Chapter 319: Crown of Toxins

Ronan and Luke moved down the stone corridor with steady, near-silent strides. Torches set into the walls flickered in the draft seeping from unseen cracks, throwing restless shadows across their path. Behind them, Erza Grimhart had already closed the door, sealing their fate deeper inside the fortress. Every second dragged heavier than the last.

“Those maids will only keep guarding the Bastion area, but once that place is free of danger, they’ll return.” Ronan said without slowing.

“I know,” Luke answered, eyes locked ahead.

“You shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have tricked her.”

When he felt they’d put enough distance between themselves and Erza, Luke let his shoulders relax, though his fingers stayed tight on the bowstring.

“She said only two of us could pass through the door. That’s exactly what happened.” He drew a breath, focused. Charlie emerged from inside his soul.

“She technically didn’t pass through the door,” he added with a faint, knowing smile. Ronan blanched at the sight.

“That woman… you shouldn’t have crossed her,” he muttered, casting a glance back over his shoulder.

“She kept the deal and so did I. I just found a loophole.” Luke’s voice dropped, almost to himself. Samael had drilled that lesson into him long ago: when you make a deal, read between the lines, exploit the margins. He wasn’t about to leave his ace behind.

Charlie, immune to poison and disease because of her skeletal form, was the natural counterweight to Bartholomew. Luke would never walk into this fight without her. And he knew this was the second time he’d fooled Erza Grimhart, the first had been when he’d disguised himself as Lucy.

“Three in a fight is better than two,” Luke said.

Charlie was the perfect shield against Bartholomew’s arsenal: a tank immune to his primary damage, Luke striking from range, and Ronan hammering the front line.

Ronan ran with a scowl carved deep into his face, caught between anger and unease. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” he muttered. “Bartholomew wasn’t supposed to go this far.”

“You wanted to spare him. I didn’t. I should’ve killed him the first chance I had,” Luke said without looking over.

Part of him still regretted it. He should have ended Bartholomew at the banquet. But back then it would’ve been suicide. Bastion’s king had Kruger, the assassins, the inner guard, the maids, Erza Grimhart, and anyone else in that room. No shot at survival.

As they ran, Luke checked his vitals:

[Health Points (HP) 1913/4340]
[Mana Points (MP): 771/5100]
[Arrows in Quiver: 17/20]

On paper, the plan was straightforward. Bartholomew was a healer, only good for reinforcing body, stamina, and mana. He shouldn’t have Mason’s or Allison’s offensive bite. As long as Luke kept his distance, he should have the advantage. The problem was the arena, a sealed chamber at the heart of the mechanism, no windows, no escape. Stepping into Bartholomew’s zone meant enduring the slow bleed of his area effects.

“He’s got… eight thousand mana,” Ronan murmured.

“Eight thousand?” Luke’s eyebrows rose. That was a lot of mana.

“I know because we used to plan strategies together. He never told me every cost, but the total was his point of pride. He dumped every free point into mana. For him, it was the trump card. With that pool, he heals himself and everyone else. Didn’t see the point in any other stat.”

Luke locked the details into memory while running the risks through his head: the crown’s electric field, the profession’s epic skill, the class’s epic skill, the rank skills, and whatever hidden tricks Bartholomew might still be holding back.

“We’re close,” Ronan whispered, stopping abruptly.

Princess Charlie drifted forward. At the end of the corridor a ragged hole opened in the wall, the mechanism chamber beyond. Bartholomew had carved himself a path back into the place he’d sealed off.

He’s going to be inside… and in a cramped space his disease cloud wins, Luke thought.

He drew a deep breath, the corridor’s damp chill filling his lungs. The smell of old stone carried a metallic trace of dust and blood. His fingers went to the pendant hanging at his neck, steady, calculating.

He pulled out a small glass vial that caught the flickering light of the torches. Inside, a dense green liquid shimmered faintly on its own. He handed it to Ronan.

“What’s this?” Ronan’s voice betrayed a flicker of unease.

“My only super-antidote,” Luke said.

[Antidote of Jormungandr (Ultra-Rare)]: An extremely powerful antidote, crafted from a rare sample of blood taken from a Jormungandr hatchling. Its effect grants total immunity to any kind of physical or magical poison for a limited time, rendering the user invulnerable to toxins, gases, and poisonous substances. However, its effectiveness has limits: poisons of mythical or higher origin remain beyond its protection.

It was the pinnacle of what he’d managed to brew from the Beast Lord’s blood. Not absolute immunity, somewhere out there existed toxins it couldn’t block, but more than enough to neutralize anything Bartholomew could whip up here, whether through alchemy or skill.

“Why are you giving it to me?”

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“Your strongest skill, Iron Skin, already bleeds HP per second,” Luke explained. “Now you’re about to fight an enemy who stacks poison and disease damage over time. Strategically, you and Charlie hold the line. I’ll stay at range.”

Ronan stared at the vial for a heartbeat too long, then exhaled sharply. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s strategy.” Luke nocked an arrow, its tip flashing under the torchlight.

They advanced at a deliberate pace, boots echoing off the stone. Every breath felt heavier. Luke knew the king of Bastion never acted blind. Every detail of the mechanism, every hostage, every trap, all part of some calculation. And a name kept surfacing in his head, one he didn’t want to face: Jonathan.

At the lip of the hole in the wall, Luke motioned for silence. The three of them split to cover angles, Charlie at his side. They peered inside. The mechanism chamber sprawled wide but low, torches casting uneven light across stone and rubble. Less debris than Luke remembered, but still enough for cover. And at the far end, a lone figure sat waiting.

They pulled back instantly.

“I know you’re there,” Bartholomew’s voice rolled out, deep and cold.