Wonderful Insane World
Chapter 179: Among Them

Chapter 179: Among Them

The captain’s hand fell like a guillotine.

"You, over there..."

Dylan felt his stomach tighten, but his face remained smooth, almost empty, like that of a poor fool shocked to be accused of anything.

"Me, boss?" he rasped, letting a hint of confusion linger in his voice.

The officer stepped closer, his armor creaking with each step. Up close, Dylan saw the sweat beading on his temples and the slight tremor in his fingers. This makeshift captain of the escort was no more confident than his men.

"Yeah, you. You keep checking the wheel. You look around like a ferret. And you stay quiet. Way too quiet, if you ask me. What exactly are you good for?"

Dylan shrugged slowly, letting the silence hang. Then, in a low voice, he replied:

"Nothing more than keeping this cart from busting its ass in the mud. If you wanna push it yourself, be my guest."

His tone was neither insolent nor submissive—just sharp enough to sound like an exhausted man who no longer feared much. The officer frowned. One of the soldiers—the young one, Braham’s replacement—let out a half-chuckle, earning a growl from his superior.

"Tch. We move out, but you..." He placed a hand on Dylan’s shoulder, eyes locked onto his. "You stay where I can see you. If you wander off, I’ll leave you to rot."

A smirk flickered inside Dylan. "Of course you wanna keep me in sight, you bastard. That way, I can handle the rest without you suspecting a thing."

The woods rustled around them, a dry wind snapping the cart’s tarp aside for a moment, revealing the sealed crate beneath. Dylan’s focus zeroed in on it like a magnet. A faint glint escaped the gap—silver, like polished metal. Not grain, not scrap iron.

They’re carrying something valuable. Maybe a weapon. Or worse—anima gems.

The convoy set off again, but the tension had thickened. The horses snorted, the soldiers’ grips tightening on their weapons. The scream they’d heard earlier still hung in the air like an ill omen.

An hour later, the forest closed in around them.

The ravine’s northern path stretched ahead, narrow and damp, wedged between moss-covered cliffs. Dylan immediately spotted the perfect spots for an ambush. Even without enemies, this place was a death trap.

"Slow down. Keep your eyes open," the officer barked.

The men obeyed. Dylan pretended to check the cart’s ropes while scanning their surroundings. Branches cracked. Too much silence. Then—a noise. There, to the right.

A dry rustle hissed through the air.

The soldiers froze. A held breath.

Dylan narrowed his eyes. A silhouette moved between the trees—too low to be human, too slow to be a fleeing animal.

"Shit, shit..." the young soldier muttered, stepping back.

The officer jerked his chin at Dylan.

"Go check."

"Me? This bastard... wants to send me sniffing out an ambush like a damn dog?" Dylan thought.

He inhaled, the forest’s icy air burning his lungs. He forced a nervous smile.

"Me? I’ve got no weapon, boss. If it’s an Awakened, I’ll just be meat."

The captain’s eyes narrowed, ready to retort. Dylan cut him off:

"But if you hand me that spear, I’ll take a look."

A bluff. A risky gamble. The captain thrust a battered pike at him—stiff as an iron rod. Dylan took it like a man used to tools, not a warrior... which he wasn’t. He hadn’t needed to try hard—he was naturally convincing enough to avoid suspicion.

A moment later, Dylan advanced, spear forward, senses on high alert. If he ran into a real Awakened, he’d be exposed—let alone survive a fight.

So he prayed it was just an animal.

Ten meters ahead, he spotted the shape. A stray dog. Gaunt, fur bristling, eyes wild. It trembled more from hunger than rage. Dylan exhaled inwardly. He tossed a rock to scare it off. The dog bolted with a hoarse yelp.

"Nothing!" he called over his shoulder. "Just a dog!"

The soldiers sighed—all but the officer. His eyes stayed sharp with suspicion. Dylan trudged back, dropping the spear in the mud like a man who’d just survived the scare of his life.

The overloaded rear wheel groaned, and Dylan bent to "inspect" it again. His fingers brushed the sealed crate. A mad idea flashed through his mind—divert their attention, steal whatever’s inside.

But not yet. Too soon.

The officer approached.

"You, the laborer. What’s your deal with this convoy? Nobody mentioned you to me."

Dylan lifted his head, face weary, features grimy and drawn. He met the officer’s gaze.

"They stuck me here ’cause I’ve got two arms and not enough brains to argue. Yesterday, I was hauling dirt sacks. Want me back at camp? Fine. But this wheel won’t fix itself."

