Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 95: Brittle Earth and Broken Spells

The ground crunched beneath my boots, creating an unsettling texture that made me question if I were stepping over the bones of the fallen. Fortunately, there were no bones beneath my feet, just the uneven earth that seemed leeched of any life, any moisture, and of course, any mana that would flow through it. It was just brittle dirt that had long since given up any chance of holding against the supernatural forces of the scar. It wasn’t just the ground that gave me pause, but the air as well, it all felt wrong, like the air I was breathing was different from that outside the scar. The air had a disarming flavor, like when you left water out for days on end and went to go refresh yourself, only to taste the orgy of bacteria and stale liquid that dwelt within your glass.

The Scar stretched before us, a rotten wound carved straight into the planet’s flesh. Nothing lived here, not plants, animals, not even the faint hum of ambient mana I’d gotten so used to that I forgot it was even there. This place wasn’t just dead. It was where the dead went to die, if that made any sense. Because of it’s nature, it felt like it was already screwing with me.

My stomach twisted the second we crossed the invisible threshold, like something inside me recognized what this place was before my brain could catch up. My skin prickled, every hair standing on end. I had lived in a lot of unpleasant environments — from a literal mount of rotten flesh, to the body of a pig, to a cave, and eventually a shitty tavern–the tavern was the worst, nothing beat other parasites sucking away at my blood as they tried to sruvive within my bedsheets. It was all its unique form of hell, but this was so much different, this was actual hell, which made sense, seeing as we were heading into some kind of dungeon of the dead. I pondered the concept for a minute, wondering if this was the link to Morgana’s realm, or if it were just a side quest leading up to that horrible journey. In the end, I had no idea what to expect, so I pushed it aside, figuring we would do what we had to do.

"Anyone else feel like they’re being dismantled on an atomic level?" I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. It came away clammy, and I could already feel a headache winding its claws around the base of my skull.

Vance grunted in the affirmative. "Feels like we’re walking into a place that isn’t terribly fond of us being here."

Nythera’s hands twitched at her sides, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve like there was something there that could solve our issues. "My magic’s barely responding," she said softly, voice already laced with panic. "It’s like... like trying to draw water from a dry well." I could understand that statement, as I felt the same thing. I didn’t have a lot in terms of mana, in terms of crazy magical spells that could obliterate our enemies like Ronan could, but still that feeling remained.

"I guess you’re just like us unmagical folk," I said, gesturing vaguely at myself. "All my mana-based shit feels like I’m trying to juggle smoke, every time I try to bring it to form, it just dissipates into the air. Not even the fun kind of smoke, that leaves you calm and relaxed, ready to finish the night on a high note. This sucks," I muttered to myself.

Ronan, naturally, looked fine. No. Better than fine. The asshole was thriving. None of it made sense, he was supposed to be suffering the most, but he seemed to be acting as though this was a vacation from all of the woes of the world. What was he really dealing with on a daily basis, that made this so much of a vacation?

He marched ahead with that same mechanical grace, his steps as smooth and deliberate as always. If anything, there was a lightness to him I hadn’t seen since before the Academy massacre — like shedding his magic was less of a loss and more like dropping excess luggage.

"Of course you’re fine," I muttered at his back. "You creepy son of a bitch."

"This environment favors physical aptitude over magical dependency," Ronan said, not even bothering to turn around. "I have prepared accordingly."

"Prepared how?" Nythera asked.

"I have legs," Ronan said.

That was it. That was the whole explanation. No further elaboration. Seriously? I have legs too, you oaf, so why did the very concept of existing hurt me but not you?

"Fine, keep your secrets," I groaned, trying to roll my shoulder and immediately regretting it when my whole arm felt like it had been replaced with a block of lead. "Anyone have any theories as to what the fuck is going on with Ronan?"

Of course there was no response, he was an enigma and always would be. I guess it worked in our favor, for if something were to come at us, at least one of our party would be ready.

