Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 169: Assignation

Gael let his hand fall.

The three words — Infiltration. Deterrence. Provocation. — still vibrated in the air like bells struck with a fingertip, but whose resonance hammered the ribcage of those who heard them.

He slowly turned in place, back straight, gaze fixed, as if tracing an invisible circle within the real one.

"You’ll be assigned based on your abilities. Not your preferences."

A slight frown passed across one of the Awakened — the twitchy-eyed boy who couldn’t stay still — but he said nothing. Gael continued.

"Infiltration will be led by Alka."

The barefoot girl raised her eyes, simply. She didn’t move otherwise. No gesture. Just a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she’d known this role was hers from the start.

"She leaves tonight. Objective: infiltrate the Tiphéa military base and take root. It’s still under construction — but not for long."

He paused.

"And Dylan... you’ll go with her."

A slight shift in the air. As if the room had flinched without a sound.

Dylan didn’t move. He felt his heart thud once — not panic, just that strange feeling when someone bets on you without asking.

He glanced at Alka.

She was already watching him. Not surprised. Not suspicious. Just... focused.

Gael carried on, giving the decision no more weight than a breath.

"For Deterrence, Tonar will lead."

The grey-skinned colossus nodded slowly. His silhouette looked carved from a mountain. Unshakable. Nearly immobile.

"He’ll remain in the buffer territories. His mission: maintain the illusion of balance. Every movement must appear as a defensive strategy. Every retreat, a trap."

Gael paused, as if weighing each word.

"You probably would’ve preferred working with your usual teams. But I’ve decided to reshuffle the deck — reassign and redistribute. To make the most of your skills. You’ll get a list of your new companions and the missions they’re assigned to."

He finally turned toward the last.

"As for Provocation... Zirel."

The young man in the wool hat lifted his chin slightly, a shadow of a smile on his lips. He had that strange calm that feels like fire kept in a jar. He said nothing, but you could tell he’d been waiting for this role.

"You’ll do what you do best: disrupt. Divide. Make them believe the war is already here, even where it hasn’t started yet. Leave false trails. Raise false alarms. Ignite the wrong maps."

Then Gael stopped.

He swept his gaze slowly across the room. As if he was weighing everything. Measuring, live, how many of these souls would survive his plan.

"You leave in three days. No baggage. No questions. No return until the tipping point."

His eyes locked onto Dylan’s.

"And if you have questions... don’t hesitate to keep them to yourself. Just do your job, kid."

And only then did he smile.

A real smile. Cold. Sharp.

Like wind on open sea.

⸻

They left the room one by one. No words exchanged. No gestures. Just shadows slipping into darkness, each heading toward their own future, their own ruins.

Dylan lingered a moment under the light. The circle still seemed to carry the weight of Gael’s words, as if the floor hadn’t yet absorbed the echo.

Then he moved. Slowly. Not to flee — but like someone who accepts the trap, because the teeth have already snapped shut.

In the hallway, the barefoot girl was waiting for him.

Alka.

She held a green apple in one hand. A real one. Fresh. Where she found it — he’d rather not ask.

She bit into it, eyes never leaving him.

"Three days, huh."

Her voice was sharper now. Still soft, but with an edge. Like silk pulled too tight.

Dylan stopped a few steps away.

"I guess we should get to know each other."

She chewed, then shrugged.

"I guess we don’t need to."

He hesitated, then leaned against the wall beside her. Not too close. Not too far.

She turned her head, glancing sideways.

"You know what you’re doing, Dylan?"

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ceiling a moment, like the truth had stuck itself up there, out of reach.

Then he said:

"No. But I act like I do. That’s how you survive where I come from."

She smiled. A crooked one. Not mocking. Almost... in solidarity.

"Good. No one’s asking us to believe in it. Just to pretend long enough that others believe for us."

She took another bite. The crunch of the apple felt oddly out of place in that silence.

"Then get ready. What we’re going to do there... it’s not pretty."

He turned toward her.

"Not sure if that’s something to brag about, but I’m used to swimming in filth."

She watched him. Long. Clear eyes. Unsettling. Maybe old.

"Good. I was worried that a kid with such a pretty face shouldn’t be getting dirtied by a world that’s not made for him."

