Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 79: Destruction is an Art

Upon receiving my command, Ronan raised his hand, fingers curling like a conductor ready to orchestrate a deadly symphony. The runic fire traps he had meticulously placed throughout the warehouse were primed, waiting for his signal.

He snapped his fingers.

At first, nothing happened. A brief silence hung in the air—then, in the distance, an explosion ripped through the far end of the warehouse. The force sent a sharp ringing through my ears, and that was the furthest one from us. The blast sent crates flying, splintering wood, and shaking the very foundations of the decrepit building, threatening to send it crashing down on top of us. It was entirely possible that not for the first time, I had underestimated the raw destructive force of my parasitic companion.

A moment later, another explosion followed, then another, and another. A chain reaction of devastation that rocked me to the core and likely sent a dozen cultists to... Well, to Morgana, if she was truly the god of their worship.

Flames tore through the building with an insatiable hunger, licking up the sides of stacked supplies, spilling across the floor like a gluttonous beast with the singular desire to consume everything. The fire spread in rapid, predictable patterns—at least to those of us who had spread kerosene along the floor—guided by the runes Ronan had carefully placed. This was his art, and there was no need for thunderous applause, as he would create the booming ovation himself. The air became suffocating with thick smoke, and already several cultists were scrambling to find their bearings—some fleeing, some casting water magic, others desperate to save what they could.

Shouts filled the air, a mixture of confusion and panic. A few drew their weapons, ready to face the unseen threat, but when no one rose to meet them, they cautiously joined the others in recovery and restoration. The warding spells along the warehouse walls flickered erratically, their protective enchantments working against the cultists as the magic struggled to contain the fire inside rather than out. These spells had been designed to prevent intrusion, not to keep destruction from within. The flames grew hotter as they devoured the oxygen in the warehouse, feeding their rampage.

Then, one of the rune traps detonated near a stack of barrels, and any of the previous explosions paled in comparison to the raw unbridled destruction that had come from it.

The explosion was sharper, louder—a violent burst of igniting alchemical components. Whatever had been stored in those barrels was volatile, just as I had hoped. The blast sent shards of wood and metal bands flying like shrapnel, punching holes in the walls and cultists alike. Several dropped instantly, and Ronan’s eyes flickered with that familiar glow of someone receiving experience. I clenched my jaw—slightly jealous if I was being honest. I was missing out on a lot of kills. Still, he had proven invaluable in stopping these bastards, and it wasn’t like I could complain when I needed him alive.

The smoke was suffocating enough, but the heat was on another level. A wave of blistering air rolled through the building, causing the hairs on my arms and likely eyebrows to singe and making the very building feel like it was sweating, purging the structure of the dry mold that peppered the walls and ceiling.

We remained crouched behind a stack of crates as the inferno grew, but we couldn’t keep still for long. Soon, the fire would reach us, and we still had to loot the mysterious box of potentially invaluable enchantments.

"Fire behaves differently when directed by runes," Ronan murmured, voice calm despite the destruction unfolding before us.

"Good to know, but there isn’t much time before we are among the fallen."

The fire, unnaturally controlled by the runic inscriptions, spread outward in deliberate lines, cutting off escape routes and forcing the cultists toward exits Ronan had not sealed. He had turned the flames into barriers rather than random destruction, ensuring that our path to the Vairmont crate remained mostly untouched—for now.

I tapped Ronan’s shoulder. "That’s our cue. Let’s move before—"

The moment I spoke, another explosion went off, this time dangerously close. The ground trembled beneath my feet as a nearby shelf collapsed, spilling enchanted weapons and relics across the floor. A thin, sickly green vapor hissed from one of the shattered bottles, mixing into the already choking air.

"Before that happens," I muttered.

We darted from our hiding spot, weaving between burning debris and scattered cultists who were too busy either fighting the fire or trying to find the enemy responsible for it. Some attempted to douse the flames with water magic, but Ronan’s runes worked against them, shifting the fire’s nature, and making it resistant to such a method of extinguishing.

