Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst
Chapter 91: Goodbye, You Miserable Bastard. And Thank You.

Chapter 91: Goodbye, You Miserable Bastard. And Thank You.

Thanks to the Elf, I could actually move on my own. I was nearly resigned to piggypacking on Ronan, as he hauled me around like a backpack until I was strong enough to use my legs, but I had to admit, there were certain perks to having a healer, I guess.

I had a quick errand to run, and due to the nature of the visit, I needed to bring Ronan with me. He didn’t seem to have any sort of attachments to anyone other than myself, and even that attachment seemed more like a dependency than anything. Like without me, he wouldn’t really know what to do or where to go, but that was me thinking about him like I always did. There was more to the sorcerer than he let on, likely more than he himself knew.

The walk to the old man’s house wasn’t far, but it felt like crossing a continent. Maybe it was my ribs, which still protested every breath, or my legs, which felt about as stable as wet tissue paper, but either way, I wasn’t built for this right now. I wasn’t looking forward to when I actually had to start crossing a continent.

Ronan, of course, didn’t give a single shit about my pace. He walked ahead, his unnatural stride as smooth as ever, cutting through the streets like a Ronan through pretty much anything that dared to stand in his way. Every time I lagged behind, he would stop, turn his head just enough to glance back, and then resume walking when he saw I hadn’t actually keeled over and died. I hated that it was comforting.

The closer we got, the more I realized how different this trip felt. Normally, visiting the old man meant something simple—training, lectures, being called a complete idiot for the fifty-seventh time that day. Now? This was goodbye, and while I wasn’t exactly a sentimental guy, the idea of leaving him behind while we walked into what amounted to a suicide mission didn’t sit right.

We reached the weathered house, a squat little place on the edge of the slums, sandwiched between buildings that hadn’t been vertical on purpose for at least a decade. The front door creaked when Ronan knocked—not because it was opening, but because the wood itself had gotten so warped it made noise just existing.

After a pause, the door swung open, revealing the old bastard himself.

He stood there, eyes sunken and ringed with shadow, his beard even more uneven than usual, like he’d fallen asleep mid-trim and forgot to finish the job. He squinted up at us, though only for a second before his expression flattened into something between annoyance and reluctant familiarity.

"Oh. You’re not dead," he said, as if mildly disappointed. "Good for you." The old man gazed at us with mild indifference, but something about it was escaping me. As much as I hated what he put me through day in and day out, I really wanted to know what secrets this man held. He couldn’t just be an ordinary old man; he had to have some rich history in his past. checkered with dozens of adventures and countless discoveries.

"Give it a week," I muttered, stepping past him into the cramped entryway. The smell of burnt herbs and old paper hit me like a punch to the face. Home sweet home. "We’re going to be in a lot of trouble before too long," I added half heartedly at the end.

Ronan followed, wordless as ever, and the old man shut the door behind us with a grunt.

"You look like shit," he said, limping toward his favorite chair—a misshapen lump of wood and leather that had been with him longer than I’d been alive.

"You kidding? Honestly you look as bad as I do." I wasn’t sure how true that was, because I really felt like shit and barely made it here. I eased myself down onto a stool, ignoring the way the wood creaked under my weight. "We’re not here for lessons, if you can believe it."

"I see you let the darkness take over, I only hope it was worth it. So if you don’t want lessons, what is it you do want?"

"It wasn’t..." I responded dejectedly, "A lot of fucked up shit, an attack at the academy due to some crazy cult. They kidnapped the mother of my unborn child, and plan to bring about the end of the world-- so... We’re leaving," I said. "For good, probably. Got somewhere to be, and there’s a good chance none of us come back."

The old man didn’t react. Not at first. His knotted fingers tapped against the arm of his chair, his gaze heavy and unreadable.

"About damn time," he finally said.

I blinked. "Excuse me? That’s really all you have to say in response to everything I just dropped on you?"

"You’ve been sitting in the middle of a powder keg for months now. You were either gonna blow it up or it was gonna blow you up. This little visit to say goodbye is about a year overdue. Besides, I know you’ll find a way out of it. Despite your incompetence, you will come through relatively unscathed, I’m sure."

It was weirdly comforting, hearing him say that. It was like being complisulted by family.

"We haven’t even known each other for a year..." I replied, but he ignored me.

I reached into my pocket, fingers curling around a small pouch of coins I’d set aside for this. I had no idea how much money the old man had, but based on his living situation it couldn’t be great. I don’t know why he was still living in squalor. The man made enough per lesson, to buy a new home every few weeks, but whatever, it was his life, and hopefully he made good use with the money.

"Here," I said, tossing the pouch onto the table between us. "For all the wisdom, beatings, and general bullshit you put up with."

He stared at the pouch like it might explode. "What’s this for? Guilt money?"

"Call it severance pay," I said. "Or hush money. Either works."

The old man snorted, but he took the pouch anyway, fingers closing around it with a quiet kind of acceptance.

Then his eyes narrowed. "Where are you going?"

Ronan turned his head slightly, and I swore I felt the temperature drop a few degrees. I rubbed the back of my neck, debating how much to actually say.

"There’s a place," I said. "No mana works there. Sucks it right out of you if you try. We need to get through it to find the last artifact."

The old man went still. Not the usual ’I’m thinking of an insult’ stillness. No, this was different. Like something ancient had slithered up from the depths of his memory and coiled around his throat.

"You idiots," he said softly. "You’re going to that place."

"What place?" I asked, already regretting it.

"The Gargantuan Dungeon," he said. "Not a dungeon. The dungeon."

I frowned. "That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?"

He fixed me with a glare that could curdle milk. "That thing swallows armies whole. It’s not a cave with some traps and monsters. It’s a world. Biomes stacked on top of each other like corpses in a plague pit. Whole cities lost inside it. And you two half-broken morons think you’re gonna stroll in and out like it’s a market trip?"

Ronan, to his credit, did not respond. I, however, felt obligated to poke the bear.

"Well, we’ve got a schedule to keep, so we’ll have to speedrun it."

He barked a laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Speedrun? Kid, people have spent decades mapping just the entrance floors. You don’t ’speedrun’ a place like this—you survive it, if you’re lucky."

My stomach twisted, but I kept my expression flat. "And if you were us? What would you bring?"

The old man sighed, pushing himself up from his chair with a grunt. "Wait here," he said, shuffling toward the back room.

I leaned back, exhaling through my nose. "He’s not wrong," I muttered. "This is going to be a shitshow."

Ronan didn’t respond, but the slight shift in his stance told me he agreed.

A few minutes later, the old man returned, dragging a heavy wooden chest behind him. The thing creaked like it hadn’t been opened in years. Probably because it hadn’t.

He flipped it open, revealing a collection of trinkets, artifacts, and enchanted junk so old I was surprised it hadn’t turned to dust.

"Anti-curse talismans," he said, holding up a string of bone charms. "Holy oil, blessed by a priest who actually believed in the gods. And this—" He lifted a small crystal vial, the liquid inside shimmering with a faint golden light. "Bottled sunlight. Melts through the undead like butter."

My eyes widened slightly. "Where the hell did you get all this?"

"Adventuring days," he said, his tone almost wistful. "Back when I still thought heroism was worth dying for."

I took the vial, turning it in my hand. It was warmer than I expected. Comforting, almost.

"Thanks, old man," I said quietly.

He grunted. "Don’t thank me until you make it back. If you make it back."

I stood, my body protesting every inch of movement. "We’ll try not to die too quickly."

He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened just a little. "Get the hell out of my house."