Chapter 320: Plague Doctor of Blight

Luke scanned the mechanism hall, eyes locking on Bartholomew at its center. The vast chamber of gray stone pressed in around him, the air heavy and saturated with poisonous vapor. At the heart of the room, perched on the central mechanism, loomed the monstrous brown sphere, Bartholomew’s creation born of his epic class skill. It pulsed like a heartbeat, exhaling a yellow haze that bled into the green cloud seeping from his body. Together they formed a choking miasma, an invisible field of death that clawed at lungs, skin, and willpower alike.

Shattered vials littered the floor, each spilling a different brew supercharged by the alchemist’s radioactive touch. Every glittering shard looked to Luke like another needle of venom pushed into the air. In his eyes, Bartholomew wasn’t a man anymore but a living factory of damage, an epicenter of pestilence. Luke’s only thought was how long Bartholomew could keep burning mana before it finally ran dry.

Nearby, he and his companions had dragged the unconscious clear of the lethal zone, laying them carefully on the cold floor near the side doors. Luke wiped sweat from his forehead, his entire body throbbing. Each breath burned like coals in his chest, and his system fed him cold numbers to match the feeling:

[Health Points (HP): 1549/]
[Mana Points (MP): 748/5100]
[Arrows in Quiver: 6/20]

Nine seconds inside that hell had cost him more than three hundred hit points. The math was cruel: at his current health, he had barely thirty seconds of survival left in the room. Even with Charlie and Ronan trying to pin Bartholomew down, there was no guarantee he’d make it out alive if he tried to reach the mechanism. Getting close to that sphere of disease would be suicide; every step would spike the damage exponentially.

“I’m going in. I’ll finish him now,” Ronan rasped, pale-faced and coughing between words.

“How much HP do you have?” Luke asked, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be enough.

“About four thousand,” Ronan muttered, lacking conviction.

Luke studied him. Health points weren’t the only problem: the cloud twisted perception, stirred vertigo and nausea. Temporary poison resistance could only hold for so long. The sickness clawed deeper than HP—it ate clarity, reflexes, and balance.

“We just have to kill the bastard,” Luke said, peering through the green haze. Bartholomew stood rooted in the center, constantly healing inside his toxic sanctuary. He didn’t retreat. He looked almost comfortable, breathing his own pestilence like it was fresh mountain air.

Ronan clenched his fist and, with Charlie at his side, poised himself to charge. With the Haven members now safe beyond the chamber, they could finally focus on the fight. Luke raised his bow and loosed arrow after arrow at Bartholomew, aiming for chest and skull, infusing each shot with stamina for extra force. Yet the king of Bastion raised mana barriers before the arrows even crossed the distance. All it took was seeing Luke move to trigger the defenses.

The man’s perception might have been low, but the power in those shields was monstrous. Luke could pour mana into his arrows to even the odds, but he had another plan—a plan that depended entirely on Princess Charlie. With the allies out of harm’s way, she could finally unleash her full power.

***

Through the sickly yellow haze, Bartholomew watched the two silhouettes closing in—Ronan and the armored knight. Every step they took made the stone floor echo like a muffled war drum. Without moving his lips, he flicked open his system interface, the translucent screen blooming before his eyes like a spectral window.

Name: Bartholomew Crawford
Level: 50
Race: Human
Rank: F
Class: Plague Doctor of Blight (Lvl 60)
Profession: Veteran Gas Alchemist (Lvl 60)
Health Points (HP): 3480/3480
Mana Points (MP): 5233/8890 (9200)
Stamina: 1608/1770

Stats:

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Strength: 109
Agility: 247 (267)
Endurance: 177
Vitality: 348
Perception: 327 (349)
Intelligence: 889 (920)
Free Points: 0

The numbers were a quiet war etched in sweat, experiments, and cruelty. Every point was a blade honed over years. Inside his diseased fog he healed without pause while his enemies withered by degrees. By his own count, he had nine minutes before his mana burned out. Potions still waited in his storage bracelet; if he pushed his body to its edge, maybe another ninety seconds. Ten minutes of absolute dominance. Ten minutes to scrub the room clean.

He drew in a long breath, the miasma as natural to him as fresh air was to others. Parts of his plan had slipped, but not enough to topple him. The ambush with Kruger had been his high-stakes gamble, and somehow they’d survived. No matter. He’d built this scenario to gather every enemy and bleed them with patience. The fortress was his board, every piece moving where he wanted. Once the purge finished outside, no one would be left to interfere.