Chapter 378 - 369: The Rise of Industrial Alchemy

Chapter 378: Chapter 369: The Rise of Industrial Alchemy

Barton strode into the former textile workshop, the humming of hundreds of people at work merging into a single, powerful roar.

Assembly lines were formed from long tables pieced together. Over a thousand workers in different colored smocks were hunched over their stations, engrossed in their work.

Grinding, filtering, blending... Fifty separate stations, fifty repetitive steps.

They didn’t need to understand Alchemy. They just needed to follow the simple diagram in front of them and repeat the process, over and over.

Only the twelve steps that required blending with Magic Power were reserved for the alchemists.

"Hey! Barton!"

A voice called out from the side.

Barton turned to see a burly man with a grease-stained face struggling to operate a furnace. It was old Sam, an old buddy he used to haul sacks with back in Newly Town.

"What are you doing here?" Barton walked over and clapped him on the shoulder.

"The Lord put out the call, so I came." Old Sam wiped away some sweat and grinned, revealing a few yellowed teeth. "You’re the police captain now, you punk. What are you doing here? To help out?"

"I’m here to pick up the potions," Barton stated simply.

"Ah!" Old Sam slapped his thigh. "Then you’re in luck. Something pretty unusual just happened." He jutted his chin toward a cheerful-looking station not far away.

Barton looked over and saw Master Valerius patting a middle-aged worker on the shoulder, his face beaming with approval.

The large barrel of solvent in front of the worker was brilliantly clear—practically perfect.

"Did you hear?" old Sam lowered his voice, his tone brimming with pride. "That batch of potion was just ruined, and the Master’s apprentices all said it would take two hours to fix. But you know what?"

"Old Joey from the brewery—that drunkard—he went over, took a whiff, and said it smelled just like spoiled wine. Then he told them to put the whole thing in a pot and steam it! And what do you know, once the steam cooled, it was a clean batch of potion again!"

Old Sam spoke with great excitement. "And over there, the one grinding powder. See her?"

Barton followed his finger to see a slender woman sitting at her workstation. Though her eyes were weary, her hands moved without pause.

"Used to be a weaver, a widow. She felt the stone mill was too wobbly, so she added a counterweight to the foot pedal herself. And get this! The entire grinding team’s efficiency went up by ten percent!"

Listening to this, Barton felt an indescribable emotion churning inside him.

He watched these former neighbors and coworkers, who were using the simplest of methods to drive forward a project that could very well save the world.

Just then, Master Valerius emerged from the crowd, carrying a metal case and heading straight for Barton. The old master’s face was etched with fatigue, but his eyes sparkled with a light brighter than ever before.

"The first batch—one hundred and fifty doses." He placed the heavy case in Barton’s hands. "The quarantine camp is in your hands now."

Barton took the case and gave a solemn nod.

"Let’s move! To the quarantine camp!" Wasting no more words, he turned, led a squad of elite guards in a dash out of the workshop, and vaulted onto his horse.

Hooves thundered, kicking up dust as they galloped toward the area shrouded in the shadow of death.

Quarantine Camp Three, Area A. The air reeked of death. A dead silence hung over the camp, broken only by coughs and the gasps of the dying.

"The cure is here!"

Barton’s shout sent a ripple through the barracks.

Countless pairs of clouded eyes snapped toward him, filled with numbness and disbelief, but also with the last flicker of a will to survive, now rekindled.

The quarantine officers rushed forward and opened the case. Vials of a clear blue potion gave off a faint glow in the gloom.

"John! Hold on!" a soldier growled at his semi-conscious comrade on a medical cot.

The young soldier named John was burning hot, his skin covered in black patches, his breathing so faint it was nearly imperceptible.

A dose of Blood Cough Potion was swiftly injected into his arm.

His violent convulsions slowly subsided, and his burning fever seemed to break. He sank into a deeper sleep, his breathing becoming long and even.

It worked!

Hope had finally come to this place of despair.

Barton didn’t linger. After overseeing the first round of injections, he took the remaining potions and set out on the road back to the Municipal Hall.

On the way, his mounted party was halted by a massive construction project ahead.

On an open lot east of the Municipal Square, a massive tower was rising from the ground. Its framework was blackened metal, and countless components glittering with Runes were being installed. Under the direction of several Mages, hundreds of Worker Ants were lifting heavy metal beams high into the air and welding them into place.

’The Ethereum Tower...’ Barton murmured to himself.

He knew about this project.

It was more than just a Mage tower; it was a massive energy engine. Once built, it could simulate the ideal environment for growing Shadow Graveyard Grass and could even power the entire Alchemy Workshop.

When that happened, potion production would skyrocket.

A sense of awe washed over Barton. ’The Lord isn’t just solving the crisis at hand,’ he thought. ’Every step he takes is a move to prepare for the distant future.’

With these complex feelings, Barton reached the Municipal Hall.

The main hall was brightly lit. Chief Administrator Tristan and a group of scribes were taking inventory of the potions delivered from the workshop. A few assorted crates were already in front of them.

Barton placed the case he brought back among them.

At that moment, Velin walked in.

He walked straight to the potion crates, ignoring the production report Tristan offered him. "How many do we have in total?" he asked directly.

Tristan was momentarily stunned but quickly replied, "My Lord, including what Barton brought back and today’s new production, our total inventory is two hundred doses."

Velin nodded, his face showing no sign of pleasure. He pointed to the assorted potions.

"Have these repacked and sent to the docks."

Tristan froze. "My Lord, what for?"

"They’re for the Dawn Territory and the Green Vein Territory. Our allies are at their breaking point."

"My Lord." His voice was earnest. "You must have heard the news. The plague has spread across half the Duchy—Donglu Province, Golden Thread Province, Flower Province, Silver Bay Province... It’s spiraling out of control. Soon, hundreds of thousands of people who can no longer survive will flee the plague zones. They will inevitably make their way to our lands."

Velin looked neither at him nor at the potions. His gaze traveled through the window, out toward the night-shrouded docks in the distance.

The harbor lights were just a few blurry specks in the darkness.

"Tristan," Velin said calmly, pulling his gaze back into the room. "There’s no use in only trying to protect ourselves."

Tristan fell silent, not understanding his lord’s meaning.

"No single territory can survive this plague alone," Velin continued. "Think about it. Many of the raw materials for the Blood Cough Potion have to be purchased from beyond our borders. If all the other territories fall, especially our two allies, trade will be severed. Where will we get our supplies then?"

He gestured toward the two hundred doses of potion.

"By then, even having a perfect formula will be useless. So, we must help them, and as soon as possible. Helping our allies is helping ourselves."

Velin bypassed Tristan and, without another look at him, walked straight out the door. "Go to the docks. Supervise the loading." The order was directed at Barton.

Tristan’s hand lingered on a crate for a moment before falling powerlessly to his side.

He looked up, watching Velin’s silhouette vanish into the night. The light from the hall stretched his own shadow long upon the floor.

Under the cover of night, two swift, black-hulled ships quietly departed from the harbor.

The night swallowed the ships’ silhouettes, but it also protected two faint glimmers of light as they journeyed onward.