Smoke swirled around us, stinging my eyes as we neared our target—the stack of crates bearing the Vairmont insignia. Just a little further, and we could start stuffing the bag of holding.

Then, the door to our right burst open.

Four cultists stormed in, weapons drawn, their eyes darting wildly between the roaring flames and the two figures now illuminated by the fire’s glow. They hadn’t even seen us at first—just the destruction—until one of them locked eyes with me.

"There!" the cultist shouted, pointing a jagged ritual dagger straight at us. "Kill them!"

Reasonable response, considering I was planning to do the same thing to them.

I barely had time to process before the first cultist lunged. I dodged back, avoiding the downward swipe of a curved blade aimed for my ribs. I felt it only fair to retaliate with my own quick slash, catching the man’s arm, a pathetic display, it should have taken the thing clean off. The cultist hissed in pain but didn’t stop—these bastards never hesitated when it came to bloodshed.

Ronan, as usual, wasted no time on posturing.

With a flick of his wrist, a burst of fire lashed out, forcing two of the cultists back. One of them managed to throw up a ward in time, absorbing most of the blast, while the other screamed as his robes ignited.

I ducked another wild swing and kicked the first cultist’s knee out from under him. He crumpled, and before he could recover, I buried my dagger into his throat. Blood sprayed across the floor, quickly joining the blackened scorch marks.

[Cultist Killed x3]

The second cultist felt like death would be easier than facing their master, so, naturally, he lunged, dagger flashing in the firelight. I barely managed to twist out of the way, feeling the blade graze my arm. A shallow cut, but enough to remind me of how sloppy I had gotten.

Ronan sent another jet of flame toward the remaining two, but they were better prepared. One of them conjured a barrier, shielding them both from the brunt of the attack.

"They’re learning," Ronan noted, tilting his head.

"Then we should learn twice as fast," I gritted my teeth.

The cultist I was fighting pressed forward again, swinging in a tight arc. I raised my daggers, catching the attack and twisting sharply to disarm him. I succeeded, but at the cost of exposing my side—just as the fourth cultist surged forward.

I swear, as soon as I get back, I’m going to adopt a strict physical fitness regime.

I saw it coming but knew I wouldn’t be able to block it in time. But as always, my loyal Ronan moved faster.

In an instant, he was between us, grabbing the cultist’s wrist mid-strike. The cultist barely had time to react before Ronan twisted, and boy did he have a grip on him. I almost winced as bone snapped, followed by a scream as the dagger fell uselessly to the ground. I wasted no time capitalizing on the opening, driving my blade into the man’s chest.

[Cultist Killed x4]

The last cultist, now alone, hesitated. His eyes darted between me and Ronan, then to the roaring inferno consuming the warehouse. He took a step back, then another... Then he made a mad dash toward the door. Either he wasn’t afraid of what would happen if he fled, or he knew that knowledge of the saboteurs was worth the risk.

"Not happening," I muttered.

Before the cultist could escape, Ronan raised his hand. Fire coiled around his fingers before lancing outward, striking the retreating man square in the back. He let out a strangled cry before collapsing, his body twitching as the flames consumed him.

"What the hell dude, that one was mine. Haven’t you already taken like 20 of these bastards out in the initial explosion alone?"

"Be faster," Ronan replied plainly, but I could feel the attitude oozing from his words. This asshole was actually developing a sense of humor, wasn’t he? Well... Good for you Ronan.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. "Alright. Now we loot the damn crate."

The fire was growing, the walls groaning as the structure weakened. We had minutes at best before the entire place came down.

Ronan and I turned back toward the Vairmont crates, ripping open the lids and shoving whatever we could into the bag of holding.

Flames crackled around us, the air thick with smoke, the distant screams of dying cultists, it was like music to my ears. Beautiful, morbid, music.

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