Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 113: "Spa Day from Hell

The descent didn’t announce itself with some dramatic drop or crumbling edge—it just became, gradually sloping as if the dungeon itself was guiding us deeper into its rotting heart. I could feel the shift beneath my boots, less of a change in incline, but more of a change in substance. The stone underfoot no longer felt like carved brickwork. It had taken on a strange elasticity, firm yet faintly yielding, as if it wanted us disposed of and was debating whether or not to swallow us whole.

The tunnel had grown quieter, not in any peaceful, tranquil way. It was the silence that lingered right before a scream, thick and pressing, like the air was holding its breath in anticipation and in turn cause effects on all of us. My own breath came a little slower, more deliberate, it was clear my body knew it needed to conserve whatever reserves it had left or be left with nothing.

The glow had shifted again, the soft green of the glyphs fading into a sullen crimson, casting long, skeletal shadows across the walls. It was a steady, pulsing in slow intervals, like the rhythm of something ancient and enduring. Something that hadn’t just been born, but cultivated–another tormented being forced into existence only for the purpose of causing suffering.

I lifted my hand slightly, signaling for the others to slow their pace. "Keep sharp. If the walls start bleeding, we’re turning around," I muttered, my voice low, more for myself than anyone else.

Vance edged up beside me, blade already drawn. His face was pale, but his grip was steady. "If the walls start bleeding, I’m skipping the part where I scream and going straight to the stabbing."

"What? Stabbing the walls? Do you really feel that is a productive use of your blade?" I questioned.

"If the wall bleeds some, it can bleed some more," was all he said, as he held tight to his weapon, ready to start stabbing walls or whatever other shit he had planned.

Behind us, Nythera moved with hesitant steps, her breath soft and controlled. She wasn’t trembling anymore, but I could see the fatigue sinking deeper into her bones. She wasn’t just tired—she was unraveling slowly, holding herself together with threadbare determination and a spark of faith that we hadn’t entirely earned.

Ronan... well, Ronan moved like this was the halls of the academy. His eyes scanned the walls, occasionally pausing to brush his fingers along a vein-like seam, reading some pattern only he could interpret. He said nothing, but that silence felt deliberate now, like even his breath was being rationed for what lay ahead. It was then that the tunnel opened.

Not abruptly, but the moment we stepped across the unseen threshold, everything expanded—space, sound, sensation. We were inside a new chamber, massive and circular, like a sunken cathedral that had forgotten the sky. The ceiling stretched high above us, choked by interlocking roots and coils of thick, gnarled growths that glistened with some sort of mucus. Cracked columns circled the room’s perimeter, leaning like they’d tried to escape and failed.

At the center, a basin—not just a pool, but a wound in the earth. The liquid inside wasn’t water. It churned like tar, dense and impenetrable, every ripple disturbingly slow, as though even movement was being digested.

That pulse—the one that had guided us this far—was louder now, no longer something I felt in the soles of my feet, but something that echoed in my sternum. It resonated through the chamber with a dull, methodical rhythm, like the countdown to something we weren’t going to enjoy.

I scanned the edges, the walls, the ceiling—anywhere that might house another ambush—but this time, it wasn’t hiding. As many times before, what lay ahead was waiting for us, watching and deducing its next moves.

The basin didn’t bubble, it didn’t hiss or glow ominously or churn with some overplayed magical distortion. It just... pulsed. Slow and steady, like the chamber had grown its own heartbeat and wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

I stepped forward cautiously, the sound of my boots meeting the damp, uneven stone echoing louder than I liked. There was no splash—thank the gods for that—but I didn’t let my shoulders drop, not even close. I’d learned better than to relax in rooms like this. With a basin like that, we were looking at another classic water zombie battle.

Vance shifted beside me, peering into the dark fluid like it might wink back. "Okay, let me just say it before anyone else does. Another pool? Really? Are we in a dungeon or a really cursed spa tour?"

Nythera didn’t laugh, but the corners of her mouth twitched with something that might’ve been the ghost of amusement. "Maybe the dungeon’s running out of ideas."

"If it starts offering exfoliation, I’m out," I muttered, eyes still locked on the pool. "Wait, how the hell do you know what a spa is?"

"We have spas y’know," Vance retorted, "In fact, there are certain lingering memories I have of a specific spa, where you and–" he was interrupted.

