Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 60: Error 404: Ronan Not Found

The next morning, Ronan Vairmont walked into the cafeteria, but it wasn’t the same Ronan.

I sat near the back, a half-eaten plate of food in front of me, and watched as my newest creation moved through the room. He still had the same face, the same body, but the little details were different. His shoulders weren’t held quite as high and confident, the cocky sway of his walk had evened out, and his usual lazy smirk was gone, replaced by something more vacant.

His lackeys had noticed immediately, even if they didn’t dare say anything. They were already seated at their usual table, laughing about something pointless, no doubt, when they saw him approach. Their expressions shifted from confused to wary. Ronan always entered with something of a grandiose display, knocking a tray out of the nearest person’s hands, just enough to make sure everyone knew he was in charge. This time, he simply sat down without a word, his hands folding neatly on the table.

One of the more brave lackeys spoke up. "You feeling sick, bro?"

Ronan looked at him, slow and deliberate, it appeared as though he was processing, calculating, determining the correct response. Where a normal person would do this in a fraction of a second, Ronan’s new self had to think about it. He tilted his head slightly as if considering what the man had brought up before finally replying.

"Does it matter?"

His voice had the same tone, the same deep arrogance, but it was flat, there was no real weight behind it. The lackeys exchanged glances, uneasy. One of them forced a chuckle. "No worries boss, we get it, probably just tired. Late night, yeah? The ladies just can’t leave you alone can they?"

Ronan nodded after a pause, another delay as he processed the best response. "Yes."

It was wrong, and I felt like I made a mistake. I don’t know how I messed up, but this parasite was adjusting so much slower than Garrett or Vance. The old Ronan would have scoffed, and bragged about his late-night training, and the women that had thrown themselves at him, he would have spun lie after lie. This new Ronan gave the shortest, simplest answer possible, and even that, he seemed to struggle with.

They tried again, desperate to normalize whatever this was. "You really wrecked that loser yesterday. What was his name again?"

Ronan blinked once, then twice. He didn’t answer. I thought I could feel the gears turning in his head, but after far too long, I questioned whether or not there even were gears in there.

"Uh... anyway," the lackey muttered, looking away.

I took a bite of food, uncertain how to feel. On one hand, I was thrilled that his own hands would slowly dismantle his reputation–but that would be a waste. On the other hand, if he would act properly, even going as far as still tormenting his victims–at least a little bit to keep up the show–he could be an incredible asset. Heir to the Vairmont fortune, access to unlimited magical artifacts.

Ronan had technically passed the first test. He had walked into the room, sat with his people, and responded to the conversation–It’s just that none of it was authentic. It reminded me of my first human host, except this parasite wasn’t letting its own personality through, any personality really–. From a distance, it almost looked natural for any person who wasn’t Ronan. He was just... present. Functioning. A body going through the motions, and due to his eccentric behavior, people were starting to notice.

I finished eating, but I didn’t leave. I needed to see how far gone he was.

His lackeys weren’t the only ones who noticed something was off. Other students, the ones who usually flinched when Ronan walked by, were stealing glances at him. Some whispered. Some just stared. They weren’t sure what they were looking at, but they knew it wasn’t the same Ronan Vairmont.

His gang kept trying to pull him back into conversation, but he gave them nothing. He ate in slow, mechanical movements as if chewing was just another task to complete. When one of the lackeys nudged his shoulder and joked about him "finally shutting up for once," Ronan just looked at him. No reaction, no annoyance, just... looking. The guy paled and quickly turned back to his food.

After a while, Ronan stood. He didn’t say anything, didn’t wait for anyone, just got up and left. His so-called friends hesitated before following, whispering among themselves. They didn’t understand. They were confused, worried, afraid.

I followed at a distance, keeping to the edges of the hall. His body moved because it had to because that’s what was expected. He passed by students without shoving past them or glaring them down. He didn’t acknowledge the ones he usually bullied. He just existed.

I wanted to see what he would do next. Would he keep up his routine? Would he try to act like his old self? Would he even notice that he was different?

He turned a corner, heading toward the practice halls. That made sense. His schedule said he had a combat lesson today. I trailed him, blending into the flow of students. I knew he wouldn’t sense me. He wasn’t himself anymore. He was mine. Even if he did decide to confront me, I could just force my will into his mind, and tell him what he needed to do.

