. Nor was it aggressive. It was... analytical. Like a surgeon joking with his blade just before the first cut.

He replied, dryly, but with a flicker of irony:

"Always a pleasure to make a good first impression."

Gael laughed softly. A short sound — almost a breath — discarded like something useless.

"Oh no. You’re not making a good impression. You’re doing exactly what we expected of you. And that... that’s what’s fascinating."

Dylan didn’t answer. He felt — without seeing — that the presence behind him had drawn closer. A chill crept up the back of his neck. No breath. No footsteps. Just... a growing density. A presence like an idea turning into form.

Gael stepped forward as well. Slowly. With a ritualistic gait. He stopped barely a meter away, tilting his head slightly.

"Tell me. Why did you accept? Really. It wasn’t for the gold — and you know it. You’re not the type to follow orders from the first monster dressed as a merchant."

Dylan stayed silent.

He could’ve answered, thrown out one of those cutting lines he kept sharpened for moments like this. A verbal pirouette to mask what churned underneath. But not this time.

He wanted to understand.

Gael, as if reading him, gave another smile — finer, deeper. A smile that, this time, reached his eyes.

"You want to understand how this world works. Why here, death doesn’t mean the end. Why some secrets are carved into flesh, not written in books."

Behind Dylan, the silhouette stilled. He could feel it — like a blade suspended. Not fallen yet. But ready.

Then Gael raised his hand. Palm open.

A soft amethyst light began to fill the room. Subtle, but vast. A dense, fluid glow that seemed to pulse with ancient memory.

And at once, the presence behind Dylan vanished. Dissolved. The air grew lighter, as if some silent dread had left with it.

Gael lowered his hand slowly.

"I won’t ask you how you awakened. You’ve worked hard to hide it."

Dylan swallowed. Bitterly.

Gael went on, his voice calmer, almost regretful:

"Especially since it’s nearly impossible for someone from the slums to awaken their Stigma without patronage. Without a pact. Without a debt. And you... you have none of that."

"You seem to know me well... or at least, know enough about me," Dylan replied evenly, voice steady despite the cold spike lodged between his shoulder blades.

He showed nothing.

The fear was there, yes — not panic, but a deep, reptilian tension. The kind that settles when a predator chooses not to bite. Not yet.

These kinds of situations, Dylan had known them. Not with entities like Gael — but with other beasts. Corrupt generals. Cannibal lieutenants disguised as heroes. Messengers with pockets full of orphan’s blood and ministerial bounties. Men who smiled like him — with the same lack of remorse, the same sick pleasure of always being three moves ahead.

In his old world, Dylan had swum through the foul waters of special operations, black missions, and unsigned contracts. He provided services without questions — as long as he remained free. And because he was good — too good — his superiors had tried to crush him. They threw him at the front lines like a carcass into a monster pit, hoping he wouldn’t come back this time.

But Dylan always came back.

Like a cockroach evolving with each new poison. He adapted. He survived. And most of all, he observed.

So even here, in this place that stank of forgotten oaths and old pacts, facing a being he didn’t yet understand — he didn’t panic.

Not as long as the words were still flowing.

He folded his arms, locked eyes with Gael, and said:

"You want to talk? Fine. Let’s talk. You brought me here — I doubt it was just to show off some fancy lights and passive threats. How long have you been watching me? Since I stepped through the door? Or deeper than that?"

Gael tilted his head slightly — a gesture almost courteous. He wasn’t mocking. Nor condescending. Just... pleased. Like a teacher hearing the right question at last.

"I’ve been watching since the moment you set foot in this city, kid. The walls have ears. And I have eyes everywhere."

Dylan felt his jaw tighten.

But he didn’t respond immediately.

He let the silence stretch, like a wire waiting for a blade. Then, with a glacial calm, he breathed:

"Then you already know what I’m capable of. And what I’ll do if I’m pushed too far."

A long silence.

Then, more to himself:

"So what now? What’s the next step? You want me to hand something else over? Sell you my soul in exchange for power? For truth?"

Gael smiled. But this time, it wasn’t human. It was mimicry. A movement of the face — yes — but with no warmth behind it. A mask cracking to reveal something much older.

As if, for one breath, Gael stopped pretending to be a man.

He said, plainly:

"I want to offer you a pact. Not a contract. A true pact. A bond between your will and one of the Thresholds. Not to bind you — to arm you. And you know as well as I do... you’ll need it."

Dylan froze.

Gael stepped up to the table and laid his hand on it.

A red, damp mark appeared where skin met wood — like a ritual scar.

"You can refuse, kid. Take your gold. Walk away. Forget the box, the mission, this room. But if you accept... then you’ll understand. Why you’re here. And what you really want."

Silence fell again — heavy, exact.

Then Gael, in a voice soft, almost intimate: fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

"So, Dylan. Do you want the truth? Or do you want peace?"

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