Dylan gave a smile — the kind that pinches your cheek too much because you’re not sure if it should be polite or real.

"Too late for that," he muttered. "The world had its hands on me long before I knew I had to fight back."

She tilted her head slightly, gaze still locked on his. Not like someone weighing an ally. More like someone studying an unstable artifact. Fascinating. Dangerous. Possibly useful.

"That’s not a bad thing," she said. "People too clean break down when they fall into mud. You... look like you drown with enough elegance to fool the water."

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Was that a compliment or a warning?"

"A prelude."

She tossed the apple core aside without looking and stepped away from the wall.

Her bare feet glided over the stone with a grace that was almost alarming. She walked like she knew the unseen cracks in the world — like she danced with currents he hadn’t yet felt.

Dylan watched her go. She didn’t need to tell him to follow.

He did.

They descended a tight stone spiral staircase. The air grew damper with every step. Colder, too.

Alka eventually spoke — mostly to herself.

"Most people who work with Gael think he’s a strategist. I think he’s a surgeon. He’s not trying to win a war. He’s trying to cut open an abscess. Slice out the rot."

"And us — what are we?"

She stopped, hand on the wall. A moment’s pause.

"The scalpel, I guess."

Then she kept going. He followed, a little stiffer.

They reached a low, vaulted chamber, littered with maps, plans, and scattered reports. An oil lamp flickered in a corner, casting twitching shadows across the stone.

Alka picked up a scroll, rolled it open across a dusty table, and tapped a spot.

"There’s our target."

Dylan leaned in.

A crescent-shaped base, half-built, flanked by cranes and command tents. The name Tiphéa scribbled in red ink.

"It’s not even finished," he said.

"Exactly. That’s when it’s most vulnerable. And most nervous. People get stupid when they think they’re almost done with something."

She looked up.

"In three days, we’ll be inside. Undercover. They’re recruiting civilian labor to speed up the final stages — workers, stewards, couriers, cooks."

"And us — what are we playing?"

"I’m already in their registry under a false name. Logistics. You... we’ll slip you in last minute. In their files, you’ll be a survivor from a border village, transferred into forced labor to avoid the camps."

Dylan straightened.

"Poetic."

"Practical."

She rolled up the map again, not gently.

"You have three days to learn how to walk without making a sound, listen without answering, and smile when someone talks to you like a dog."

He looked at her, no hostility in it.

Then shrugged.

"Cool. Brings back memories of school."

She laughed. A real laugh, this time. Light, brief. Almost regretful.

Then she whispered:

"Welcome to the shadows, Dylan." ƒгeewёbnovel.com

And that was it.

The creak of the low door pulled him back to reality.

The inn had that dusty stillness of places that close without warning. Not dead. Not alive either. The walls smelled of damp wood and stale beer, with, in the background, the muffled echo of a chuckle or a sob — too distant to be credited to anyone real.

Dylan closed the door gently behind him, making sure the latch didn’t snap. His steps settled back into rhythm — that mix of lazy confidence and lucid exhaustion. He crossed the hallway without encountering a soul, except for a scraggy cat that watched him pass with more judgment than he would’ve tolerated from a man.

He climbed the stairs slowly. Each step creaked as if trying to announce his return. He didn’t bother being discreet. There were too many thoughts jammed in his throat to keep pretending he was the infiltrator.

He pushed open the door.

The crystal lamp on the table pulsed faintly. The air smelled of leather, smoke, and damp metal, mixed with something else — something more intimate. Almost familiar.

Maggie.

She was there, sitting in the shadows, back to the window, legs folded up on the edge of the bed. Silent. Still. But awake for a while now, judging by the untouched pillow.

She didn’t immediately look up. She knew it was him. As if she’d learned to recognize the weight of his footsteps on the floorboards.

Dylan shut the door behind him and paused.

Then he sighed.

Not a dramatic sigh. One of those sighs that release just enough pressure to keep from imploding.

"He talked," he said, without waiting for a question.

Maggie finally turned her head slightly. The moonlight drew a pale line across her cheek.

"And you — did you stay quiet?"

He gave a small smile. Defensive.

"Enough for him to keep me. Too much for him to forget me."

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