A pause. Then the officer grunted, stepped back, and muttered:

"Then get to it."

The forest thinned—the ravine was ending. Beyond it, the road to the northern silo would be more open, less guarded. That’s where he’d make his move.

He waited for the next stop. Pretending to fix a loose knot, he slipped onto the cart and under the tarp, crouching behind a crate. His breath turned near-silent. The wood creaked as the wheels rolled on.

He was in.

Half an hour later, as the convoy crossed a clearing, a shrill whistle split the air. An arrow hissed past and thudded into the ground inches from the front wheel.

The officer roared:

"AMBUSH!"

The cart lurched into chaos—shouts, hooves, steel. Dylan, hidden under the tarp, felt a hand lift the fabric’s edge. Burning eyes locked onto his.

"Well, shit."

A second whistle, then a third. The forest seemed to breathe with malice. The soldiers, already tense, drew their blades. The captain bellowed orders no one heeded. Horses reared; the stench of fear and sweat rose.

Then came the sound.

A guttural bark—but too deep, too... human. Like a wolf speaking a broken tongue. The woods filled with heavy footsteps, branches snapping under massive bodies. Dylan, curled under the tarp, felt his guts twist.

They’re coming.

The first one lunged from the shadows.

A man’s build, but with the horrific head of a black mastiff. A maw full of glistening fangs, twisted in something like a grin. In its clawed hands—a short, rusted sword. Its torso was wrapped in crude spiked leather, a trophy stripped from a corpse.

"By all the gods..." the young soldier gasped, raising his shield.

The beast struck with force that shattered the shield, sending the soldier sprawling, his throat torn open by relentless jaws.

More cries, more footsteps. Four, five, six shapes emerged—humanoids with dog heads, armed with scavenged spears, stolen blades, axes still crusted with dried flesh. They encircled the convoy like hungry predators who’d learned battalion discipline.

Dylan didn’t move. His heart pounded in time with the cart’s creaking wheels. Under the tarp, he caught flashes—light glinting off the crates, off blades, in the monsters’ yellow eyes. They know. They smell what we’re carrying.

The captain charged, bellowing like a wounded bull, hacking off a dog’s ear in a spray of black blood. But the beasts fell back, encircling, testing. They weren’t mindless. They knew how to wait.

A weight slammed into the cart. Dylan’s body jolted. One beast climbed the side, claws tearing at the tarp. A massive snout shoved underneath, fangs snapping inches from his face.

"Shit."

He froze, hands gripping wood. The creature sniffed, growled, drool dripping from its jagged teeth.

Dylan grabbed the nearest object—a pouch of nails. In one sharp motion, he hurled it into the beast’s maw. The nails clattered against fangs; the monster recoiled with a screech.

"They want the crate!" Dylan shouted without thinking, his voice raw, instinctive.

The officer whirled, eyes wide.

"What?!"

"The crate! They can smell what’s inside!"

He didn’t even know why he said it. Maybe because it was true. Maybe to distract from the fact he was half-hidden in the cart. But the soldiers believed him. Two moved to block the cart as if flimsy wood could stop the monsters.

Another howl tore through the air—deeper, louder. A larger beast emerged from the brush. A leader, surely. Its muzzle bore a white scar, its eyes blazing yellow. In its grip—a saber with a strange metallic sheen. A stolen Awakened weapon, maybe.

It didn’t charge.

It just pointed at the crate with its saber.

And the others attacked as one.

The captain tried to form a defense. It didn’t last. The first soldier fell to claws, the second was thrown against a tree, blood splattering the moss. The young one—the one afraid of everything—dropped his weapon and ran. A beast caught him in three leaps and tore him apart like a sack of straw.

Dylan didn’t wait. Chaos is my chance. He rolled under the tarp, slipped behind a crate, and dropped into the mud. Crouched low, he snatched a fallen hatchet from a dead soldier’s grip. Not to fight—just to look convincing if spotted.

The clearing had turned into a slaughterhouse. Steel rang against jagged teeth, wood splintered under claw strikes. Horses screamed, eyes rolling white, as one of the beasts lunged and tore the harness off the lead mare with a single pull. The cart jerked violently, almost tipping.

Dylan ducked low, mud soaking his knees, heart hammering. He edged around the side of the chariot, the hatchet slick in his grip. He wasn’t a hero—never had been—and getting between these monsters and their prey would be suicide. His mind raced: "I need a gap. Just a gap to slip away."