Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 90: I Don’t Suppose You Can Heal Trauma?

I had to admit, the room felt a bit smaller than it had always been. To be fair, I was used to being the only person in the room, and now with Vance, Ronan, and this elf woman, things were rather crowded. If I had any intention of sticking around, I would need a bigger place, but as I lay there contemplating my future, it looked like it was time to get going.

Compared to everything that had happened since I first arrived here, a few extra people willing to lend a hand in support wasn’t ranked very high on the ’Screw Lucian Over’ scale. I could handle a little bit of claustrophobia if it meant we could get going soon and have even a chance of success. Still, I had to complain, I needed something petty to complain about or I would get sucked back into depression and it would be impossible to get out of bed.

The air in my hideout had turned stale and suffocating, and no amount of fancy candlelight or expensive sheets could make it better. I never had the chance in my past life to try out one of those air purifiers and I wondered if there was a magical equivalent here? What am I even talking about? This isn’t the time or place for any of this. I survived the attack, but my spirit was pretty fucked, having barely made it through that shadow possession. No amount of fancy air purifiers would fix what had happened.

I was propped up against the headboard like some corpse that my allies had forgotten to bury, every muscle in my body on strike, despite this new healer’s best efforts. She’d taken the corner furthest from me, sitting straight-backed like a student waiting for a professor to scold her. I hadn’t even been particularly cruel—I hadn’t really been nice either—, but I was starting to get the feeling that she wasn’t a big fan of me. Regardless, we all have our bad days, some worse than others, which was a fucked up thought that she might actually be worse off than I was. No being the victim this time, though why can’t there be two victims?

Vance stood by the table, the pile of salvaged notes spread before him—Veldrin’s life’s work reduced to blood-specked scraps and half-burned pages. Vance had gone back for whatever he could get ahold of after it was determined that I would survive the night. Now he pawed over the documents he had taken, but I couldn’t help but feel that it was all useless. I wouldn’t stop him, if he thought he could find something in these shitty documents, it wasn’t my place to stop him. Grief makes everyone a little slower, a little sharper in all the wrong places. I had my coping skills and he had his.

Ronan stood by the door, as still and silent as a statue. No one really expected him to contribute. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was powered down, just waiting for someone to flip a switch. Still, there was something behind his eyes, something that I was starting to be able to identify more frequently. He was definitely thinking about something, probably a lot of things, and I felt there was a solid chance that be it later today, or a week from now, his thoughts today might end up saving our lives—that or he’s just zoning out.

"Alright," I croaked, breaking the silence. "Somebody tell me we have a plan that doesn’t involve all of us dying horribly, something that gives us some semblance of hope in the future."

Vance grunted. "Wouldn’t bet on it."

My throat still felt like someone had poured broken glass down it, but I forced out something that might have passed for a laugh if you were half-deaf and generous in your interpretation. "Great. So you have all the answers, yeah?"

Vance didn’t look up. "We found the location of the final artifact. Or rather, Veldrin did." He tapped the page in front of him—a roughly sketched map, the ink smudged from blood or sweat, unfortunately, I would probably put my money on both.

I leaned forward slightly, pain immediately flaring across my ribs. "So this is the place we need to head to, right?"

"And it’s in the middle of nowhere," Vance continued. "No portals in, no teleportation. The place gorges mana like a tick, or leech, or some other fucking blood sucker. Any spell cast within the perimeter gets devoured before it can finish forming."

My head thudded back against the wall. "So that’s it? We don’t use any spells. It will such for Ronan, and our healer, but as long as we stay out of too much trouble it should be fine."

Nythera shifted slightly, her hands folding tightly in her lap. "I think this could all work in our favor," she said softly. "If the cult can’t teleport directly there, they have to make the journey on foot too."

"True," Vance’s brow furrowed. "That gives us a window—small, but it’s there."

"Unless they already have a head start," I muttered. "Which they do. Which means we need to move. Now would be good."

