Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 162: Delicious Little Trap

"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 are."

Silence fell again — heavy, exact.

Then Gael, in a voice soft, almost intimate:

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

——

Dylan didn’t answer right away. He let Gael’s words drift through the air, sink into the silence, anchor themselves like invisible needles.

Then, slowly, he raised his eyes to him.

His pupils gleamed—not with fear or greed, but with something colder: caution and curiosity.

"I’m listening," he said simply.

Not a yes. But not a no either.

Gael nodded, satisfied.

He straightened up, took a few steps back, hands clasped behind his back. His voice resumed, calmer, more measured. Like a diplomat. Or a strategist. Or both.

"As you may have heard when you arrived, there’s a war underway. Not officially declared yet, but already in motion. A war between the County of Martissant and that of Pilaf."

Dylan remained silent, but his mind was already working.

Gael went on, mentally sketching out the borders of the conflict.

"The cause of it all is a territory in the middle. An old, rich, strategic strip of land. A natural corridor connecting the two counties. If one gains total control over it, the other’s on its knees."

He paused, as if to make sure Dylan was following.

"Guilds and clans will remain neutral. Autonomous. They never officially take part in wars. Which means very few Awakened will be sent to the front lines. Too expensive. Too valuable. Too... unpredictable."

He paused again, then fixed his gaze on Dylan’s.

"And that’s where you come in. You. Élisa. Maggie. I want you to join Martissant’s side. As mercenaries."

Dylan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing yet.

Gael lifted a hand, palm downward, as though weighing something invisible.

"I’ll provide everything you need. Clean identities. Official papers. Free access to the High-Terrace. Equipment. Permits. Perfect cover. And of course... the pay will be more than generous."

A heavier silence settled between them.

Dylan felt the weight of what had just been offered. This wasn’t a deal anymore. It was a crossroads—one shaped like both a trap and a promise.

Then Gael added, turning slightly:

"You have one week to think it over. No more. In one month, Martissant will gather its army. And when the front shifts, the world will shift with it. What you are... what you all are... will either drown in the flood or be carved into history."

Dylan clenched his jaw slowly.

His eyes stayed locked on Gael’s, but his thoughts were elsewhere. A month. A war. A territory. Flawless cover. And above all... a door cracked open onto the power and secrets he’d been chasing since he arrived.

But he wasn’t ready to dive in headfirst. Not yet.

So he replied in a low, steady voice, almost hard:

"I heard you. I’ll talk to the others. We’ll see." fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

Gael smiled. Softly.

"Good. Then remember this: in these kinds of wars, those who arrive late find nothing but ashes."

"Well... I’ll keep that in mind," Dylan said, his tone clipped but not confrontational.

He slowly pushed back his chair, unhurried, as if refusing to let the room rush him out. The wood scraped gently against the floor—a delicate sound in an atmosphere heavy with unsaid things.

Gael said nothing. He watched, chin slightly dipped, eyes half-closed, as if measuring every muscle, every hesitation, every thread of tension in Dylan’s body.

But there was no hesitation. Only cold caution, honed by years of survival.

Dylan stood up, adjusted the strap of his pack, gave the man—or whatever pretended to be one—a brief nod, and turned on his heels.

The door opened without his touch.

And this time, it creaked.

Not loudly. Just enough to remind him that you never leave a place like this without taking something with you. Even in silence. Even without a signed pact.

Dylan crossed the threshold, and the outside light hit him like a slap—raw, moonlit, razor-sharp.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

He already knew Gael’s eyes were on him.

And in his back, he could still feel that older thing, larger than his world, breathing through the walls.

Outside, he didn’t find the same place he had entered from.

No door. No strange wall. Not even the scratched symbol on the stone.

Nothing.

The façade was smooth, cold, polished black like marble—but he was certain he’d never seen it before. It bore no trace of his passage. As if the entrance had folded in on itself the moment he stepped through. As if Gael had never existed.

Dylan narrowed his eyes, scanning the stones as one might search for a ghost. Nothing stirred. Nothing breathed.

He let out a quiet sigh. Not of frustration. Not relief. Just that long, tired exhale you release when you realize you’ve crossed a point of no return.

He turned away without a word and slipped into the shadows, gliding like a blade through the proud alleys of the High-Terrace.

No torchlight. No dogs. No visible patrol. But he knew he’d been seen.

He followed the alley back, finding an alternate path, skirting streets that were too clean, too watched. He passed under a forgotten archway, climbed over a rusted gate, slipped along a crumbling wall behind which an ancient garden still exhaled faded scents.

Finally, after several detours, he found a hatch hidden in the shadow of a back courtyard.

He opened it without a sound and descended once again into the darkness.

The damp, rancid air of the sewers swallowed him whole—familiar and almost comforting in its way. At least here, everything had the honesty of filth. No pretenses. No illusions carefully constructed. Just rot, rats, and the echo of his own steps.

He kept walking.

Slowly. Silently. As if stitching the night back together with each move.

His thoughts, though, had stayed behind. At that table. In that inhuman smile.

He hadn’t said yes.

But he already knew he wouldn’t be able to say no either.

Not really.

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