Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 88: Stranger at the Door

The capital was always full of a bouquet of aromas, from the gentle waft of delicious street food that wafted from the vendors placed by the handful every couple of city blocks. Between that and the occasional flower stalls scattered about, there were plenty of reasons to enjoy the walk down the main street. Sadly, I couldn’t smell any of it, all that lingered on my senses was charred flesh, burnt hair, and iron even clung to my taste buds no matter what I ate or drank, it all tasted of blood. I still remember watching my classmates fall one after the other, and even that paled in comparison to when I had to stand by helplessly and watch my parents–Mom and Dad, who traveled so far to see me graduate–be torn to pieces by berserking cults.

The capital had either moved on, or the general public was never informed of the horrors that occurred within the Academy yesterday—merchants still peddled their wares, and people still walked the streets. Despite the hundreds of people bustling around me, I couldn’t have felt more alone.

I moved quickly, my cloak drawn tightly around me, blending as best I could with the shifting crowds. My hands clenched the fabric at my sides, knuckles white, sweat slick against my palms.

"Nythera, you have to move. You have to do something," I whispered to myself, forcing my legs to keep going.

I was so wrapped up in pumping myself up that I almost didn’t notice as he passed me by. A very tall and imposing figure, someone I had seen many times, and nearly every one of those times was with the man I was trying to track down–Caidan.

As soon as it registered to be who he was, my head spun so fast I nearly pulled something in my neck. He was walking away from me toward some general store, likely restocking on supplies for whatever adventure they were about to go on–I only prayed it was the same one I sought to embark on.

I couldn’t figure out how the mage did it, he was stiff yet graceful, and it was almost like his head and limbs rotated on some clockwork set of gears. I remembered Ronan from school, but much earlier in the year. He was an absolute asshole back then, but I managed to avoid him throughout most of my last semester so I hadn’t noticed the changes that everyone gossiped about. Seeing him here, now, even just watching his gait, it was enough to tell me he had changed.

I took a breath, steadying my nerves. This was my only chance, if they were preparing to go somewhere, I may never find anyone with knowledge of the cult for quite some time. Especially not someone who might be willing to take me along.

I had seen him and his group at the Academy, fighting through the massacre with terrifying efficiency. Where the professors—mages with decades of experience—had died in moments, Ronan and the others had cut through the cultists like they were made of paper.

They knew something. They had been fighting the cult long before the attack, after all, there were vague rumors about the two summoning incidents. Regardless, I needed them.

I trailed after him through the market, keeping my steps measured, and careful. He didn’t notice me—at least, I didn’t think he did. Maybe he was ignoring me? Or what if he wasn’t ignoring me, what if he was waiting, ready to turn around and take me out in a single blast?

The thought made my stomach twist, but I couldn’t back down.

I tightened my grip on my sleeves and pressed forward as he turned down an alley, a quieter part of the market, likely heading toward an apothecary or supply vendor. My heart pounded as I followed, the weight of what I was about to do settling like iron in my chest, then he stopped and I froze. Like a deer before certain death, I froze.

Slowly, he turned, his glowing eyes locking onto mine and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

"You’ve been following me," he said, his voice flat, emotionless.

I swallowed, willing my voice to work. "Yes."

Suffocating silence stretched between us for minutes, no, more like a second. I had planned what I would say. I had rehearsed it in my head a dozen times, a hundred times. But now, standing in front of him, all of those words felt distant, useless.

"I saw you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "At the Academy. You fought them."

Nothing, not even a flicker of reaction.

"You knew who they were," I continued, pushing forward. "You weren’t surprised. You weren’t caught off guard. You knew exactly what you were up against."

Silence.

"You’re hunting them," I said. This time, it wasn’t a question.

Ronan didn’t confirm or deny it. He simply watched me, waiting.

I took a breath, forcing down the lump in my throat. "I want to help."

The words felt small and weak, but so did I.

I had nothing to offer them. I had no weapons and no battle experience. I wasn’t like them—I wasn’t a fighter.

Ronan tilted his head slightly. "Help?"

His voice was cold. Not mocking, not cruel—just... detached.

I nodded. "I was supposed to graduate as a healer." My voice wavered, but I pushed through. "I was supposed to—" I stopped myself, forcing down the memories clawing at the edges of my mind, tears forming in my eyes. "They took everything from me. My parents, my friends. I should have died too." My throat tightened, but I refused to break, not now. Not in front of him.