Vance’s jaw clenched before he relaxed and stared at me deadpan. "Alright, get out of bed, let’s go." When nothing happened, he continued, "You’re barely upright, how can you do anything to stop them?"

"Drag me by my feet, I’ll bite any enemies that come close," I muttered, barely able to force the words from my lips

"You couldn’t sit up without nearly passing out twenty minutes ago."

"Still here, aren’t I?" I flashed him a grin that hurt more than it was worth. "Besides, we’ve got Nythera here now. I’m sure she can glue me back together if my limbs start falling off."

"I... Could theoretically do that," she responded as Nythera swirled healing magic around her hands, contemplating what she could do to help the team.

Vance rubbed at his temple like just the act of speaking to me gave him a migraine. "We’ll move when you’re actually capable of moving."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the sharp ache in my ribs quickly reminded me who was really in charge of my body right now. Still, I wasn’t about to let that be the final word.

"We don’t have time for me to recover. Every hour we waste, they’re getting closer to the last artifact. We already know they’re ahead of us, and if they get their hands on that thing before we do..." I trailed off, not needing to finish that thought. We all knew exactly what would happen if the cult finished their little scavenger hunt.

Nythera shifted uncomfortably, her fingers curling around the hem of her robes, twisting the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. "I can help you move. It won’t be pleasant, but if you’re determined to leave, I can reinforce your body with magic. It’s not a permanent fix, and it’ll hurt like hell, but it would get you on your feet."

I squinted at her, unsure if I should be impressed or horrified. "Are you saying you could marionette me like some corpse puppet?"

Her face paled. "N-no! I mean... not exactly..."

Vance snorted. "That’s exactly what she meant."

Nythera’s ears drooped, her expression somewhere between shame and awkward resolve. "It’s a temporary crutch," she mumbled. "But it’s better than nothing."

I sighed, running a hand down my face. "Kid, you’ve got the bedside manner of a necromancer with a drinking problem, but I appreciate the honesty."

Ronan, ever the conversationalist, finally spoke. "We will require additional supplies." His head turned toward Vance. "Food. Water. Medical provisions. Gear appropriate for unstable terrain."

Vance nodded, already ticking off a mental list. "There’s a few black-market suppliers in the lower districts who owe me favors. We’ll get what we need."

"And weapons." I grunted, shifting painfully against the pillows. "I need my gear. Half my kit’s probably still back at the Academy or buried under a pile of bodies, so we need replacements."

Ronan’s eyes glowed faintly, that unsettling, ever-present light that made it impossible to tell if he was thinking or calculating probabilities. "Acquiring weapons will be... simple."

Vance gave him a side-eye. "Define ’simple.’"

"If the merchant does not cooperate, I will extract what is required," Ronan said it like he was discussing the weather. I was too tired to argue, and frankly, I didn’t care how the supplies got here as long as they showed up.

"You are terrifying. I kind of look forward to the mana leech preventing you from accidentally disintegrating us all."

"It wont come to that Ronan," Vance replied, avoiding to even acknowledge my comment. "I picked up his gear when I grabbed the papers. However, if anyone else needs anything, shopping is a good idea. There will be a couple areas between here and our target location, so this isn’t the last chance, but it’s hard to beat Capital quality." Vance addressed to the group.

The room settled into silence again, but this time, it wasn’t the heavy, grief-stricken silence we’d been marinating in since the moment I woke up. This silence felt... contemplative. Like the weight of knowing shit needed to get done was finally forcing everyone into motion.

Nythera shifted uneasily in her seat. I was watching her, waiting for her to speak up but she seemed hesitant.

"Something on your mind?" I inquired.

"I-I don’t have any money..." she said sheepishly, afraid that despite all of her attempts, this would be what ended up getting her kicked out of the group.

"Vance, c’mere," I beckoned the man over and whispered something in his ear, watching as his eyes lit up like fireworks. A shit eating grin plastered across his face, he marched off with purpose. "Go follow him... Nythera?" I think I got the name right.

She wandered off with Vance and I could hear the locks sliding out of place and the large vault door opening before his voice, muffled by the distance between us, was heard crystal clear as he shouted in excitement.

