Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 114: A Literal HP Pool.

The ripple behind it widened.

No splash. No dramatic burst of sludge or flying limbs. Just an ominous widening of the tar-like basin, as though the surface itself was peeling back to let something through. I shuddered to think that this substance may have been giving birth to new entities, as that’s essentially what it gave the impression of.

From the thick center of the pool, another figure began to rise, but this one didn’t shift between forms like the first. It held a consistent shape—humanoid, tall, and far too composed for a thing made of fluid. Its head tilted slightly as it stood–speaking of how it stood, it was unlike any of the beasts that simply charged at us with blind rage. This one had an intelligent poise, ideally not as intelligent as our primary foe, but still, I’d bet money on it being able to strategize.

It looked like the whole, birth thing, was somewhat accurate. It’s true, they could have simply been existing peacefully in it, but I could feel energy swirling around the fluids, funneling into it to produce something.

The first creature, the one we’d been fighting, immediately changed its posture. It backed away, readjusting itself and placing the pool between us—not out of fear, but strategy, defense. Its body stilled, limbs folding close to its center like a soldier awaiting orders.

"Oh, good," Vance muttered beside me sarcastically, blades still dripping with the slick residue of their foe. "They exercise caution. This might be a longer fight than we expected."

Nythera didn’t speak. I could feel the sudden swell of her mana as she drew her strength inward, preparing again. She was uncharacteristically calm, filled with a cold resolve that concerned me, fearing for her life if she was willing to put herself in danger.

The new figure turned its head slowly, the surface of its face parting ever so slightly. A mouth—not gaping, not toothy like the others—but shaped, sculpted, and horribly... human.

"You burn energy well," it said, its voice low and smooth. It was disturbingly more human than Ronan’s and yet not quite...Right. There was no psychic pressure; they were just words, thoughtful, and careful. "But that isn’t enough."

I tightened my grip on my dagger, the weapon humming beneath my skin. "If this is the part where you try to talk us into joining your side, I’d like to pre-emptively decline."

The thing cocked its head. "Join? No. That would be redundant. You’re already part of the process."

It stepped forward—not through the pool, but on it. The surface rippled beneath its weight, yet didn’t give way. Each step left a smear of itself behind, as though it was bleeding into the chamber just by moving. Yet with every piece lost, fresh oily fluid coursed back through it. It took longer than I’d liked to figure this out–the entity was swapping out wounded parts for fresh flesh, bringing whatever its HP pool was, back to full. This gave a new meaning to HP pool, as they literally had a pool to gather HP from.

Ronan spoke, his tone low and as always, eerie as fuck. "It’s not bound by form. It’s using perception as leverage—projecting what it thinks will unsettle us."

I nodded faintly. Well, mission accomplished.

The creature stopped just a few paces from the edge. "You’ve killed pieces of me. Slivers. Testaments to a system you were never meant to survive. That alone earns my curiosity. But curiosity is not mercy."

I sighed. "Right. So, it’s not a recruitment speech. Just your classic dungeon existentialism monologue."

Vance raised a brow. "Should I stab it mid-sentence, or are we giving it the full dramatic pause?"

"Let’s wait until it gets to the ’but you’ll never win’ part. Then it’s fair game."

The creature extended its arm—not fast, not threatening—more like an invitation. As if it wanted us to take its hand and see whatever grotesque theater it had prepared beyond the next curtain.

"We were built to refine," it said. "To test. To transform. You are not the first to come this far. But you are the first to bring choice with you."

That pulled me up short.

"Choice?" I asked, genuinely curious despite myself.

"Mutation. Instinct. Self-preservation. These are not choices. They are responses." Its faceless head tilted ever so slightly toward me. "But you... your kind carry contradiction. You burn and preserve. You kill and protect. You destroy, even as you try to define."

"And you?" I asked. "What do you do?"

It paused for a long moment, the air thickening around us as it pondered my question—or at least pretended to.

"I watch," it said. "I adapt."

Then it moved, not charging this time, not leaping like the first. It surged—a horizontal blur of distortion that snapped across the space like reality was warping under its control. I barely raised my blades in time to parry the strike aimed at my throat.

The impact didn’t come with force but with pressure—a twisting, warping sensation that passed through my very bones. I pushed back, cutting low across its midsection, watching as the blade passed cleanly through its body—and once again, watched as it sealed behind the arc like nothing had happened.

"Ronan!" I shouted. "Any suggestions?!"

"Fire and light," he replied, already casting. "But this one... it grows more powerful by merely existing in our presence."

That was concerning. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Ronan said as a beam of concentrated heat lanced into the creature’s side, "that the longer it watches us, the more it understands us."

I’ve played games like this, games that take note of how you interact, how fast you progress and what unnerves you. That being said, those games scared the ever-loving shit out of me, and I often turned them off before anything serious happened. Now I was trapped inside one, fighting for my life.

Nythera’s spell struck next—radiant light blasting it across the chest—and this time, it did react. It staggered backward, briefly liquifying into a puddle of itself before reforming like smoke condensing into matter.

It laughed, not with a mouth, but through the walls, the floor, the fluid—it inhabited the room like it was part of its nervous system.

"You’re improving," it said.

"Yeah?" I growled, circling to the left. "Let’s see how much you like improvement with a blade in your spine."