"But I didn’t," I continued. "And now I have to do something."

He didn’t speak.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I can heal. I can keep you alive. I know how to treat wounds, and how to counteract poisons and curses. I won’t be a burden."

Ronan studied me, eyes scanning every inch of my face like he was searching for something, measuring my worth.

I felt even smaller under his gaze—the fear, the grief, the exhaustion. I felt like he could see through me, past the patchwork mask I had built, past the weak excuses I had tried to convince myself of.

Then, finally, he responded for real.

"If you want to help," he said, "follow me."

My breath caught and for a second, I didn’t move. Then, cautiously, as though he could take back the offer at any second, I stepped forward with one foot, and the other, and soon I was trailing behind.

The further I followed Ronan down the side streets, the more depressing the scene became. The roads fell into increasing states of disrepair until eventually they ceased to exist and I found myself trudging through slick­ mud or sludge--maybe it was best if I didn’t try to discern what it was--, it was hard to say. I wanted to watch where I was going, but as long as I stayed close to Ronan it would probably be fine if I didn’t watch exactly where I was going. My boots--one of many gifts from my parents yesterday--were ruined at this point, but who cared about material possessions when there was so much more at stake?

I noticed Ronan wasn’t carrying anything, which was odd, he should have had a cart’s worth of supplies, but he seemed unencumbered--maybe he had access to a magical bag with a pocket dimension? Bags of holding were obscenely expensive, and I wasn’t sure that if all of this never happened and I had worked as an ordinary healer I would ever have been able to justify purchasing one. Though why would I even need one, that’s something for adventurers.

I didn’t realize as we took turn after turn, looping around structures and through passages I would have missed if I didn’t have a guide. I tried to focus, but it wasn’t stimulating enough. It was weird to feel excited about revenge, about the potential lives that would be snuffed out. I was supposed to be a healer and yet the only thing that could start to mend my wounds would be the death of those monsters that took everything from me.

I had to go back to thinking about little things, about the cat on the fence, about how quietly Ronan moved--if I didn’t stop thinking about every little thing if I didn’t let room in my mind for dark thoughts, I could numb the pain a little longer. I deserved that much because when we arrived wherever it was Ronan was taking us, I would have to face my pain again.

The healer in me kept whispering that I should be worried about my own condition—about how exhaustion had settled into my bones, about how my body was still running on whatever scraps of energy I had left.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ronan stopped in front of what I could only assume was our destination. A really old, beat down and forgotten building wedged, tucked so far out of the way that no one would ever think to check here. The door was reinforced, its wood was old but sturdy, even if it didn’t look like it.

Ronan knocked once. A single, heavy sound, then a pause and a muffled shuffling from within. The door creaked open slightly, and a voice—tired, rough—broke the silence. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

"You were gone longer than expected," Vance muttered from the other side, his expression hard.

Ronan didn’t respond. He simply stepped aside. Vance’s gaze flicked to me with an eyebrow raised.

I didn’t wait for him to question me. "I want to help."

Vance exhaled through his nose. He didn’t look convinced. "Right."

He swung the door open and ushered us in, "Traps are disabled right now, what with all of here, I figured we would be secure enough." Vance possibly said to Ronan, though it was hard to tell.

He took us down a few halls and through additional security measures, hidden doors, and the sort. This was like something straight out of a spy novel and though I wanted to be excited about it, I was far too nervous to feel anything else but anxiety. Finally, we made it to what looked like a wealthy nobleman’s room, but before I could take everything in, I saw him. Caidan.

He was barely upright. Laying motionless on a bed, bandaged and cared for, but nothing like what a healer would be capable of fixing in a matter of moments.

He looked... bad. Worse than I expected, if I knew to expect him in a poor condition. I knew that he did a lot of fighting, but this was a lot worse than he realistically should be. Maybe I missed something at the end of all that chaos.

Bruises bloomed across his skin, shadows darkening beneath his eyes. His shirt was torn in places where bandages had been haphazardly wrapped around his torso. He was pale—too pale, like whatever strength had carried him through the battle had bled out the moment he collapsed.

His eyes cracked open at the sound of our entrance, dull and unfocused, but still sharp enough to recognize something was off.

His gaze drifted past Ronan. Past Vance. And landed on me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my feet to move.

"Who the hell is this?" he rasped, his voice raw.

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