We trudged forward for hours, silence gradually smothering what little banter we could muster. It was hard to joke when every breath felt like sucking down ash. Even the colors were wrong. The sky was a washed-out gray. The ground was cracked like old skin, the earth too dry to be mud, too soft to be stone. Everything was colorless, lifeless — as though the world itself had been stretched too thin.

The worst part? The silence. No wind. No birds. No distant sounds of civilization. Just the crunch of our boots and the raggedness of our breathing. Even my own footsteps sounded muted, like the air itself was unwilling to carry noise.

I glanced at Nythera — she was biting her lip so hard I thought she might draw blood. Her eyes darted everywhere, scanning for something, anything, but there was nothing.

We set up camp when my legs started shaking too much to hide. Vance didn’t argue, Nythera practically collapsed the second we stopped, and Ronan — because why not — stood there like nothing more had happened than a gentle walk through the park. He was ready to keep going another twenty miles, and I for one, had no idea how..

"We need a fire," Vance muttered, already rifling through his pack. "Not for warmth. Just so I don’t forget what light looks like."

Ronan vanished into the gloom without a word and returned minutes later with an armload of dry, brittle wood that had no right existing in this environment. None of us asked where he found it. Some questions weren’t worth answering. Likely that ridiculous firewood spell I had assumed he knew yesterday, or was it the day before?

We got the fire going — it barely burned, the flames struggled as much as we did, seemingly unable to light onto the wood, despite its overwhelmingly dry nature. I thought that simply willing the material to catch flame would work, but no, whatever was going on in this wasteland, extended further than mana deprivation.

I sat down with my back against a jagged chunk of stone, every muscle trembling as though my body couldn’t figure out which part of me hurt the most. Nythera’s hands glowed faintly as she tried to work a minor healing spell on my ribs, but the light flickered, dimming to almost nothing before it could take hold.

"Save your strength," I rasped. "It’s not gonna work here."

She shook her head stubbornly. "If I don’t try, what’s the point of me being here?"

I wanted to argue, but the look in her eyes shut me up. She wasn’t healing me because she thought it would work. She was healing me because if she didn’t, she’d have to admit how helpless we all were. I knew that feeling too well.

The first hour after dark passed in near silence. None of us wanted to talk. None of us could sleep.

Then the shadows started moving.

At first, I thought it was my imagination — exhaustion playing tricks on me. But no. The flicker of the fire made every shadow dance, but some moved against the light, crawling closer, folding into shapes that didn’t belong to us.

"Anyone else seeing this shit?" I asked.

Nythera’s eyes were wide as saucers, her hands trembling in her lap. "I thought it was just me."

Vance grunted, sword already halfway out of its sheath. "It’s not you."

Ronan, the bastard, just stood there — calmly watching. "This is expected."

"What?" Vance barked. "What the hell do you mean ’expected?’"

"The Scar does not simply remove magic," Ronan said. "It consumes what was left behind."

My stomach dropped. "Left behind by what?"

Ronan’s gaze drifted toward the fire. "Those who came before."

Part of me figured at this point that Ronan was the classic seer, or mystic that the party wandered into. A creature of myth and legend that would lead the group to victory by citing some wild prophecy only known by them. Of course, that was shattered, when Ronan sat in front of the fire and gazed lifelessly into the flames.

Not only were we walking through a mana-dead zone, but apparently, something else had died here — something with enough magical residue to linger even after death.

The shadows crept closer, shifting in ways no natural shadow should. They didn’t have faces, but I could feel them watching.

I wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

"Set watches," I muttered, voice dry. "Three shifts. I’ll take first."

"You need rest," Nythera said, too tired to sound stern.

"No point," I said. "Not like I’ll get any."

Vance didn’t argue. He set his bedroll down, muttered something about how fucked we were, and passed out almost immediately. Nythera curled up nearby, arms wrapped around her knees like a kid trying to hide from monsters under the bed.

Ronan stood watch with me. He didn’t need to sleep. Of course he didn’t.

The shadows didn’t attack. They just... watched.

And so I watched back.

Because fuck them.

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