Wonderful Insane World
Chapter 132: At the Mountain’s Feet

Chapter 132: At the Mountain’s Feet

The gem, extracted from the shattered skull of the boar-bear by Maggie with the tip of her blade, was small, murky, a dull brown streaked with reddish veins. It fit in the hollow of her palm, warm and pulsating. A bitter disillusionment painted itself on her face, still taut from the adrenaline.

"Second rank," she muttered, rolling the stone between her blood-stained fingers. "Fucking second rank." Frustration rasped in her rough voice. They had nearly died—Dylan had almost been gutted—by a creature real hunters or warriors would’ve likely taken down with far less trouble.

The monster’s sheer size and blind fury had made them feel like they were fighting for their lives against a third-rank calamity. This cruel world toyed with their nerves, distorted their sense of danger. They’d been lucky against other threats before, but second-rank beasts... they remained a deadly challenge—especially for the poorly armed and inexperienced like them.

Dylan, wiping the thick mud and viscous blood from his jian with a scrap of his already-tattered tunic, looked up. "Only second?" His tone was a blend of disbelief and humiliation. He had felt every useless blow, every misstep. The weight of his clumsiness crushed him just as much as the sword itself.

Élisa nodded, impassive, though her golden eyes scanned the creature’s carcass with renewed scrutiny. "Its endurance, its rage... yes, typical of a starving, territorial second-rank. A third-rank would’ve had a more... insidious presence. Or brute, overwhelming power." She turned to Dylan. "Don’t underestimate the fact you survived. Or the weapon you’re holding. Even poorly wielded, it bit deep."

Her praise was matter-of-fact, without warmth, but it marked a truth: the jian, even in novice hands, was deadly. For Élisa, the fight had confirmed something: the spear in her grip felt like an extension of herself, an echo of the years spent hunting prey in the deep forests of her childhood. It was an anchor in this chaos, a sliver of familiarity in the strangeness of their path.

"And sure, maybe you’ve survived worse. But don’t get cocky."

But it wasn’t time for introspection. The scent of fresh blood and spilled entrails thickened in the damp air—a siren call to every predator within leagues.

The spiritual essence, that diffuse vibration now clinging to their skin like a second atmosphere, was thickest here, around the site of the carnage. Heavy with a foul attention, like invisible flies drawn to rotting meat.

"We don’t linger," Élisa said, her voice regaining its usual sharpness. She stabbed the spearhead briefly into the soil to probe the surroundings, her keen ears alert. "That gem, pathetic as it is, is worth several gold pieces. We move. Now."

They left the sullied clearing at a brisk pace, driven by a renewed urgency. The excitement and impatience that had fueled them when leaving the Cemetery of Heroes still pulsed somewhere deep inside, buried beneath layers of fatigue, pain, and sharpened caution.

Human civilization—the County of Martissant—represented a haven, a tangible hope after days of horror and pursuit. But hope now wore the crimson stain of hard-won wisdom: the road to that haven slithered through lands where death walked in deceptive forms.

Before plunging deeper into the forested foothills that heralded the true mountains, they took a brief but crucial break. Sheltered under a moss-covered rocky overhang, Maggie grabbed a stick and traced over Élisa’s original map. Some parts had been skipped—Maggie had deemed them unnecessary.

Three pairs of eyes studied the sketch under the ashen light filtering through the branches.

"Martissant’s here," Élisa pointed to a castle-shaped symbol nestled in the southwest, beyond the mountain range. "We’re here." The stick marked an area of dense forest wrapping around the first slopes. Between the two lay a maze of ridges, shaded gorges, and a few narrow passes, inked by Maggie’s rough hand.

Under their elven companion’s supervision, the map was quickly updated—and to mock the last time, Maggie had made sure to add three tiny stick figures to represent them. She even gave Dylan extra long hair, and left Élisa bald.

Dylan kept glancing between the doodle and the real Élisa, then burst into a wide grin.

"You’re both children," Élisa grumbled, half amused.

According to the map, they were at the base of the mountains. From here on, they’d have to cross them night and day, without relying on luck. This land was like the Cemetery of Heroes—but vaster. It harbored all kinds of beasts, but third-rank creatures were the most common.

Alone, they might be manageable. In groups, they were another story. And they wouldn’t have time to plan perfect strategies—just getting through the mountains was a promise of extreme peril.

And it wasn’t just the beasts. The terrain itself was an enemy. They would cross mountains, each massive and unique in its threat.

And honestly, all of it was terrifying.

They fell silent again, eyes fixed on the map.

The calm was a façade. Beneath the moss and trees, the earth still breathed blood. The wind had picked up—cool, sharp—as if to remind them the mountain offered no comfort, no mercy.

"Two weeks, huh?" said Maggie, crouching beside the path with a raspy, slightly mocking tone. She rolled her shoulders, muscles still tight. "You said two weeks to cross the forest. And we’ve been walking... what, eight days?"

Élisa nodded. "Eight. Barely. If you count the forced rests and the detours around beast nests."

Her tone wasn’t accusatory—just tired. Worn.

Dylan grimaced. "And we’ve barely cleared the woods. The real peaks start there." He pointed to a rough line—a border between the hills they’d crossed and the jagged spires now rising on the horizon. "At this pace, it won’t take two weeks. It’ll take a month."

A silence fell—a real one, this time.

Maggie exhaled loudly through her nose. No anger. No panic. Just a breath to release the brutal truth.

Élisa answered first, her eyes locked on the gray mountain lines.

"We can’t just climb them. We’ll have to go around, find safe passes. If it rains, we’ll lose more days. And if we run into awakened beasts..." She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. All three of them knew.

Not if. When.

Dylan stood upright, hands on his hips. "There will be beasts. This kind of terrain is their domain. And if they’re hunting..."

"Then we’ll have to be better," Élisa cut in. Not harshly. Not to scold. Just... to remind. To anchor them.

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "You mean better than barely scraping a win against a half-mad second-rank?"

Her smile was ironic, not mocking. A kind of self-deprecation. Acceptance.

"I mean smarter. Tire them out. Pick our battles."

Élisa stabbed her spear into the earth, punctuating her words.

"And we’ll need to plan for longer. Not two weeks. Three, maybe four."

Dylan paled a bit. "We don’t have enough supplies."

"We didn’t have enough for the forest either. We survived."

Élisa’s voice was hard, but strangely calming. As if hardness itself could be a kind of reassurance.

"We also almost died every time," Maggie grumbled—not really arguing, just venting.

A short, dry laugh escaped Élisa.

"Welcome to my world, darling."

Then she leaned toward the map, scribbled a new point: a valley she thought might hold a spring. She had hunted there once, long ago—before the abysses, before the pacts.

"We plan for three to four weeks. We hunt whenever we can. We avoid exposed peaks. We stick together. And we never sleep in the open."

Dylan scratched the back of his head, exhausted.

"Four weeks... we’re going to stink like corpses."

"If we’re lucky," Maggie smiled.

"Otherwise, we become the corpses."