Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 92: Welcome to the Outer Wilds

The gates loomed behind us, and with every step forward, I felt the weight of the capital sliding off my back and it was refreshing. The wonder of being there, the awe, the excitement—all of it had been shattered the moment those bastards took Mara. To be fair, it might have all stemmed from the moment she entered the Academy itself and I had to fight through the filth and sorrow of the slums. With everything I had done, it was only a drop in the bucket. If I could save her, I might just let it all burn and move on with my life. Though, deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. I was likely an enemy of Morgana at this point, but if that had to be how things were, I would double down on it.

The academy was in ruins, Mara was gone, and every dream I’d had about life in the capital had been torn apart and left to rot. As the gates closed behind us, they also slammed shut on what little hope I’d tried to cling to. Out here, beyond the walls, there were no rules, no safety, nothing but the road and the wreckage we carried with us. And honestly, I was grateful for the distraction.

"Don’t look back," Vance muttered beside me.

"I wasn’t planning to," I responded, and that was truthful. There was no point to it, I had my money, my stuff, the only friends I knew, and that one elf chick. It would be fine–probably.

The path before us was once a trade route, if you squinted hard enough and had a good imagination. Now it was more mud than stone, with weeds creeping through every crack, eating what little remained of the Empire’s infrastructure. Caravans didn’t come this way anymore. Too dangerous, too little profit, and too much cult activity if you believed the rumors. Which, for the record, I did, on the account of them being the entire reason for my latest string of tragedies. I’d been on the receiving end of their hospitality, and was ready to give it back in spades.

Nythera stuck close to Ronan, her eyes darting at every shadow and crooked tree, like the very landscape might reach out and snap her neck. It was kind of adorable, in a tragic, traumatized way. Poor kid still thought the world made sense.

"You ever been out here before?" Vance asked, stepping over a root that had apparently declared war on his boots.

"Me? No," I admitted. "But I’ve read the travel guides, listened to the horror stories in shady taverns. ’Welcome to the Outer Wilds, land of scenic death and charming cult activity.’ Five stars, would be forcibly converted again."

Vance grunted. "Figures."

We walked in silence for a bit, the only sound the sloshing of our boots in the mud and the distant cry of some bird that probably ate children for fun. I never did have the opportunity to eat children as a bird, but I supposed that was for the best.

"Ronan," I said after a while. "You’ve been quiet."

He blinked. "I’m always quiet."

"Fair enough... Glad we had this talk."

Ronan nodded and continued on with... being Ronan?

The first village came into view as dusk started bleeding across the sky. At first glance, it could’ve been any backwater hamlet. Wooden houses slumped into the earth like they were trying to return themselves to nature, and the people themselves didn’t seem to put a lot of effort into preventing this. A cracked well stood at the center, and thin trails of smoke curled up from a few chimneys, but the smell—that disgusting smell was the first sign something was wrong.

Not rot exactly, but something earthy and metallic, like when you try to wash the blood and mud out of your cloak, but you’ve killed so fucking many people that it’s as if it is permanently stained with the acrid scent.

"Stay sharp," I muttered, reaching for my daggers.

Vance was already a step ahead, hand on his sword, eyes scanning the village for anything ready to ambush us. Nythera looked pale, her fingers twitching toward her satchel, probably running through every herb and poultice she had, as if some dried flower would save us from the inevitable–maybe that was rude, but once she proved herself, I would probably learn to like her.

We crossed into the village, and it wasn’t as empty as it felt. People moved about, slow, deliberate, eyes downcast, avoiding us but not overtly hostile. Nobody greeted us, or even glanced our way. You’d think they would be eager to get some foreign gold in their coffers, but it seemed like they would rather have us leave sooner than drain us of our wealth.

"This place feels off to anyone else?" Vance asked, his voice low.

"Off is a generous term," I said. "It feels cursed."

Ronan walked ahead without a word, his unnatural gait somehow blending into the eerie stillness. He didn’t even seem phased, which should’ve been reassuring, but it just made me more uncomfortable.

