Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 103: From Pews to Pints

The first crack splintered through the heavy wooden doors like the snapping of brittle bone. It wasn’t a single hit, but rather the result of the constant, unrelenting pressure from the horde outside, undead bodies piling against the entrance like a tidal wave of rot. A deep groaning noise reverberated through the nave, the heavy wooden straining against the onslaught. I killed a solid hundred of them, with he help of Ronan, so there couldn’t be that many left, right? Right?

"Shit," Vance hissed, sword flashing as he took his place in front of the doors. "We don’t have long."

The pounding grew frenzied, desperate, as though they sensed the sweet delicious life within the now battered and bashed doors that kept them from the interior of the church. Rotten fingers, though some were more skeletal, others covered in tattered remnants of flesh, forced their way through the cracks, clawing blindly at the air, desperately hoping to hook a chunk of flesh in their grasp. The doors weren’t going to hold much longer, and once they collapsed, there would be no stopping the flood of corpses that would pour into the church.

"We can’t hold this position," Nythera said, voice tight with panic. "There are too many!"

"Not yet," Ronan said, his tone as unreadable as ever. He stood eerily still, eyes fixed on the barricade, waiting. Calculating.

"Not yet?" I snapped. "Ronan, they’re about to tear through!"

"I need them closer," he said simply, his grip tightening around his dagger.

He had something planned, though for the life of me, I couldn’t tell what, and frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

"Fine," I muttered, rolling my shoulders, my fingers tightening around my own daggers. "Vance, soon as they break through, we hit them hard and fast. Nythera, keep behind us and focus on support. Ronan... do your thing, whatever it is you have planned."

Vance barely nodded, his focus locked on the barricade. His entire body was wound tight, muscles coiled like a spring, ready to explode into action the second the first undead breached the doorway. Nythera was already moving into position, shifting behind us, her fingers twitching as she readied what little magic she could muster.

The doors bulged inward as another crash sent splinters flying. The groaning of wood turned into an outright scream, the centuries-old structure giving way under the brute force of the horde. I could see it now—figures pressing against the gaps in the door, milky eyes rolling wildly in sunken sockets, mouths gaping as they smelled the scent of fresh blood. The sounds they made were ghastly to say the least, nowhere near human, but they weren’t exactly animalistic either. They were like the sound of eternal torment, somewhere between a scream of pain and a whispered moan of agony. It was an unnatural keening that made my stomach twist.

"Get ready," I said through gritted teeth, taking my stance.

Another impact. Another groan. The barricade wouldn’t last another hit, and then, with a final, earth-rattling impact, the doors exploded inward.

The horde surged forward like a wave of decay, which, to be fair, was quite literally a wave of decay. More than one wave, as they pressed forward against one another, coming at us by the dozens, or rather however many could fit through the door at any given time.

The first corpse to cross the threshold barely looked human anymore. Its skin was dry and cracked, splitting open with each jerking movement, exposing blackened muscle underneath. Its mouth hung open in a silent scream, broken teeth jutting out at odd angles. It lunged like a wild, desperate, manic animal.

Vance was already on the move as his sword flashed in a series of clean, precise arcs that separated the creature’s heads from their shoulders. The body staggered for a second, as if confused by its own death, before crumpling to the floor. But there was no time to celebrate the kill, no time to breathe. More were coming.

I stepped into the fray, daggers dancing as I twisted between the undead. My blades found flesh, joints, tendons, soft points where decayed skin gave way easily. One fell, then another, then another. I was fast, faster than them, and that was my only advantage. I held back on phantom edge, waiting to use it for heavier foes, but as I carved through their ranks, part of me wondered if I should just use it at all times. As far as I could tell, it didn’t use mana, so why not?

But for every one we cut down, three more took their place at the very least.

[25 Lesser Zombies Slain]

The voice in my mind bellowed, only to be interrupted by our healer.

"They’re still coming!" Nythera shouted from behind us.

"Yeah, no shit!" I growled, ducking under the grasping hands of a corpse missing half its face. My dagger found its mark, slicing through its throat, severing the spine. It dropped, but I barely had time to register it before the next lunged at me.

"Ronan!" Vance shouted. "Anytime now!"

Ronan hadn’t moved. He stood there, waiting, his body still as ever, but he wasn’t one to exaggerate his efforts, so I knew something big was about to happen. fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

Then, just as I started to doubt he even had a plan, he exhaled—and the temperature in the church plummeted.

A deep, thrumming hum filled the air, like the echo of something ancient and terrible awakening. The flickering remnants of light that streamed through the shattered stained glass dimmed, as if the world itself was bracing for what was about to happen.

I know this is a church, so may god have mercy on our souls for what Ronan is about to do. The thoughts poured from my mind as I tried to pray in any other way I knew.