As he stepped into the training hall, a voice called out. "Vairmont!"

Professor Aldric, one of the Academy’s combat instructors, stood with his arms crossed, watching the students file in. He narrowed his eyes when he saw Ronan. "You’re late."

Ronan stopped in front of him and just stared.

Aldric’s frown deepened. "Something wrong with your ears? I said you’re late."

Ronan blinked. "Yes."

The professor gave him a sharp look. "Yes, what?"

Another pause. "I am late."

The room went silent.

Aldric took a step closer, his voice low. "Don’t get smart with me, boy. Your father placed me here to ensure you weren’t slacking off, and don’t think I won’t beat the attitude out of you if you step out of line. Do you understand?"

Ronan didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t even seem to care. "I understand."

No anger. No defiance. Just a flat response.

Aldric stared at him like he was looking at a stranger. Then, after a moment, he let out a sharp breath and waved him off. "Get to your station."

Ronan obeyed without another word as I leaned against the doorway, watching.

His control was slipping faster than I expected. His responses were too simple, and animalistic. If he kept this up, this could be a problem, not just for him, but for me.

I needed to adjust things. Needed to make sure my latest creation didn’t burn out too fast.

I closed my eyes and reached out, and inside him, the parasite listened.

Ronan moved through the training hall like a machine. He took his place among the other students, standing straight, waiting for instructions.

The shift wasn’t lost on the others. His usual crowd hovered near him but didn’t speak, exchanging uneasy glances. One of them, a lanky guy named Orin, nudged his arm. "Hey, you good, man? You’re acting weird."

Ronan turned his head to him, slow and deliberate. He stared, unblinking, long enough that Orin shifted uncomfortably.

"I am fine."

That was it, none of his regular bullshit, and his lackeys didn’t know what to do with that.

Professor Aldric didn’t seem to care. He moved through the students, assigning sparring partners, too busy running drills to notice one of his most problematic students had become an empty shell.

Ronan was paired with another noble brat who had clearly been looking forward to this. The moment Aldric gave the signal, his opponent lunged, throwing a quick burst of wind magic to unbalance him.

Ronan didn’t move.

The wind knocked him back a step, ruffling his uniform. His opponent hesitated, as if expecting retaliation. When none came, his expression shifted from surprise to a slow, creeping grin. "What, nothing? Where’s that mouth of yours now, Vairmont?"

Ronan tilted his head, just slightly. He lifted a hand and cast a spell—a simple force push, barely enough to be threatening. His opponent knocked it aside with ease.

That should have been the moment Ronan lashed out, should have been the moment he turned this into an actual fight. But instead, he just stood there, waiting.

His opponent frowned. "What the hell are you doing? You’re just—" He sent another attack, a streak of flame aimed low. Ronan sidestepped it, not with urgency, but with the same detached movement he had displayed all day. Then he darted forward and swung, a palm strike that connected cleanly with his opponent’s chest.

The guy stumbled back, shocked not by the hit, but by the lack of power behind it. "Really? You’re not going to cast a spell, just flail those noodle arms at me?"

Ronan didn’t answer.

My eyes narrowed as I watched intently. This was bad. The parasite was adapting, controlling his body, but it wasn’t emulating his–or any–personality well enough. There was too much restraint, and too little aggression.

I reached out, threading my influence deeper, coaxing it into acting the part. The parasite obeyed.

Ronan blinked once. Then, without warning, he moved. Faster this time. More fluid. His opponent barely had time to react before Ronan swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor.

Aldric turned at the sound. He frowned before piping up, "I’m sorry Ronan, are you not satisfied with a magical duel? This does not signify a win in my book, next time please refrain from using physical violence. There will be plenty of time to learn hand-to-hand combat in the years to come."

I’d have to be more specific next time, provided this parasite even knew magic. There was nothing to indicate it had absorbed the host’s memories or abilities.

I pulled back my influence, just enough to slow the process. Ronan stood over his fallen opponent, then turned away without a word–no smug look, no parting insult. Just indifference.

The noble on the floor scrambled up, flustered. "You think you’re better than me? Say something, damn you!"

Ronan didn’t. He just walked back to his place in line.

Aldric clapped his hands. "Next match."

I need to speak with him, in person. I thought to myself–maybe I could just ask him?

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