Vance didn’t wait. He sprinted forward, both blades carving a crisscross pattern through the creature’s midsection. This time, the wounds didn’t seal as cleanly. The tar that poured from the gashes hissed on contact with the floor, burning through stone like acid.

So not only could it be hurt, but it could be severely damaged, which was great, but the real question wasn’t can we kill it? It was what happens when we do? Personally, I had the sickening feeling that this was still part of the script—one long act in a performance we didn’t understand, leading us toward greater horrors after this chamber.

The creature staggered, but only briefly. The wound Vance carved into its torso twisted and boiled, trying to close, but not with the same fluidity as before. Whatever Nythera and Ronan had done—it had slowed something vital. Slowed, but not stopped. The tar slithered sluggishly to reconnect, leaving gaps in the creature’s form that shimmered like open wounds in the fabric of its own existence.

It turned toward Vance, not lashing out, not retaliating in rage, but with a kind of calculated precision. This thing didn’t swing wildly—it chose every action it wanted to take. Every motion, every shift of weight, felt like it was part of a larger equation we couldn’t see. Like it had already mapped our bodies and intentions and was plotting its answers accordingly. freewēbnoveℓ.com

"You have... potential," it said, voice vibrating slightly now like it was unraveling along with its form. "But you lack symmetry."

Vance scoffed, dodging a strike that nearly clipped his leg. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you’re not pretty enough to kill it," I muttered, lunging back in with my dagger at the ready.

The blade found its mark again, slicing upward from thigh to shoulder in a sweeping arc, a line of light tearing through the viscous mass like it was butter defending against a hot blade. The creature didn’t scream but rather recoiled. It bent inward, folding unnaturally, absorbing the blow but not recovering from it cleanly. The damage was adding up.

Ronan’s voice rang out again. "It’s anchoring to the chamber. Break the anchor points, or it won’t die."

I didn’t have to ask twice as his words triggered an epiphany. "Glyphs!" I shouted, already pivoting. "Nythera, light up the ones by the columns! Vance, with me—let’s take the floor!"

She didn’t hesitate. Her magic flared to life, golden energy sparking across the stone as she swept her staff toward the nearest column. The glyphs along its surface reacted instantly, pulsing brighter before erupting in a burst of white-hot light that cracked the stone down the center.

The creature shrieked—not aloud, but through us. My stomach turned, knees buckling slightly as if the chamber had just shifted under the weight of its pain.

"That did it!" Vance barked. "Hit the next one!"

We split off, moving like we’d rehearsed it, even though we damn well hadn’t, how could you anticipate this fuckery after all? Vance cut toward another section of the room, tearing through floor glyphs with short, brutal slashes. I followed the pulse I felt earlier, letting instinct guide me. The closer I got to the center of the basin, the more I felt the pull—not of gravity, but of awareness—a magnetic pressure that dragged thoughts toward it like water down a drain.

Another glyph burned red beneath my feet. I drove my blade into it, and the ground shook as a pillar of energy screamed upward, slamming into the ceiling and punching a hole clean through the network of roots.

The creature spasmed violently, pieces of its form splattering across the chamber in writhing fragments.

"Three down!" I yelled, spinning. "How many more?!"

"Five in total!" Ronan called, now firing bolts of compressed flame into the remaining etchings. "They must all go, or it resets!"

Reset? Wait, RESET?! I really hated how he said that we didn’t need a second HP bar on this boss.

"Do not let it reset!" I barked.

Nythera was already on it, burning through glyph after glyph, her spells cleaner now, more focused, as though some part of her had snapped into place.

The creature tried to intercept her, its form splintering off into a new shape—more insect than man now, limbs doubling, joints cracking as they extended far too long to be humanoid. It moved fast, skittering low like a spider trying to weave its last web around her.

I surged forward, my daggers slashing down across one of its legs, severing it at the midpoint. The stump hissed violently, twitching on the floor as though it was trying to escape or regroup with the rest of the mass.

"Don’t even think about touching her," I snarled, planting my boot against what passed for its chest and shoving it backward.

It caught itself—barely—dragging its broken limbs inward with terrifying calm. The other half, the first creature we’d fought, was slowly reintegrating, merging with this new version, overlapping forms like a nightmarish blueprint being copied over itself.

"They’re combining!" I shouted. "It’s trying to become a final form—If any of you have my anime knowledge, you need to kill it now!"

"I’ve got the last glyph!" Nythera called out, and I turned just in time to see her send a radiant spiral of light into the final column.

The glyphs flared to life. Not white, not gold—but a calm blue, it was controlled motes of light that emanated from the glyph, telling us that we had done it. Well, that and the fact that the entire chamber seemed to stop, cold and silent, no longer radiating the same intensity we had felt moments before.

The pool stilled, and for a brief moment, the creature just stood there, half-formed, its face a melting echo of all of us at once, twitching with the confusion of something realizing too late that it had lost control of the experiment.

It opened its mouth, but no words came out, only a low, stuttering sound. It was glitched, broken, like corrupted code trying to complete its function... Then it collapsed.

There were no Michael Bay levels of theatrics, it just folded inward like a dying star and dropped into the basin, the fluid swallowing it without a ripple, without a trace.

I didn’t lower my blade right away, none of us did. For all we knew, this was the activation of the second phase and we would all be blown to pieces in the following moments. We stood there, soaked in sweat, lungs scraping the bottom of our stamina reserves, staring at a pool that no longer pulsed, no longer spoke.

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