Wonderful Insane World
Chapter 178: Weavers of Chaos

Chapter 178: Weavers of Chaos

At dawn, the base resembled a furious hive. The rising sun cast gaunt, hunched silhouettes, their eyes swollen with dark circles and ash. The captain stood on an improvised platform—a battered wooden crate—barking orders like hammer blows.

"The convoy leaves the day after tomorrow at first light! Wood, supplies, metal! And the rest of you, keep these walls standing, or I’ll bury you beneath them!"

The words struck Dylan like a disguised note of hope. Two days. He had two days to prepare his infiltration. The escort would be minimal—three soldiers, an officer, maybe a cart driver. A thin guard, easy to lose in the chaos of a rushed departure.

He eyed the cart meant for the convoy: a heavy, tarp-covered wagon already loaded with sacks of grain, crates of scrap metal, and a barrel of pitch ready to be sealed. The wheels, worn, creaked faintly. Perfect. A noisy, overloaded convoy was a godsend for hiding in plain sight.

For now, he had to remain invisible. Dylan threw himself into the work like the others: hauling sacks of dirt, helping to raise a half-rotten section of palisade, even offering a word of encouragement to a worker on the verge of collapse. Behind this mask of feigned solidarity, he calculated: Who was exhausted enough to miss a guard shift? Who would collapse before the two days were up? Every weakness in this anthill was another opportunity.

By evening, he discreetly moved closer to the men assigned to the convoy. Three soldiers, all young—two with patchy, poorly shaved beards, the third thinner, casting nervous glances around like a cornered rabbit. The last one would be easy to replace. A hand slipped into the chaos, a well-orchestrated "accident," and no one would notice his absence.

That night, as the worksite quieted in waves, Dylan passed by Braham. The man was speaking to two other soldiers, his voice trembling but stubborn:

"If the northern ravine is a target, we have to warn the escort!"

"And you think the captain will listen?" one replied wearily.

"We can’t just stand here doing nothing..."

Dylan turned away without a word. Perfect. The rumor he’d planted was becoming an undercurrent. With any luck, a useless patrol would be sent north, further thinning the convoy’s guard.

The next night, tensions reached their peak. Shouts erupted, arguments between soldiers, hammers thrown to the ground. The captain, gnawed by anxiety, sent a messenger to the marshal, demanding more men and supplies. Dylan watched the messenger leave on another foam-flecked, exhausted horse and knew he’d sown enough confusion to make everything exploitable.

Later, he lay near a pile of sacks, feigning deep sleep while his eyes remained half-open. He observed the comings and goings, noting the sentries’ routines. Every two hours, the guard changed. Between shifts, there was a brief window of disarray.

That’s when he would strike.

Before dawn, he made sure to work near the convoy’s cart. He "checked" the wheels, adjusted ropes, all under the tired gaze of the soldiers. Little by little, he made himself familiar. When the time came to take one of their places, no one would question his presence near the wagon.

He also slipped near the food stores, pocketing a small scrap of cloth marked with the camp’s insignia. A meaningless detail to others, but to him, it was a key: wearing this scrap visibly would create the illusion that he belonged to the logistics team.

By evening, Braham and two others left to check the northern ravine, convinced an ambush awaited there. Dylan watched them go, satisfied. That was three fewer pairs of eyes to watch him, three exhausted men who wouldn’t return before nightfall. Maybe they wouldn’t return at all if they crossed the wrong creature in the woods. But that wasn’t his problem.

The next day, all he had to do was complete the picture: a weakened soldier, some confusion, a silent disappearance. Then he’d slip under the convoy’s tarp—or better yet, walk right beside it, his face covered in dust and sweat like any other laborer.

As he watched the torch flames flicker in the night, Dylan felt a strange satisfaction settle in his chest. Chaos reigned, and he, alone in the middle of this anthill, pulled the invisible strings. Soon, the road to the northern silo would open before him.

He rested a hand on one of the crates already loaded onto the wagon. The wood was rough, the smell of pitch and iron clinging to it.

"Two days..." he murmured to himself, eyes fixed on the north. "And everything collapses."

——-

At dawn on the second day, the camp looked like a ruin field animated by ghosts. The men were nothing but hollow silhouettes, gasping puppets hammering, nailing, lifting, as if they believed they could hold the world upright by sheer force. Dylan, meanwhile, still played the role of the poor wretch, but his eyes were wide open.

He had learned to read the cracks better than anyone. And that morning, everything was breaking.

The captain bellowed again, his voice ragged but stubborn, perched on his makeshift platform:

"If you’re going to collapse, do it out of my sight! I want the eastern palisade up by noon, or I’ll plant your heads on it!"

Dylan watched. The soldiers pulled at ropes with jerky, clumsy movements, fatigue making them a danger to themselves. A young man nearly crushed himself under a poorly secured beam. Dylan lunged to catch him, his hand "accidentally" brushing the other’s shoulder.