"Okay, okay, good times, we all have had fun spa experiences, but let’s focus on what is going on here, right now." I tried to deflect, pushing away that specific moment with Mara, what felt like a century ago.

Ronan knelt near the edge, inspecting a faint series of glyphs etched into the stone lip of the basin. His fingers hovered just above them, not touching. "This is a convergence point," he said, voice soft but sure. "A collection of power. Of memory."

Vance tilted his head. "You’re not gonna say it’s a summoning site, are you? Because we’ve had experiences with summoning rituals, and I don’t have to tell you how horrific those can be."

Ronan didn’t respond immediately, which, in my experience, meant either something was about to emerge from the pit, or he was still calculating which of the available outcomes was the least horrifying. I wasn’t sure which made me more nervous.

The surface of the liquid began to shift. I didn’t feel like something was going to explode out from the fluids, but more like something turning its attention outward, as if we’d caught it mid-thought and it hadn’t yet decided whether to ignore us or introduce itself.

I tensed weapons half-drawn before it spoke.

The voice didn’t boom or echo. It didn’t screech or whisper from every corner like some disembodied cliché. No, it came from the pool itself—calm, clear, and disturbingly articulate.

"So many steps, and still, you come willingly."

I froze, instinctively scanning the room again. Not for movement this time, but for a source of the sound.

"Who’s talking?" Vance asked, his tone unsure if it should settle on bravado or confusion. "And why do they sound like my therapist?"

"Do you really have a therapist? Even where I was from, I couldn’t manage that kind of feat." I recalled all of the times I struggled through shitty situtations with no one but myself to argue with.

Vance didn’t respond, but that wasn’t because he didn’t want to, it was the next reaction of the pool before us.

Another ripple spread across the basin’s surface. This time, something rose with it—a figure, vaguely humanoid, but sculpted from the same viscous fluid. Its body didn’t hold form for long, flickering between shapes: skeletal, regal, insectoid, and then still again. It had no eyes, only a slick face like stretched wax, mouthless, yet somehow expressive.

"You are louder than the last ones," it said, its voice bypassing our ears entirely and pressing straight into the front of my mind. "And more... interesting."

Nythera clutched her staff tighter. I could feel the flare of energy building behind me. She was preparing a spell, but she didn’t cast it yet. Not until we knew what we were dealing with.

I stepped forward, not so much bravely as just plain done with the waiting. "I’m guessing you’re not here to offer directions to the nearest exit?"

"No," the thing replied, and the way it said it made the word feel like a grin. "But I could show you the end."

"Great," Vance muttered. "It talks in riddles. Definitely a mini-boss."

"You’ve killed my drowned," it continued. "You’ve stepped on my watchers. You’ve survived what you shouldn’t have. And now, here you are. Just before the threshold."

"Threshold to what?" I asked, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

"To meaning," it replied.

Oh, that’s helpful. Maybe next it’ll offer me more enlightenment with a side of cryptic bullshit.

The creature began to shift again, its torso elongating as arms formed more distinctly, hands curling into claws that dripped with its own substance. "Most die before reaching this point. You... might not."

Ronan’s hand flicked upward behind me—silent signal: it’s prepping to strike.

"And if we turn back?" I asked.

The thing tilted its head, and for a second it wore my face–by no means perfectly, not even close, but it tried, and that attempt was horrifying.

"Then you delay what cannot be avoided."

"And if we fight?"

It didn’t answer right away. Instead, its body collapsed inward, folding into itself like wax melting in reverse. Then it sprang forward, not a leap, not a lunge—just a sudden, gravity-defying ripple of motion propelling it forward, a movement that cut the distance between us with terrifying speed.

I shouted, drawing my blade mid-motion, the thin shard of metal humming as it met liquid flesh. I sliced low, severing a leg—only to watch it reform before it hit the floor.

"Hard hits only!" I barked, ducking under its return strike. "We’re not outlasting this thing!"

Vance was already on the move, his blades flashing in and out of its side. Ronan muttered something in an ancient tongue and launched a spear of flame toward its center. Nythera followed with a burst of searing light, and for a second, the creature recoiled—not in pain, but in something akin to delight.

"Yesss," it hissed, its voice cracking at the edges for the first time. "More of that. Let me see if you’re worth remembering."

I didn’t like how it said that, and I liked even less the fact that another ripple was forming in the pool behind it.

Visit freewe𝑏(n)ovel.𝘤ℴ𝑚 for the best novel reading exp𝒆rience