Wonderful Insane World

The night was deepening. The fog had thinned, as if even it were holding its breath.

The fire crackled softly. Maggie had moved a little away, cleaning her axe with maniacal precision. She wasn’t looking at Dylan anymore. At least, not directly.

But she was still listening. She had never really ignored them, truth be told.

Especially now — because from here on out, he was the fracture point.

The one who could tip the scales — for better, or far worse.

Dylan, for his part, had remained seated. Back straight. Breathing slowed. His eyes fixed on his hands.

Like a child.

A child who had just realized he was holding something far too big. Something he hadn’t yet learned to use, or even name.

His palms were dust-stained, but free of wounds.

He turned them over, examined them again. Then closed his fists.

Nothing moved.

He felt no vibration, no light, no strange pulse... just a silence that Dylan found had lasted too long.

He could almost have believed he’d dreamed it.

But Élisa, still crouched beside him, murmured:

"Try channeling your essence. Just a little. Don’t go all the way to the core. Stay at the surface."

He nodded slowly.

Then closed his eyes.

He took a deep breath.

And let a thread of essence flow into his arms, just like he’d been taught. Like he’d practiced over and over throughout the day.

At first, it was the same sensation. A warm current, almost pleasant. Then... a variation. A snag. Something in his back.

He frowned.

The sensation lingered there. Fed there. As if the essence was gathering along his spine, drawn against his will toward the marked area. He tried to ignore it, to spread it out again. But it resisted.

A shiver ran through him.

And then... his shoulder blades tensed for a second.

A sharp, soft crack echoed. Like a spasm.

Élisa flinched back on reflex, eyes widened.

"You just—"

But she didn’t finish.

Behind Dylan, a very faint breath had escaped — a kind of silent vibration, as if the air itself had bent, shifted, and then sewn itself back together around him.

Dylan opened his eyes.

And this time... he had felt something.

Each time he tried again, there was no more reaction than that. Nothing obvious or spectacular. Just that strange impression, like something was happening.

But they had no idea what.

Still, he felt a breath. A tension in the air. A light tingle across his skin. Like a presence without form. Inexplicable. Indescribable in words.

Élisa frowned, head slightly tilted, her eyes scanning every movement Dylan made, every blink, every flicker in the space around him.

"The power... might’ve activated," she murmured, "but not in a visible way."

She shot a glance toward Maggie, still silent, then returned her focus to Dylan.

"Were you expecting a fire beam? A glowing aura? Maybe it’s not that kind of stigma. Maybe it’s... subtler."

Dylan inhaled again. Tried once more. Gathered what little essence he had left. Channeled it again. Again.

But this time, something changed.

And it wasn’t outside.

It was inside.

His breath caught.

And a violent wave of dizziness struck him.

His shoulders slumped slightly.

And in the same moment, he felt drained...

All of his essence was gone, vanished, like it had been sucked dry, emptied to the last drop.

His eyes widened, and he clutched at his chest — right where his core was. He could still feel it... but it was hollow. Empty. Like a reservoir scrubbed clean, scraped to the bone.

He gasped, stunned.

"I..."

But the words died in his throat.

Élisa noticed it instantly. She moved in fast, dropped to her knees beside him, and laid her palm on his shoulder.

"What is it?"

Dylan looked up at her, confusion clouding his eyes.

And he whispered:

"I think I used it all up... I don’t feel anything. My essence... it’s gone."

A silence fell.

Even the fire seemed to hush for a moment.

Then Maggie, who still hadn’t moved, murmured in the dark:

"A power that devours essence... and we don’t even know what it does yet."

He turned his head toward her.

She finally looked up, her gaze locking onto his.

"That doesn’t sound great."

Dylan said nothing, still panting, his palms resting open on his thighs, empty.

Maggie’s words had hit the mark. He didn’t say it aloud, but what he felt now wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was the sharp, brutal sensation of having given everything — without knowing what he had triggered in return.

And that... was terrifying.

"Maybe it’s not ready yet," Élisa murmured, more to herself than to the others. "Or maybe... maybe you’re not the one who decides when it activates."

Dylan slowly turned his head, his grey eyes still wide from the effort.

"Are you saying it’s alive?"

"I’m saying it acts like it is."

Maggie stood up. She wasn’t holding her axe anymore, but even without it, she had that way of moving that said: I’m still armed.

She stepped toward the fire, then turned to face Dylan.

"You activated a power. It’s engraved in your flesh. But it might not be yours yet."

She crossed her arms, and her gaze hardened.

"And until it is, you’re not sleeping alone."

Dylan raised an eyebrow, a weary smile tugging at his lips.

"You gonna watch over me, commander?"

"I want to make sure you don’t wake up with an extra arm or Élisa melting into her sleeping bag."

Élisa made a face.

"Charming."

But she didn’t argue.

The fire crackled gently. The night had thickened. The forest and the mist seemed to have receded, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Dylan finally lowered his eyes to the ground.

In his back, he could still feel the mark of the stigma. Not like heat. Not like pain. But like a presence. A trace.

It was his power.

He had awakened something. And now, that something... was waiting.

"Alright," he breathed, almost to himself.

"Then let’s see which one of us is more stubborn."