Wonderful Insane World
Chapter 176: Provocation

Chapter 176: Provocation

Zirel pivoted without another word. His short cape whipped the air as he crossed the monumental gate, his footsteps echoing on the polished stone. Maggie fell in behind him, the shaft of her halberd clattering with each stride. The others followed in silence, like a collective shadow, a disciplined pack.

The corridor beyond the gate was narrow, lined with torches fixed to bronze sconces. The light danced across the metal plates, carving shifting glimmers on tense faces. Maggie advanced, helmet still fastened, senses sharp, noting every breath, every whisper. The scent of heated metal and weapon oil saturated the air.

They emerged into a low-ceilinged room with walls covered in maps. A massive oak table dominated the center, strewn with parchments marked with winding red and black lines. Wooden figurines marked strategic points. No chairs. No one sat.

Zirel took his place at the head of the table, gloved hands braced against the wood. His voice fell like an axe:

"Simple objective: strike, chaos, retreat."

He pointed to an area circled in bright red, south of the foothills.

"An outpost. Built fast, no real fortifications. Fifty, maybe sixty men. No confirmed Awakened. We destroy everything we can, set it ablaze, and take this."

He grabbed a small rectangle of blue cloth embroidered with a claw-like emblem—the enemy county’s flag.

"Their pride. We tear it down and bring it back. A clear message."

His gaze swept the group, lingering a fraction longer on Maggie, as if gauging her reaction behind the steel.

"No prisoners. No pointless heroics. We stay tight. If things go south, we disengage. Rally point twenty minutes north. Understood?"

A sharp, clipped chorus: "Understood."

Maggie gave a silent nod. Behind the visor, her clenched jaw betrayed something else—a glacial clarity. She knew what "no prisoners" meant in the mouths of men like Zirel.

They left the manor at nightfall. Through a hidden postern in the foundations, they slipped beyond Highland’s walls, swallowed by the vast, dark expanse stretching to the horizon. The wind carried the scents of dry earth and withered vegetation. The ground barely trembled under their muffled steps. Stars began piercing the indigo veil of the sky.

Maggie took up the rear. Silent, observant. Two Awakened whispered ahead of her: a lean woman with cropped hair and sharp eyes, wielding two short sabers, and a hulk nearly as broad as she was, armored like a walking wall. With every exchange, a spark of rivalry crackled between them. She noted their names silently when Zirel called them: Lucia and Bob.

The others? A twitchy archer, a gaunt man with unsettlingly calm eyes, and one last figure whose face was covered by a fine black steel grille. A mismatched team, but a well-oiled one.

Silence settled again, broken only by the rhythm of boots and the rasp of straps. Maggie felt their curiosity weighing on her. No one had dared ask the question yet, but she could see it in their eyes: *Who are you behind that helmet?* A stranger in their ranks. An unknown wielding a weapon heavier than most could handle.

She didn’t care. She wasn’t here to fit in. Only to survive. And to carry out this mission that reeked of blood.

They reached an overlook above the valley well past midnight. The enemy outpost sprawled below—a jagged shadow of tents and makeshift palisades. Torches flickered weakly, casting unstable halos on sentry silhouettes. Voices rose in waves, mingling with the sporadic clatter of tools. The acrid stench of tar and smoke clung to the air.

Zirel crouched behind a boulder, his eyes gleaming like cold stones. The others followed suit. Maggie rested her halberd against her shoulder, watching the scene through her visor’s slit. Her whole body thrummed with contained energy.

Zirel traced three quick signs in the dust.

"Three fronts. Hit like lightning. Set everything ablaze. No shouts until it’s over. When you see the banner fall, immediate withdrawal." He jerked his chin at Maggie. "You—with me."

She nodded. Simple. Direct. The way she liked it.

He pulled a short torch from his back, soaked it in oil, and lit it with a sharp motion. Flames surged, whipped by the night wind, casting orange flickers across their faces. Maggie felt the heat graze her steel. Her fingers tightened around the halberd’s shaft. A thought crossed her mind, cold as the blade:

*Let’s see how this world’s wars catch fire.*

Zirel drove the torch into the ground. A silent signal.