As Ronan absorbed all friction, all heat, all energy within the room, a surge of fire erupted from his outstretched hands—not a thin, controlled spell, but a raging inferno that flooded the entrance of the church like a living thing. We had to leap to safety as he launched his spell at the enemies that were only moments before, right in front of us.

The flames roared, hungrily consuming everything in their path. The undead caught in the blast didn’t just burn; they disintegrated, and their bodies were reduced to charred husks before they even hit the ground. The air filled with the sickening stench of burnt flesh, but as quick as it filled the room, it dissipated from the raw heat that filled the room.

The fire didn’t stop at the doorway. It rushed outward, feeding on the horde still trying to force their way inside. The ones further back had a second to realize something was wrong before the fire consumed them, too. Their bodies caught like dry kindling, turning into walking pyres before collapsing into smoldering heaps.

The wave of fire finally died down, leaving behind nothing but ash and the faint crackling of embers. I stood there, breathing heavily, daggers slick with rotten flesh and crusted blood.

Nythera’s hands trembled. Vance looked like he’d just witnessed a force of nature. Ronan... well, he just looked mildly satisfied.

"That," I panted, "was probably the most excessive thing you’ve ever done."

Ronan tilted his head slightly. "They are dead."

I stared at the charred remains of the once-massive horde and let out a short, breathless laugh. "I mean, they were dead, but they are certainly a lot more dead now."

We had survived the onslaught. The doors were gone, the entrance a scorched ruin, but we were still standing.

Vance sheathed his sword with a sigh. "We need to get out of here before more show up."

I nodded, rubbing a hand down my face. "Agreed. We move fast, we stay low, and we avoid the main streets. Whatever the hell is running this city... it knows we’re here now, and we have a safe haven no longer. I don’t think any amount of pews is going to protect us tonight.

Nythera swallowed hard, still looking at the blackened corpses. "Then where do we go?"

I turned my gaze toward the ruined city beyond, my mind already racing for an answer to her question, to all of our questions.

"We find somewhere defensible," I said. "And we figure out what the hell we’re really dealing with."

The streets of the ruined city were oddly silent after what we had put the horde through, save for the faint crackling of embers from the scorched husks we left behind. The scent of burnt flesh still clung to the air, but even that was beginning to fade, swallowed by the ever-present stench of decay. The streets were still overflowing with the undead, but those that had split off to attack us, were no more than ashes at our feet, while the others had shambled on their pre-coordinated path, likely ready to loop around and attack again by the next day.

We moved quickly, sticking close to the crumbling buildings, ducking into alleys whenever the distant shuffle of the undead echoed too close for comfort. The horde had been dealt a massive blow, at least from our perspective, but we weren’t stupid enough to assume that was the end of it. If anything, the absence of immediate pursuit made me even more paranoid.

"Where are we going?" Nythera whispered, casting nervous glances at every ruined doorway we passed.

"Somewhere we can catch our breath," I muttered, scanning the buildings for anything remotely intact. "We need cover. A place to hole up for the night."

Vance was the one who spotted it first—a stout, reinforced building tucked between two larger, half-collapsed structures. The sign hanging above the entrance was barely legible, weathered beyond recognition, but the shape of an ale mug carved into the wood told us everything we needed to know.

"A tavern?" I raised an eyebrow.

Vance shrugged. "Better than nothing."

We slipped inside through a side entrance, careful to avoid making too much noise. The interior was surprisingly intact, the heavy wooden bar still standing, chairs and tables scattered but not completely broken. Dust coated every surface, and the air was thick with the smell of stale ale and mildew.

"The basement," Ronan stated, already moving toward a door behind the bar.

A cellar, I thought to myself, but he was right. If there was any place in this city that could give us a moment of reprieve, it was below ground, away from prying undead eyes. We pried open the cellar door and descended into the darkness, the scent of old wood and fermenting alcohol growing stronger with each step.

Then we saw the shelves, still stocked with bottles of aged liquor, some covered in layers of dust, others still gleaming in the dim torchlight.

"Oh, hell yes," Vance exhaled, running a hand along one of the bottles, eyes gleaming with temptation. "We just hit the jackpot."

"Don’t get any ideas," I warned, though I couldn’t deny the sheer novelty of the find. "Last thing we need is to get drunk in the middle of a death trap."

Vance sighed dramatically but relented, dropping into one of the empty crates that lined the walls. Nythera slumped against the stone, exhausted, while Ronan remained standing, ever watchful.

"For now, we rest," I said, surveying the room. "We figure out our next move in the morning."

The thought of sleep didn’t sit well with me, but we had little choice. Whatever the city had in store for us, we’d face it tomorrow.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l