"Easy there, old man. You’re pulling like you’ve got a death wish," he murmured with a conspiratorial smile.

The other man looked up at him, surprised by the familiarity, then nodded. Dylan took the chance to study his face: uneven stubble, red-rimmed eyes, and the lost expression of someone clinging to orders he no longer understood. "Perfect. This was exactly the kind of soldier who could disappear without anyone noticing, haha..."

The second day was a repeat of chaos.

The rumors about the northern ravine had grown unexpectedly. Dylan, between two "grunt" tasks, overheard Braham arguing with two men from the escort.

"If there’s an ambush waiting there, we have to warn the convoy!" Braham insisted, his voice shaky.

"And what do you want us to do? Send Zirel a perfumed letter asking him to wait?" one of the soldiers shot back bitterly.

"The captain won’t listen. I say we go see for ourselves."

Dylan resisted the urge to intervene. He simply adjusted a grain sack on a nearby cart, feigning absentmindedness while eavesdropping.

A few hours later, Braham and two other soldiers left the base to "check" the northern ravine.

Dylan watched them go. Three fewer men guarding the convoy, just as planned. The path was clearing.

At nightfall, Dylan passed by the convoy’s cart. The tarps had been poorly secured in the rush. He discreetly tugged a rope, letting a flap hang loose.

With an expert eye, he assessed: three crates of scrap metal, two sacks of grain, a barrel of pitch, and at the back... a smaller crate, sealed with freshly hammered nails, unmarked. It gave off a strange, metallic, almost acidic smell. Not just a simple supply shipment.

"What the hell are you transporting, you madmen?" he thought, a shadow of a smile on his lips.

He fastened the tarp, then pretended to check the wheels, running his fingers over the worn wood. The left rear wheel creaked louder than the others. A blessing. With a well-placed strike, it would break along the way, forcing the escort to slow down. A boon for a fugitive.

The last night before departure

The camp was alive with shouts and tools clattering to the ground. The air reeked of ash and sweat. Dylan lay near a pile of sacks, eyes half-open, studying the sentries’ routine once more:

A shift change every two hours.

A three-minute gap between rotations, when one group left and the next hadn’t yet taken position.

"Three minutes. That’s all I need."

He rolled slowly onto his side, his hand slipping under his grimy tunic to touch the cloth he’d stolen the day before—a scrap of scarf marked with the camp’s insignia. This simple piece of fabric would make him a "logistics man," at least in the eyes of a harried officer.

The camp stirred in the morning mist. The captain barked orders with even greater fury, his lack of sleep amplifying his temper.

"You three over there! You’re on convoy escort duty! And you, the twitchy one, stay where I can see you. You’re scowling like a kid in timeout—it’s pissing me off."

Dylan watched closely. The youngest soldier—the one who looked like a rabbit ready to bolt—got chewed out and, moments later, slipped behind a tent. Dylan waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. No return.

"Perfect..."

He walked toward the cart, dragging a grain sack over his shoulder as if sent to assist. The officer in charge of the escort, a stiff man, stopped him with a gesture.

"What’s your problem, huh?"

Dylan, head bowed, pretended to wipe his brow with the stolen scrap of cloth.

"Just loading these sacks, boss. I’m keeping an eye on the rear wheel—it’s squealing like a pig. If it gives out on the road, it’s me who’ll catch hell, not you."

The officer hesitated, his gaze lingering on the insignia-marked cloth. He grunted and moved on. Dylan exhaled softly. One more step.

The convoy lurched into motion at the first ray of sunlight. The wheels creaked, the tarps snapping in the wind. Dylan walked beside the cart, rope in hand, face lowered, covered in dust like the others. He heard a soldier mutter:

"Two days’ march, and we’ll die out there, mark my words..."

Dylan didn’t respond. He stared at the horizon. The road to the northern silo stretched like a shadowed corridor between the hills. Every step took them farther from the camp, every step was a victory.

By mid-morning, the left rear wheel gave way as planned, groaning before sinking into the mud. The escort jerked to a halt. The officer fumed:

"Damn it, this wheel again! Who’s handling this?"

Dylan raised a hand, feigning resignation.

"Me, boss. I warned you about this one. Give me two minutes."

He knelt by the broken wheel, playing the part of the fixer. But his mind was elsewhere. Once under the tarp, he spotted a gap between two crates—wide enough for a lean man like him to slip halfway in. "If things go south, I hide in here and vanish."

The convoy moved on. The silence thickened as they pushed deeper into the hills. Then, without warning, a cry tore through the woods—short, sharp, inhuman. The horses reared, the soldiers drew their weapons. Dylan looked up, heart pounding.

A figure had appeared on the ridge, motionless. Too fast to be just a scout.

"What the hell is that?" one of the soldiers breathed.

Dylan felt survival instinct claw at his gut. This wasn’t part of the plan. There were enemies out there... or worse.