Confronting Nawasir!

Harley had cried herself into exhaustion, her small frame finally succumbing to sleep in Luther's arms. Even as her breathing evened out, one hand clung tightly to the fabric of his robe, a silent plea for him to stay by her side.

Luther glanced down at her peaceful face, streaked with the remnants of dried tears. His expression softened. Carefully, he pried her fingers away from his robe and shifted her to a small stool by the well, leaning her gently against the stone. She murmured softly in her sleep, but didn't stir.

Shrugging off his white robe, he draped it over her as a makeshift blanket. The cool night air was beginning to settle in, and while she needed warmth and care, there was something far more pressing he had to deal with.

Nawasir.

The creature, if one could even call it that; was still in the clinic. It was the source of the plague, a primordial entity capable of wiping out humanity without so much as a thought. Its mere presence was a threat to everyone. Luther understood this far too well.

He looked back at the clinic, the soft glow of lamplight spilling through the windows, and let out a slow breath. There were no reinforcements coming, no one else who could deal with this. It was all on him.

Capture or kill. Perhaps, in the worst case, even swallow it and imprison it within himself. His immunity, gifted by the system, might be the only defense capable of sealing it.

Luther straightened his back, his resolve hardening. He wasn't a hero, just a small man in a big world; but, If he let Nawasir escape, it wouldn't just be a disaster; it would be an extinction event. The creature was the ruler of plagues, a living embodiment of sickness and decay. To it, humanity was nothing more than a collection of fragile ants scurrying beneath an indifferent colossus.

A single exhalation from Nawasir could kill thousands. A flicker of its power could ignite epidemics that would devastate cities. To the Old One, humans were likely beneath notice, their deaths an unintentional side effect of its existence.

But Luther wasn't just any ant. He was an anomaly, a glitch in the natural order. And if there was anyone who could confront this ancient being and walk away, it was him.

The thought made him pause. He looked up at the night sky, where the full moon hung heavy and luminous, its light casting an eerie glow over the quiet street. Without hesitation, he turned and strode back to the clinic, throwing the door open with enough force to rattle the frame before slamming it shut behind him.

The moment he stepped inside, the air hit him like a wave. The clinic was thick with the sweet, refreshing fragrance that Nawasir exuded. It was intoxicating, almost calming, but Luther knew better. This wasn't comfort. It was the silent spread of death.

Already, he could feel the invisible tendrils of disease seeping into every corner. The creature wasn't simply lurking; it was actively disseminating its plague. If he didn't act fast, it would escape beyond these walls, and the consequences would be catastrophic.

Luther moved quickly, his movements precise and deliberate. He grabbed his bird-beak glove, slipping it onto his left hand, then added a pair of clean white gloves over both hands for good measure. From the drawer, he retrieved his dagger, securing it at his waist. Then he hesitated, glancing at the jar of 'Touch of Plague' resting on the shelf.

The strange, writhing substance had always been a mystery to him. The system described it as a product of the Source of the Plague, a fragment of Nawasir itself. If that was true, perhaps it could serve as a link between them.

Taking the jar, he unscrewed the lid and poured the viscous substance into his hand. The living mass coiled around his fingers like curious tentacles, licking at his gloves as if testing his intentions. Luther watched it with narrowed eyes, then spoke, his voice firm.

"Do you know the Source of the Plague?" he asked. "Nawasir?"

The Touch of Plague froze, its movements halting as if startled. After a moment, the tentacles resumed their slow, cautious motion, brushing against his fingers in what seemed like an apologetic gesture. It swayed left and right, a clear signal of denial or avoidance.

"Don't want to talk about it, huh?" Luther muttered. He watched it carefully, noting its reluctance. "That's fine. But let me be clear: it's here. In the clinic. And I'm going to catch it."

The tentacles quivered, their movements jittery, as though warning him of the danger. But Luther's expression didn't waver. He placed the Touch of Plague back in the jar and sealed it tightly, slipping it into his pocket.

With his preparations complete, Luther turned toward the source of the fragrance, his face set with grim determination. The clinic seemed almost alive now, the air heavy with unseen malice. He could feel Nawasir's presence, a quiet but overwhelming weight pressing against his mind.

"This isn't just about me," he said under his breath, gripping the hilt of his dagger. "This is about all of us. And I'm not letting you walk out of here."

With that, he stepped deeper into the clinic, ready to confront the ancient overlord lurking within.