The attack began.

——

The night reeked of pitch and sweat. A thick, greasy stench that clung to the throat like a half-digested grudge.

Harl leaned his spear against his shoulder, hands buried in the lukewarm pockets of his jacket, trying to shake off the cold creeping beneath his leather plates. The wind had picked up along the foothills, lashing the tent canvases, tearing shreds of smoke from the braziers. He blinked against the sting of dancing flames. His eyelids were heavy. His mouth, pasty. Three nights of poor sleep. Three nights of scrambling between chores and guard shifts.

He hated this slapped-together outpost. Too new. Too exposed. Not a real fort, just a pile of planks, palisades that groaned at the slightest breeze, and stakes driven into the mud like rotten teeth. A carcass pretending to be a stronghold. Ridiculous. But there was no choice: *"We have to hold this point,"* the captain had said. *"We have to show that Pilaf is advancing."* Pilaf, Pilaf... Harl clenched his teeth. Pilaf was just a word to him, a distant county devouring land without ever asking how many men it would bury to pay for it.

A stifled laugh burst out behind him, near the brazier. The two recruits they’d stuck with him—valley boys barely grown—were rolling dice on an upturned crate, their shadows warped by the flame. One of them mumbled a song, teeth glinting in the warm light. Liquor passed between them. Harl growled a warning:

"Shut your mouths, or the captain’ll sew them shut."

They snickered, ignoring him. Not out of defiance. Out of ignorance. Like all those fools who thought war was something distant, that monsters didn’t lurk in the dark. Harl knew better. He’d seen what Awakened could do. He’d watched a man turn to pulp before he could scream.

He scrubbed his wind- and grime-tanned face, listening. Nothing. Just the monotonous rustle of canvas, the snuffling of tethered horses farther off, and the oily crackle of pitch simmering in the cauldron. Everything seemed calm. Too calm.

A premonition, thin as a blade, scratched at the back of his neck.

He turned his head toward the hill. Black boulders jutted against the indigo sky like silent sentinels. Not a breath, not a shifting shadow. And yet...

He straightened. His hand closed around the spear’s shaft. The boys behind him noticed nothing. They were still laughing, mouths full of wine.

Then he heard it.

A sharp sound. Not loud. Just a muted impact, somewhere in the dust. Then another. Like a step muffled by earth. And a third.

Harl’s breath hitched. His eyes raked the slope, searching for the intruder. Nothing. Then... a glimmer. Fleeting. Reddish. Like an ember in the dark.

"Hey..." he breathed, unfinished.

The world tilted.

A flaming arrow hissed through the night and struck a tent. Then another. And two more. Within seconds, tongues of fire erupted, lashing at the canvas like a starving pack. The wind fed the flames, whipping them into incandescent plumes. The camp awoke with a howl.

Figures lunged from the shadows. No—not shadows. Beasts. Awakened. Too fast, too precise. Blades flashed in the sudden blaze, blinding.

Harl stumbled back, spear trembling in his grip. He saw one of the boys lift his head, mouth open for a scream that never came—a curved blade slit his throat with the gentleness of a whisper. A black spray splashed the brazier.

Everything spiraled. Torches flew. Shouts collided. A horse, mad with terror, ripped free of its tether and galloped into the inferno, screaming like a demon.

Harl ran. Not from cowardice. From raw instinct. His boots pounded the hard earth, his heart hammered like an anvil. He reached the palisade, turned to look. And saw her.

A massive figure, draped in iron, rising like a titan from the blaze. A halberd held high, its scarlet reflections carving murderous arcs in the night. The helmet hid everything, but Harl felt the gaze behind it. A gaze that didn’t see a man. Only an obstacle to sweep aside.

He planted his spear, roared as he charged. The impact never came. The shaft was torn from his hands like a twig. Something whistled. Pain erupted in his shoulder, hot and brutal. His legs buckled.

He collapsed into the dust, cheek pressed to the earth as it trembled under footsteps, under screams, under the crash of steel. Unbearable heat devoured his ribs. He turned his head, gasping, just enough to see the banner. The blue flag, marked with the claw, ripped from its pole by a gloved hand.

The world turned red. Then black.