Wonderful Insane World
Chapter 174: Dissuasion

Chapter 174: Dissuasion

The sky had darkened like a lid of lead. A grey, dull light clung to the skin, heavy and muffled like a threat not yet spoken. The wind blew in dry waves, carrying scents of rust and old blood—remnants of a front too recently deserted.

There were five of them. Five awakened from the county of Martissant, stationed at the edge of a territory that Pilaf now claimed to control.

They all breathed in silence, and even among them, some held their breath, as if speaking would be a sin.

Only the sound of boots on hardened sand, the irregular clink of armor plates. Each wore different equipment—composite armors, quilted cloaks, reinforced leather—reflections of their individuality, their roles, their scars. Nothing standard. Nothing decorative.

And Tonar walked at the front.

That colossus with harsh features, grey skin stretched over a frame built to survive, not to charm. His bare arms bore traces of old burns and poorly stitched gashes. A massive short-handled sword hung across his back, swaying with each step, untouched. He didn’t need to touch it.

Behind him, Élisa moved without a sound.

She carried her lance—long, dark, perfectly balanced. She didn’t emit anything particular. Just a young elf in combat attire, face neutral, eyes lowered. Except nothing in her was neutral. She was holding back, that was all. Her breathing was slower than the others’. Her fingers didn’t tremble. And her presence weighed subtly on the air.

The others followed. Three awakened, silent and disciplined, selected for this slow march toward tension.

They reached the contact point at noon.

An old relay station, reduced to a few scorched walls and a fallen sign, now sheltering rats and scavengers. In front of them stood five other figures.

The Pilaf team.

Less diverse. More uniform. The same type of armor, in dark, metallic tones, with emblems carved into their chests. They looked ready to fight. Too ready. Which was frightening in itself.

Tonar stopped ten paces away, planted his boots in the ground, then raised his arm.

His team halted instantly.

Élisa crossed her arms. Her lance remained upright against her shoulder.

The silence stretched a bit too long.

Then, a man from the opposing group stepped forward. Tall, lean, features drawn but not worn out. A short sword hung at his belt. His armor gleamed a bit too much, his expression not enough.

"You’re finally here," he said.

Tonar stared at him. No smile. Not even a raised brow.

"We came at the scheduled time."

The tone was low, blunt. Like stating a mathematical fact. The other man nodded slightly—neither respectful nor insolent. Just mechanical.

"I’m Captain Patrick. County of Pilaf."

Tonar replied, unhurried:

"Tonar. Military representative of the county of Martissant."

Another silence. They measured each other, but without direct hostility. Just that old dance between forces not yet unleashed.

"You know, Tonar, this zone has been under our jurisdiction for two weeks. Your men—your spies—have been spotted several times. That’s not exactly what one would call diplomatic."

Tonar didn’t move. He let the words drop, sink into the earth. Then:

"If you had confidence in your hold, they wouldn’t bother you."

Captain Patrick clenched his jaw slightly.

Élisa hadn’t looked away from him. She still hadn’t moved. Feet grounded, a subtle tension in her neck, ready to react if words proved insufficient.

"We’re not here to talk about espionage," Tonar continued. "Nor to debate your definition of the word conquest. We are here to prevent your awakened from crossing a line that cannot be undone."

A murmur behind Patrick. One of his men stepped forward, his look sharp.

"A threat?"

Tonar slowly turned his head toward him. Just a look. No raised voice. No flash. Just that weight, that density in the eyes—the way one looks at a stone one’s about to crush.

The man stepped back a fraction. Just enough to be noticed.

"A word," Tonar replied. "A word given, and kept."

He stepped forward slightly. His shadow stretched over the rubble.

"Martissant claims this territory. And Martissant will not tolerate any advance toward the transit axis. What you occupy is a red zone. What you covet is not."

The captain seemed about to respond, then held back.

It was Élisa who broke the silence this time. Her voice was soft. Unexpected. But it cut the air like a well-honed blade.

"If you push us, there will be no negotiation."

The words were calm, measured. Not a threat. Just truth, laid bare.

Patrick looked at her, for a moment. He hadn’t noticed the lance. Only now did he see the faint runes along its shaft. But it wasn’t glowing. Not yet. And the way she held it was that of a trained warrior, not a living weapon.

The captain sighed. He wasn’t a stupid man. Just one close to the edge of his leash.

"I’m not the one who decides."

Tonar answered, without mercy:

"Then deliver the message."

He turned without waiting for a reply and gestured to his team.

One by one, the awakened of Martissant turned their backs.

Élisa stayed a second longer. She met the eyes of one of the young awakened from the opposing group—a boy with fine hands and a tense stare. He was watching her, fascinated or afraid. She didn’t look away. She showed nothing.

Then she walked off too.

—

On the way back, no one spoke.

The wind had picked up, drier still. The dunes hissed with a fine, sharp sand. Their armor clinked faintly, like distant bells in a world too wide.

Tonar still walked at the front.

He stopped after several kilometers, once they were sure they weren’t being followed.

"We saw what we needed to see," he said, without turning.

One of the awakened behind him nodded.

"Captain Patrick is trembling. They know they crossed a line."

Élisa said nothing.

Tonar finally turned his eyes to her.

"You did well to stay silent."

She nodded. A simple motion.

"If there’s a next time," he added, "they’ll try to dig deeper. They’ll send awakened with polished smiles and soft words. They’ll look for the crack."

"Too bad," she said, "there won’t be a next time."

He looked at her for a second. No camaraderie. No admiration.

Just tacit respect, like between two weapons still sheathed.

"Of course," he replied.

And they resumed the march.