We passed a small shrine at the village’s edge, something that might have once belonged to the Goddess of Light. Now it was... different. It was twisted, with symbols carved over the original runes, blood smeared in artistic patterns that made my body crawl.

"Cult," I said flatly.

"Cult," Vance confirmed.

Nythera swallowed hard, but didn’t look away, the reminder of the cult that had shattered her world returning to the forefront of her mind.

I had to admit, she was holding up better than I expected. If I’d been her age, fresh off the loss of my entire world, I probably would’ve found a nice tree to cry under. Though she was an elf, and for all I knew, she could be a hundred years older than me. Still, she kept moving, kept looking forward. I didn’t know if that was bravery or sheer fucking terror keeping her upright, but either way, I respected it.

The door to the village tavern creaked open as we approached, and a man stepped out, he wore a tattered robe and seemed to have as many teeth as I have fingers. His eyes locked onto us, and for a moment, I saw something flicker behind them. It was disconcerting, the guy that I had never seen before, seemed to recognize me to some degree. The son of a bitch knew who I, who we were.

Before I could react, the door slammed shut, and a second later, the bells rang.

Not the pleasant, "Dinner’s ready" kind. No, these were warning bells. The kind that said outsiders have arrived, and they’re not welcome.

"Shit," I muttered.

"Ambush?" Vance asked, already drawing steel.

"Definitely." I sighed. "Welcome to the Outer Wilds, come for the shitty atmosphere, stay... because you can’t leave."

The bells echoed through the village, and the reaction was instant. Every window shutter slammed shut. Every door locked. Within seconds, the whole place was a ghost town.

"So do we fight, or?" I asked, knives slipping into my hands with practiced ease.

"We could just leave," Nythera suggested.

"Leaving implies they’ll let us," I said.

Figures stepped out from between buildings, their robes ragged but unmistakable, the same outfits as those that attacked the Academy wore. Some held blades, others held staves crackling with weak, flickering magic. They weren’t high-ranking members, these were recruits, freshly blooded and barely trained cannon fodder. It felt wrong to kill them all, but I was out of mercy, and if they wanted to fuck with us, we would fuck with them right back.

"Ronan," I said, "how do you feel about murder today?"

He blinked. "Indifferent."

"Perfect."

The first cultist lunged, and Vance met him mid-stride, sword flashing. Blood sprayed, painting the dirt road in fresh red. No ceremony, no hesitation, just cold, brutal efficiency.

I stepped forward, shadow flickering at my fingertips. One cultist raised a dagger, and I was already inside his guard, my blade sliding across his neck before he even realized I’d moved. He gasped, eyes wide with that special mix of pain and confusion that made my job so satisfying. A year ago I would have been considered a psychopathic murderer the way I tore through people now, but to be fair I guess that description still works in this world.

Nythera stayed behind us, hands glowing faintly, ready to heal—but no one was down yet, not even wounded. This was a cake walk. She was dead weight, and we all knew it. Still, I wasn’t about to tell her that. Let her figure it out on her own, or don’t, either way, I didn’t have the energy to be her mentor.

The fight didn’t last long. They were green, barely able to hold formation, their spells sloppy, their coordination nonexistent. They fought like people who’d only ever practiced on straw dummies and drunk bar patrons. Against us, this was just a massacre.

By the time the last body hit the ground, I was covered in sweat, my body screaming, my vision blurred at the edges. My body still wasn’t up to par, and even light work such as this was beating the hell out of me.

[Cultist Recruits Killed. Experience Gained.]

"We should move," Vance said, kicking a corpse out of the way.

"No argument here," I said, wiping my blade clean on a cultist’s robe.

Nythera stared at the bodies, her expression carefully blank. I could tell she was trying not to cry. I could see something like regret in her eyes, but it was flashed over by a repulsed feeling of satisfaction as we enacted her revenge for her.

"Let’s go, kid," I said, softer than usual.

She nodded, falling into step beside me.

The village shrank behind us, just another stepping stone in our bloody trip to the dungeon.

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