Wonderful Insane World
Chapter 175: Good Days

Chapter 175: Good Days

Three days. Just three days before the big leap into the unknown, and Maggie had kept her promise.

She had stuffed herself, quite literally, in that same filthy tavern tucked deep in Martissant’s underbelly—the one where Jonas had dragged her in his timid attempt at seduction.

The night had passed without a hitch, without drama, without any incident other than Maggie staying true to herself: a force of nature with the appetite of a titan and a disarming pragmatism.

"Ready to march into hell as long as there’s free food," she had muttered inwardly, thinking back to the feast. And in that smoke-choked dive, its floors sticky with centuries of spilled beer, they would’ve had a hard time killing her anyway—her, an Awakened. Her stomach, hardened by the wild abundance and brutal scarcities of the Great Forest, had endured greasy dishes and heavy mugs of ale with the stoicism of a boulder.

The other patrons—regulars with glassy stares—had watched her with a mix of horror and fascination as she devoured her third boar stew with a second stale loaf of bread. The overpowering smell of burnt fat, sour beer, and human sweat created an aroma that was filthy yet oddly comforting in its excess.

But Maggie, contrary to what her legendary appetite suggested, knew how to pace herself. An Awakened who survives alone in hostile zones learns moderation—even in gluttony. Sure, she had eaten two, three times more than an ordinary man, but she had controlled herself. She had left a space—a precious reserve in her insatiable gut—for another occasion. Because you never know.

A lesson from her old world: free food is a rare gift, but gorging now could rob you of tomorrow’s opportunity.

They had talked, Jonas and her. He, awkward, blushing under her frank gaze, stumbling through stories of his apprenticeship under a Lower-Belt shopkeeper. She, an expert at dodging questions too personal—"Where are you from, Maggie?" "Oh, around..."—while keeping the thread of conversation from disappointing the poor boy too quickly. She had thrown in a few questions about Martissant, about rumors in the underbelly, gleaning scraps of useful intel like a poacher laying silent snares. It had gone well. Pleasant, even, in a way. Jonas had a naïve honesty that disarmed her.

And Maggie, with a cunning she barely acknowledged in herself, had made sure to keep the suspense alive. A sidelong smile, a vague "maybe next time"—enough to let the boy leave with a light heart, nursing the hope of a second rendezvous. She had been there for the food, nothing else. But saying that outright would’ve been cruel—and pointless. She had liked his company, in its simplicity.

Thus ended her "date" with Jonas. A fleeting parenthesis of normalcy before the big plunge.

⸻

Now, the time had come.

Standing before the towering bronze gates of High-Terre, Maggie felt a strange mix of excitement and apprehension coil in her stomach—a sensation very different from the tavern’s stuffed satisfaction. Beside her, Élisa stood tall and poised, eyes scanning the lofty stone walls clawing at Martissant’s pale sky. A different world. A world of order, of wealth... and power.

They presented their booklets to the guards. Men clad in gleaming armor, polished to blinding perfection under the wan sunlight.

Their eyes—cold, probing—swept over the two women, lingering on Maggie’s weathered features and broad, imposing frame, before dropping to the papers.

A tense silence stretched, punctuated only by the metallic clink of armor and the wind whistling between battlements. Maggie held her breath. Were these scraps of paper signed by Gael truly enough? Were they real? Did Gael even have that kind of pull?

Then, without a word, one guard gave a curt nod. The massive gates groaned open, dragged by an invisible mechanism, revealing a vista of wide, immaculate, stone-paved streets flanked by buildings with carved facades and gleaming windows. A subtle scent—clean stone, cultivated flowers, and... money—replaced the familiar stench of the Lower-Belt slums.

Maggie and Élisa exchanged a glance thick with disbelief. A barely perceptible nod—a silent pact sealed in that moment. They stepped across the threshold. The gates slammed shut behind them with the resonance of a gong, marking an unbridgeable divide.

They were in. They—survivors of woods and guttered streets—were stepping into the sanctuary of the powerful. And, unbelievably, they now carried official papers allowing them to move freely within Martissant... and beyond. A liberty unimaginable weeks ago.

"Thanks to Dylan, huh," Élisa remarked with a wry smile, eyes tracing the majestic facades. The assurance that radiated from that single name—Dylan—their indispensable comrade who had pulled strings fast and hard.

"Yeah," Maggie admitted, eyes scanning corners and blind spots like she still roamed the forest. "I couldn’t have done it faster."

A guide appeared halfway down the wide, deserted avenue—dressed in a plain yet perfectly cut tunic. Silent, efficient, he led them briskly through a maze of quiet, spotless streets until they reached a discreet yet massive manor embedded in a high-end residential district. No ostentatious gardens, no gaudy fountains—just an impression of solidity and restrained wealth. Inside, the austerity persisted: paneled corridors in dark wood, heavy doors, a near-monastic silence.

No pointless greetings. The guide ushered them straight to a door bound with iron fittings. He opened it, revealing a vast armory smelling of linseed oil, fresh leather, and cold steel. Rows of full suits of armor, helmets aligned like tin soldiers, racks of swords, axes, spears, shields—all bathed in harsh light from narrow, high windows. The military might of High-Terre, palpable and menacing.

