Chapter 133: Bartholomew vs Marshall
byThe group had reached a street choked with rubble and ruined houses. Forced to detour from their original path, they moved cautiously through the wreckage.
“Trust me, it’s worth it,” Luke said, picking up the pace as he approached a more isolated house, part of its front wall already collapsed. The others followed, curious.
He entered through the side, crossed what remained of the kitchen, and stopped in front of a wooden cabinet leaning against the back wall. With some effort, he pushed it aside, revealing a narrow entrance to a small storage room.
And there it was—still intact. His spatial storage chest.
Luke dropped to one knee and opened the chest carefully. The others leaned over his shoulder, and silence was broken by quiet gasps of surprise. Inside were neatly packed bags of seeds, a few cans of food… and vials filled with familiar glowing liquids.
Potions.
“H-how did you get all this?” Anna asked, stunned.
“Don’t tell me you… stole from Bartholomew’s supply crates?” Paul said, frowning.
Angelica folded her arms. “You’re going to need a very good explanation.”
Understandable. Tensions were still high after recent suspicions that the Haven had been involved in stealing from Bastion’s event caches—any connection to them was a sensitive subject.
“These potions came from a Wild Zone chest,” Luke said. “It wasn’t easy. I spent days studying the area, mapping out the patrol patterns of a Midnight Warden… only then could I get close. This has nothing to do with Bastion.”
He turned and began placing the items on a makeshift table. “I was planning to give the seeds to the Haven slowly. If I’d shown up with everything at once, it would’ve raised too many questions.”
Laid out before them were fifteen healing potions, thirteen mana potions, and four stamina potions.
Angelica studied the contents and exhaled. “At this point, it doesn’t matter where they came from. What matters is they can save lives right now.”
The distribution was done quickly. There were twenty people present. The three mages each received four mana potions. The last one went to Angelica, whose abilities consumed large amounts of mana in combat.
“I don’t need a potion. We’re heading back,” Paul said. He and his group of five had only come to clear the path to the stash—their job now was to return to the Haven and defend the civilians while the main group headed for the ant colony.
“Take at least one healing potion with you,” Luke said, offering a vial.
Paul hesitated, then took it. “Thanks.”
The remaining fourteen, heading toward the ant colony, each took one healing potion.
“If things calm down at the Haven, I’ll bring reinforcements,” Paul promised. “But I can’t guarantee anything.”
Angelica nodded. “And we’ll try to return quickly. Hopefully in one piece.”
Paul gave a half-smile before turning. “Come back alive. You’re valuable members of the Haven.”
With that, he and his chosen five disappeared into the debris, retracing their way back through the cleared path. Luke watched them go in silence, then turned to the rest of the group.
“We’ve got four stamina potions left.”
“Keep them,” Angelica said. “It’ll be easier for anyone who needs one to come straight to you than to waste time searching during a fight.”
Everyone agreed.
They moved out soon after, pushing forward through the ruins.
The ant colony was waiting.
***
They had just slid over the rubble blocking the road—one of the containment lines set up along the border of the Safe Zone. Crossing it meant one thing: they were now officially in Wild Zone territory.
The group pushed forward toward the ant colony, but it didn’t take long before they began noticing something strange. Dead ants. Dozens of them. Scattered across the path like someone had carved a trail through sheer violence.
Farther ahead, a squad of soldiers was still engaged, firing arrows and casting spells—electricity and fire bursting in flashes among the remaining creatures.
Bartholomew’s soldiers.
“Kill them!” shouted one of the mages as he spotted the group approaching.
“We’re from the Haven!” Paul raised both hands.
“And how the hell are we supposed to know that?” another soldier shouted back, bow already drawn tight. The tension snapped into the air like a whip.
Then one of them recognized a face.
“That’s Angelica.”
“Of course it’s me, you idiot.” She marched straight toward them, as short-tempered as ever.
In the distance, they could see more soldiers moving toward the ant colony. Multiple squads—armed, organized, advancing with purpose.
“Bartholomew sent reinforcements here?” Angelica asked, frowning. “I thought he was holding position at Bastion.”
“He sent part of the forces to deal with the ant colony,” the officer replied, still watching them carefully. “If Bastion falls, it’s bad. But if we lose the entire Safe Zone… it’s game over.”
“You might be authoritarian, but at least you’re not completely incompetent,” Jonathan muttered.
Allison stepped up beside Luke and pointed toward the base of the hill, where the mouth of the old mine yawned open in the earth like the throat of some buried beast.
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“Your perception will come in handy down there,” she said. “I bet it’s a natural deathtrap.”
Luke nodded. The entrance didn’t look like a tunnel—it looked like something waiting to swallow them whole.
“So we just go in, kill the General, and that’s it?” Anna asked, trying to sound casual.
“A powerful team of ours went in thirty minutes ago,” the officer replied, voice tight. “None of them have come back out. We’ve been clearing the reinforcements trying to strengthen the ant colony. Any help you can offer is more than welcome.”
Angelica turned to the group. “So… are we doing this?”
“Do we even have a choice?” Jonathan grunted, already stepping forward.
“I’m going in with you,” said the officer. “I’ve got friends in there. I was waiting for backup before going in.”
The group began to move again, descending over the rocks and drawing closer to the mine’s entrance.
Then—
A scream echoed from the darkness inside. High. Human. Desperate.
***
Marshall stood in the heart of Bastion’s great hall. Once a monument of wealth—tapestries, rare pelts, elegant furniture—now reduced to blood and rubble. Corpses littered the marble floor. Crimson streaks dripped down the steps. Screams echoed from deeper corridors. Explosions. The rhythmic, hollow march of monsters.
The plan had worked.
He’d done it.
The ants were inside—swarming through the fortress. And while they devoured the defenders, the Renegades hunted the king.
“Where’s your loyal right-hand, Bartholomew?” Marshall’s voice echoed as he advanced, crossbow in hand, eyes sweeping the shadows.
Behind a shattered pillar, Bartholomew wheezed for breath. His guards were dead. The Renegades stood alive. Restless. Vicious.
“I thought your security detail would put up more of a fight,” one of them muttered, nudging a corpse with his foot.




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