The 'Touch of Plague', which had initially tried to dissuade Luther from his "reckless" plans, abruptly retracted all its tentacles after hearing his firm command. It curled itself into a tight ball, rolling toward the edge of the jar like a panicked animal seeking shelter. Several tentacles emerged from its underside, spider-like, propelling it into the jar. Once inside, it stretched out a single, cautious limb and slammed the lid on itself with a decisive 'bang'.

Luther stood there, unimpressed, arms crossed. "Really? Are you part ostrich now?" he muttered, rolling his eyes. With a quick, deliberate motion, he unscrewed the lid and reached in to grab the squirming mass.

But the 'Touch of Plague' wasn't going quietly. Its tentacles latched onto the edges of the jar, clinging for dear life, refusing to let go.

Luther's patience wore thin as he shot a glance toward the kerosene lamp flickering on the table. Then, back to the defiant blob. "Alright, buddy," he said in a dangerously calm tone, "here's the deal. Either you help me fight Nawasir, or I'll toss you in that lamp and see if you enjoy being flambéed."

That got its attention. Slowly, reluctantly, the 'Touch of Plague' loosened its hold. Luther grabbed it with a firm grip, holding it at arm's length as if it might change its mind.

"Good choice," he muttered, starting toward the treatment room. "Now listen up: when we get in there, I want you to seal the entire room with your tentacles. Reinforce the windows, block every gap. Nothing gets in or out. Leave the rest to me."

The 'Touch of Plague', still dangling from his hand, quivered faintly in acknowledgment or perhaps fear. It didn't exactly exude confidence. Luther gave it a warning squeeze.

"I mean it," he said, his voice sharp. "Respond if you understand, or I'll show you just how creative I can be with matches."

In response, the blob weakly extended a single tentacle, which wobbled twice before retreating back into its body. Luther squinted at it, unimpressed.

"Pathetic," he muttered. "But you're all I've got, so let's get to it."

He pushed open the office door, and his eyes immediately fell on 'Nawasir', perched casually on his desk like some malevolent trophy. It had grown larger since the last time he saw it. Its translucent, gelatinous body shimmered faintly under the dim light, the remnants of the stewed meat he'd prepared earlier suspended within it, slowly digesting.

Bubbles rose steadily through its body, bursting at the surface with small pops. Each rupture released a dense, almost tangible gas into the air, spreading that deceptively pleasant, overpowering fragrance that had been suffocating the clinic. The smell was so intense that Luther couldn't help but sneeze.

'Nawasir', however, paid him no mind. It continued to digest its meal in eerie contentment, utterly unbothered by his presence.

Luther narrowed his eyes. "So you're feeling cocky, huh?"

Without another word, he reached into his pocket and dropped the 'Touch of Plague' onto the floor. "Seal the room," he commanded. "No gaps, no excuses. Now."

The blob quivered on the ground, trembling as if it could sense the overwhelming presence of 'Nawasir'. Tentatively, it crawled forward a couple of steps, but the moment one of 'Nawasir''s bubbles floated too close and popped, releasing a burst of the noxious gas, the 'Touch of Plague' let out a high-pitched squeal and collapsed. Its tentacles twitched feebly before it went completely still.

Luther let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. "Drama queen," he muttered under his breath as he walked over and scooped up the blob. Holding it firmly, he gave its squishy body a sharp squeeze.

"Don't play dead with me," he growled. "I know your tricks."

The 'Touch of Plague' let out a faint, pathetic squeak as its tentacles flailed weakly. Luther, unamused, reached into his pocket, pulled out a match, and lit it in one fluid motion. Without hesitation, he shoved the burning match into the blob's mouth-like orifice.

A loud, garbled scream erupted as the 'Touch of Plague' spat out the match, its tentacles writhing wildly in protest. Luther smirked, shaking the blob threateningly.

"Thought you'd like the pile of matches in the kitchen," he said, his tone dangerously sweet. "Want me to bring them out?"

Defeated, the 'Touch of Plague' gave a series of frantic quivers. It extended its tentacles with reluctant precision, moving to seal the room as commanded. Its limbs stretched impossibly long, covering every crack and reinforcing the glass windows, creating a tight seal against the outside world. Its main body retreated to a shadowed corner, trembling faintly.

"That's more like it," Luther said, watching the blob retreat. He turned his attention back to 'Nawasir', which remained undisturbed, happily digesting its meal. Its calm defiance made his blood boil.

"You've been comfortable for too long," he muttered, stepping closer to the desk. His hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

"I'm done letting you sit there like you own the place."

With deliberate steps, Luther approached the ancient Plague, the air between them heavy with tension. This was the moment, one man, one creature, and the weight of humanity's survival hanging in the balance.