Wonderful Insane World
Chapter 130: Land of Blades

Chapter 130: Land of Blades

The silence that followed the placing of the final stone on the cairn was heavy, filled with the urgency that surged back with brutal clarity. A distant howl—hoarse, ravenous—tore through the morning air, a harsh reminder that the territory was no longer guarded.

Maggie tensed, her face pale from blood loss drawn taut again. Élisa turned her head toward the sound, her golden eyes becoming cold blades.

"We don’t have a minute to lose," said Élisa, her voice regaining its usual firmness, though weighed with exhaustion. "Choose. Quickly."

Before them stretched the weapon field—a forest of metal and wood thrust skyward beneath the pale sky. Hundreds of weapons, each marked with an insignia engraved or painted on the hilt, the blade, or the haft—emblems of roaring lions, howling wolves, stylized trees, intricate runes.

Taking one wasn’t just a matter of utility. It was claiming a legacy, defying the memory of a clan, risking a vendetta if they were ever recognized. But their own weapons were in ruins: Maggie’s military axe, even reinforced by Ondine’s mark, bore deep notches and warped steel; Élisa’s daggers, still in decent shape, were far too short to harm larger creatures.

Maggie stepped forward first, walking among the forgotten weapons. Some were rusted, decayed by time; others remained intact, as if immune.

Her gaze swept over massive axes—some as wide as shields, with hafts thick as tree trunks. Too heavy, too crude. Enormous war hammers, flanged maces, spiked cudgels...

All seemed built for larger hands, stronger arms, warriors of another kind. She passed rows of morningstars, rusted chains dangling, without stopping. Her instinct pulled her deeper into the field’s heart.

Then, she stopped.

Half-buried and almost discreet among its more imposing neighbors, one chained weapon caught her eye. The haft was of dark wood, reinforced with blackened metal bands—perfectly sized for her grip.

A thick, well-forged chain—neither too long nor short—was fixed to it. But instead of a spiked ball or blunt head, the chain ended in a curved, sharpened blade—like the tip of a halberd, but broader. Made for cutting, tearing. A hybrid weapon—deadly, with the reach of a flail and the slicing power of a battle axe.

Maggie wrapped her fingers around the handle, feeling the worn indentations left by previous hands. She pulled. The weapon resisted, anchored in the soil as if by its own will. She grunted—and with a full-body effort, tore it free in a screech of metal and dirt.

The weight almost knocked her off balance. It was far heavier than her old axe—a deadweight that demanded respect. But the grip was solid, and despite the bladed head swaying at the chain’s end, the balance was surprisingly good. A weapon for breaking, for cleaving, for keeping monsters at bay.

She examined the guard near the haft. Beneath layers of grime and the patina of time, an emblem was carved: a stylized bull skull, pierced by a broken hammer. She ran her thumb over it, revealing runes etched in a circle around the symbol.

< Bonebreaker Guild >

A half-smirk tugged at Maggie’s lips. "Charming," she muttered dryly. But in her eyes, a cold gleam of approval had sparked. The name was blunt, brutal—like the weapon itself. And like the work awaiting them in the mountains.

She swung it slowly, testing the chain’s motion. The steel sang faintly in the cold air. It was a risk, carrying the mark of a likely-extinct but possibly hated guild. But the power it offered justified the danger.

Meanwhile, Élisa had moved through the rows with methodical precision. Her eyes didn’t linger on massive or exotic weapons. She ignored swords—too reminiscent of the one Dylan wielded like a limb. She passed over bows—too slow to ready. She sought something simple, direct, reliable. Something to extend her arm and her will.

She stopped before a spear. Not the most ornate, nor the longest. This one had a shaft of dark, polished wood, just slightly taller than herself, ending in a damascened steel point. The tip was narrow, honed, lethal—no flourishes, no ornament. Near the socket, a simple emblem: a stylized lightning bolt engraved in the metal.

< Thunder Clan >

A name unknown to her—likely extinct. It didn’t matter.

Élisa grasped the shaft. The wood was cold, alive beneath her fingers. She pulled. The weapon slid free with little resistance, a soft hiss of release. She spun it once, twice—testing the balance, the agility. Perfect. The weight ideal, the tip cutting a deadly arc through the air.

A weapon for reach, for precision. For controlling space, striking fast and hard without overexposing. She tightened her grip, face impassive. A logical choice. Efficient. One that would let her protect, pierce, survive.

Raised in a forest-bound tribe where survival meant hunting, it was, for now, the ideal weapon.

Another howl—much closer this time—shattered the silence. Branches cracked in the surrounding woods.

"Move! Now!" barked Élisa, her voice cracking like a whip.

Maggie nodded, gripping the chain of her flail-halberd, silencing its faint metallic song. Dylan rose slowly from his rock, the Jian’s scabbard lashed to a makeshift belt fashioned from leather torn off a coat he’d found draped over a greatsword. His hand rested on the dark hilt—a presence both comforting and menacing.

Without a glance back at the Guardian’s cairn or the fallen heroes’ field of blades, the three wounded figures—now armed with relics of the dead—vanished into the thinning morning mist, fleeing the now-vulnerable cemetery, carrying with them the weight of stolen legacies.

Their road toward the mountains had already promised to be treacherous. Now, it had turned.

Heavily armed, seasoned by horror, they knew what awaited.

But this world...

has a way of surprising even the prepared.

The forest swallowed them whole, its skeletal branches clawing at their clothes as they pushed deeper into the undergrowth. Every snapped twig beneath their boots sounded like a gunshot in the unnatural silence that had fallen over the woods. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Maggie led the way, her new flail-halberd cleaving through stubborn vines with disturbing ease. The blade at the chain’s end left clean, surgical cuts in the vegetation - a testament to its unnatural sharpness despite centuries buried in earth. Every few steps she’d glance at the bull skull insignia, her fingers tightening around the haft.

"Still admiring your new toy?" Élisa muttered from behind, her spear held at the ready. Though her tone was flat, the tension in her shoulders betrayed her vigilance. The forest was too quiet. Even the insects had gone silent.

Maggie didn’t turn around. "Just wondering how many bones this thing actually broke before ending up planted in the dirt." She gave the chain an experimental flick, sending the blade whirling in a deadly arc that stopped just short of a tree trunk. "Feels... eager."

A sharp hiss from Dylan made them both freeze. He stood slightly apart, one hand raised, the other resting on the black hilt of the Jian. His nostrils flared as he turned his head slowly, like a wolf catching a scent. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

"Something is coming."