My Job? Weaving Armour For Undead In Apocalypse
Chapter 35: Bus Modifications

Chapter 35: Bus Modifications

While waiting for the hunting groups to return, Merek busied himself. He reattached the heads of his two remaining Vulture undead—easy work, but he took his time and began testing the limits of his Telekinesis.

His current range stretched to around three hundred meters. Anything within that could be lifted or moved, though the strain increased the farther it got. Near the edge of his range, manipulating objects felt like trying to shift boulders with a whisper. He could lift a lot—he’d once tested it in the cafeteria and managed to raise two industrial freezers at once. But the strain hit immediately, like an iron clamp on his skull. He hadn’t dared try again.

His gear, at least, offered some balance. The Darkweave Coat let him slip away when things got too dangerous. His Air Strider Boots gave him a modest 10% boost in speed—just enough to escape or close distance in a pinch. His revolver was a last resort, rarely drawn. And then there was the healing balm, the most valuable of all. A shimmering salve that could mend almost any wound—flesh, bone, tendon—though only a little remained. Magical, yes. But painfully limited.

With all this combined—Telekinesis, Incite, mobility tools—his build leaned heavily toward support. Merek was no frontliner.

Not the berserker with a greatsword, cleaving enemies like a storm of steel. He envied that kind of brute power. Like every hot-blooded youth, part of him longed to charge into battle, steel in hand, glory in mind.

But the Job he’d been given—Weaver—didn’t grant him that luxury.

He thought of Felicity. Her hair had changed color again during the last fight, flaring like white fire before settling back. Some kind of temporary power-up, no doubt, though its exact nature remained a mystery. And it made her dangerous. Unpredictable.

Especially to someone like Merek.

He was the one meant to raise an army, to lead from behind. And yet... he only had three soldiers to his name. Three undead, weaved from dead souls. And therein lay the problem—souls. They were rare. So rare.

Still, as he clenched his fist, Merek could feel the essence flowing through his veins. With each level-up, the power had begun transforming him, body and soul. His strength was no longer average—far from it. A punch now could break a grown man’s skull.

He knew it. Something deep inside told him:

He was ten times stronger. Ten times faster. Ten times more durable than a normal man.

By the time the skies had darkened to dusk, the groups returned. Some limped. Some bore bloodied shirts and torn sleeves. But all of them were alive—and all carried essence cores. They poured them into two backpacks. Then, as if pulled by instinct, they turned to the man seated quietly atop the bus.

Merek didn’t move. He simply watched them. Silent. Assessing.

Professor David stepped forward. "When will you start?"

"Immediately," Merek replied. With a flick of his finger, the bags levitated toward him. He opened one.

"How many did you gather?"

"Two hundred and forty-three," the professor said.

Merek nodded once. Then he selected a single core and held it between two fingers. It was enough.

He activated the Job skill: Veilwalk.

And without another word, he stepped forward—into the cracked glass of reality itself, vanishing in a shimmer of refracted light.

"He... left?" Carla blinked rapidly, uncertain if her eyes had tricked her. In her group, all the boys had tried to protect her—eager, posturing, desperate for her attention.

But Merek?

From the very first moment they’d met, he hadn’t paid her a single glance. Not one.

While others buzzed around her like moths, he was distant, as if he were chasing something far greater than any of them could see.

"He’ll be back," Felicity said, walking past the line of buses with the others.

But even she wasn’t sure. They had risked everything for this—staked their lives on hope. If Merek betrayed them now... they’d be powerless to stop him.

Swoosh!

A gust swept through the air. Felicity froze.

Her blue eyes widened, catching the reflection in the glass of the bus.

He was back.

Standing just before the buses in his dark coat, Merek emerged with two towering heaps of silver-grey metal—cold, dense, and unyielding—sat like silent sentinels at his sides.

Steel.

More precisely, low-carbon steel ingots, neatly stacked and bound with tight iron cords. A treasure trove of metal.

Someone gasped. Another muttered in disbelief.

"They’re ingots," Professor David whispered, eyes wide in shock. "Merek, did you perhaps teleport to a steel factory?"

"No."

"Oh?"

David’s brows lifted as he watched Merek step away, clearly not in the mood for a public conversation. The professor, ever perceptive, smiled knowingly.

"When do you think you’ll finish?"

"I don’t know. Maybe a day—I’ll need to rest to regain my energy," Merek replied, already pulling out his sketchbook as he moved to a quieter corner.

At first, he felt the weight of the others’ eyes on him. Curious, lingering. But eventually, they faded from his awareness, drowned beneath the tide of lines, shapes, and blueprints flowing from his pencil.

Veyra had revealed something vital during his visit:

These steel ingots weren’t from this world. They were foreign—extradimensional. That explained why his Job skill, Weaving, could mold them to his will.

If he ever tried the same with metals native to this world... he’d fail.

Unless he took up a hammer like a traditional blacksmith, there’d be no shaping them through skill alone.

Time trickled by.

When he finally stood and stretched, something startled him. There was light.

Bright white beams poured from the nearby poles, bathing the yard in visibility.

"I figured you’d need light," came a voice like warm honey across a cold night.

Merek turned slightly. Felicity sat on the staircase, legs crossed, her head tilted slightly to reveal her gorgeous face.

"Nero, Tevin and I got the school’s generator running," she added.

"Where are the others?"

"Eating," she said simply.

"And you?"

"I figured someone has to protect you."

She said it plainly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Merek’s eyes flicked to his undead nearby, silent and motionless. Then back to her.

Noticing the glance, Felicity scoffed. "You had the face of a deprived baby after losing two of them. You’d probably feel better if I had died instead of those armored ghosts."

Merek frowned faintly. "Ghosts?"

"You said wraiths. Back when you snapped at Fred."

Her voice softened, losing its earlier sarcasm. "And stop asking questions. Get to work."

A hot breath escaped Merek’s lips, almost a sigh. He turned from her and faced the buses again.

Raising his hands, a pale white glow enveloped his fingers and crawled up to his palm like a second skin, luminescent and alive.

The low-carbon steel ingots—a grade beneath the ones he used for his undead’s shells—rose gently into the air.

Then, like a mirage shifting in the desert, they began to stretch, weave, and merge, dancing to the precise choreography of his hands.