"Holy hell Lucian! That’s a fuck ton of money!" Vance bellowed.

When they returned, they had dozens of holding bags in their arms and that little shit Vance was wearing about 14 different priceless necklaces and rings. When he ran out of fingers, he doubled up on a few of them.

"You look ridiculous," I muttered, kind of jealous that I never thought to do that.

"I look fabulous," he responded, spinning around, admiring all of the rings.

Nythera interrupted the fashion show, "Since money won’t be an issue," as the words left her lips, he face grew tinged with pinks and reds, "I’ll inventory the medical supplies we already have and put a list together for whoever goes shopping."

Vance dropped the bags on a nearby surface and rolled up Veldrin’s map, tucking it into the worn leather folder that was starting to look more like a holy relic than a stack of paper. "I’ll handle rations and navigation."

Ronan was already halfway out the door. "I will obtain weapons."

"Just don’t kill anyone we actually need," I called after him.

No response, predictable.

That left me and Nythera. When everyone made their way out, we were alone in my room, my prison, the sanctuary-turned-tomb where I had wasted so much time licking my wounds and spiraling into a pit of self-loathing. She stood at the edge of the room, hands clasped in front of her like she wasn’t sure if she should ask permission to breathe.

I waved vaguely at the pile of supplies—that seemed to be mostly medical in nature—stacked against the far wall. "Knock yourself out, kid."

She scurried over, all nervous energy and forced focus, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she sorted through salves, bandages, and vials of who-the-fuck-knows-what. I watched her for a moment, trying to figure out why Ronan had let her follow him here in the first place. He wasn’t exactly the nurturing type, and he sure as hell didn’t have a soft spot for random strays. So what was it about her?

"You were at the Academy," I said, my voice raspier than I liked.

Nythera flinched slightly but nodded. "I was supposed to graduate as a full healer."

I let out a low whistle. "Hell of a graduation ceremony."

She didn’t laugh. Not that I expected her to. Her hands trembled slightly as she set down a jar of powdered herbs, her knuckles going white around the lid. "I lost everyone."

I didn’t respond. What the hell could I say? Same here, kid? Welcome to the club? Misery loves company? It all felt cheap. She held the same weight I carried in my bones. The same survivor’s guilt that sat like lead in my chest every time I closed my eyes and saw Mara’s face. Though she was still alive, they needed her alive.

"I saw you fight," she said softly, not looking at me. "You, Vance, Ronan... you didn’t hesitate. You knew exactly who they were. What they were."

I didn’t correct her. I didn’t have the energy to explain that knowing your enemy didn’t make you brave, it just made you more aware of how much you were about to suffer.

"I want to help," she said, voice so quiet I almost missed it. "I have to help."

I closed my eyes, letting my head rest against the wall again. "You know what you’re asking for?"

"No," she admitted. "But I know what I’m running from."

That, at least, I could respect.

"Alright," I said, voice rough with exhaustion. "Welcome to the shitshow." freewёbnoνel.com

Nythera’s hands tightened around the bandages she was holding, her shoulders squaring slightly. She wasn’t brave. She wasn’t strong. But she was here, and that was more than most could say.

"Get me patched up enough to walk," I muttered. "We leave at first light."

She nodded, her magic already flickering to life around her fingers, the faint glow casting soft shadows across the room. I felt the warmth seep into my skin, dulling the worst of the pain, knitting torn muscle back together. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t meant to be. It was just enough to make me functional.

Functional was all I needed.

"Thanks, kid," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t respond. Just kept working, her brow furrowed in quiet focus.

Vance passed by the doorway, muttering something about needing to gut a fence if they didn’t have enough rations. Ronan was already gone, probably terrorizing some poor weapons dealer. And me? I was stuck here, in this too-small room, wrapped in too-expensive sheets, counting down the hours until I could drag my broken body after Mara’s trail.

One way or another, this was all going to end.

I just wasn’t sure if I’d still be standing when it did.

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