"Equip yourselves," the guide ordered curtly before posting himself by the door, a silent sentinel. "Each of you: one suitable armor and a weapon if needed."

Élisa moved first, eyes scanning the collection like a jeweler appraising stones. She chose a reinforced leather harness: supple for mobility, with a breastplate, pauldrons, and greaves of polished metal offering essential protection without sacrificing agility.

She buckled the straps with meticulous precision, transforming into a figure of lethal grace. Her hand brushed the familiar shaft of her lance—her natural extension—before selecting a short, sturdy sword as backup, fastening it to her hip. A secondary blade for close quarters. "Perfect," she murmured, rolling her shoulders to test her range of motion.

Maggie watched, then stepped forward. Light armor made sense. She picked something similar to Élisa’s but topped it with a hammered-steel closed helmet, its visor a mere slit. Beneath the plating, with her broad frame and corded shoulders forged by years of survival, and now this faceless helm, she knew she could easily pass for a man.

A mistake that might prove useful.

Finally, her gaze locked on a massive halberd resting on a rack. An axe blade, razor-edged; a spear tip, needle-sharp; a robust hook for dismounting riders—it was a weapon of control, of sheer presence, holding foes at bay while cleaving through ranks. A memory flashed: Donovan in mid-battle, sweeping a similar weapon with brutal elegance, scattering raiders like chaff. She had been transfixed.

She seized it. The weight was significant, yet perfectly balanced. She spun it slowly, feeling its murderous promise hum through the steel. Love, immediate and absolute. This would be hers.

Armored and armed, they faced each other. The metal between them suddenly made their bond feel distant—turning familiar camaraderie into something sterner, an alliance of warriors. Unease, faint but stubborn, rippled under Maggie’s iron shell.

"You sure you’ll be fine with them? Alone?" Her voice, muffled by the visor, sounded harsher than she intended.

Élisa smiled faintly, tapping the shaft of her lance. "Don’t worry about me, Mag. Focus on your own team. Make them respect you." A gloved hand touched Maggie’s plated shoulder. "You’re the strongest one out there, after all."

Maggie nodded, steel rasping at her collar. Yes, Élisa was strong. But the forest had patterns, rules. This... this was different. Not beasts now—but men.

"Go on," Élisa said, stepping back. "See you soon, Maggie."

"See you, Lise."

No more words. The guide split them apart. Élisa vanished down a side corridor with another servant ghosting at her heels. Maggie watched her disappear, something tightening in her chest, then turned on her heel to follow her own escort.

She crossed endless corridors, the metallic clang of her boots and the steady clack of her halberd’s tip striking the stone tiles echoing in the oppressive silence. Her focus was entirely consumed by her stride, by the weight of the armor and the weapon, by the necessity of appearing unshakable. But beneath the helmet, her mind spun. Élisa, alone, joining a group of unknown Awakened—likely hardened soldiers of High-Terre, suspicious of outsiders... The thought knotted like a vice in her chest. She pushed the image away. "She’s strong—stronger than most." She had to believe that. She had to stay locked on her own survival, her own mission.

Finally, her guide stopped before an archway opening onto a small, sunlit courtyard. He motioned her forward, then stepped back. Maggie squared her shoulders, drew in a deep breath muffled by the helmet, and entered.

Six Awakened—men and women—were seated or leaning on the broad stone steps leading to an annex building. All wore full armor, polished and practical, helmets sometimes removed to reveal faces marked by experience. The atmosphere was relaxed but professional: low conversations, a knife scraping against a whetstone, another soldier checking the straps of his breastplate.

When Maggie crossed the arch, the massive shadow of her armored form—the broad silhouette amplified by the plating and, above all, the enormous halberd slung almost casually across her shoulder—fell over them. Conversations died instantly.

Every gaze turned toward her. Maggie felt the weight of their assessment: surprise, curiosity, a flicker of respect at her size, and most of all, the impact of her imposing, faceless presence. The face hidden behind a slit of darkness in that helmet added a layer of mystery—and intimidation.

She advanced to the center of the courtyard, facing the steps. No rush. She straightened to her full height, radiating an impression of steady, immovable power. A faint grunt escaped her throat—unintentional, a reflex of tension. Then came the sharp, thunderous CLACK of her halberd’s tip striking the stone between her boots, echoing through the silence like a war drum.

"Hey." Her voice, faintly metallic behind the helmet, was short, neutral. Neither warm nor hostile. Just a statement.

A man seated on the top step, young in years but carrying a natural air of command, rose slowly. His armor bore finer work—subtle engravings etched into the breastplate. His face was sharp, scar-scored, his gray eyes like steel-tipped arrows. He measured Maggie with a deliberate sweep of his gaze: armor, helmet, halberd, then trying to pierce the shadowed slit of her visor.

"Took you long enough, soldier," he said dryly—no warmth, no open hostility either. Just a plain remark, heavy with undertones of discipline and expectation. This was Zirel. The leader.

Maggie didn’t move. She held his stare—though hidden—like an unyielding wall of iron. Silence thickened, weighted with the tension of this first meeting, the gravity of expectations, and the shadow of an unknown mission waiting ahead.

Zirel finally made a brief motion toward the great door behind him.

"Let’s go."