Becoming the Dark Lord

Only three remained. A mage. An archer. And the commander.

And the darkness watched them.

“Shit... how the hell did this happen?!” the one-eyed leader roared. His voice cracked under the weight of panic, blood running in thick streams down his jaw.

The air stank of blood, steel, and rain.

The archer spun, eyes wide, trembling. “I’m done! Screw this!” He bolted, boots slipping in the mud as he vanished into the trees.

“Coward!” the commander spat, but his voice was strained—rage drowning beneath fear.

Then a scream. Not the scream of someone escaping. The scream of prey. Something dragged him into the dark. Something fast. Something that didn’t miss.

The mage swallowed, chest heaving. The commander turned on him, wild-eyed. “Burn your mana. Light up the whole damn forest!”

The mage hesitated. “W-we should run. It’s almost midnight.”

“No.” The commander’s jaw clenched. “We kill the boy.”

Thunder shattered the sky. Lightning flashed through the canopy, warping the forest into a landscape of twisted shadows.

Then—footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. Not charging. Not fleeing. Circling.

Hunting.

The boy wasn’t escaping. He was playing.

“You scared, brat?!” the commander shouted, turning in circles. But his hands shook. His voice trembled. He’d seen those eyes. Eyes that didn’t see a man. Only prey.

Another step. Closer. Measured.

Then—a shadow burst from the trees.

“FIRE!” the commander roared.

The mage raised his staff and unleashed lightning. The explosion tore through the clearing, shattering mud and root, throwing sparks into the air. A figure was hit—flung back, limp.

The commander’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Got him.”

But then—

“No... the system didn’t notify a kill—”

The mage didn’t finish. A cold hand clamped around the back of his neck. Steel slid clean across his throat. Effortless.

His breath caught. Blood sprayed. Eyes widened in disbelief. And then—collapse. Limbs folding. Silence.

“Shit!” The commander spun.

Too slow.

The boy was already there.

A dash. A fist drove into his face. His body lifted, slammed into a tree. He gasped—chest crushed—tried to raise his sword.

Pain.

A slice. Clean.

He blinked. And watched his own hand fall to the dirt—fingers still locked around the sword hilt. His scream tore out, raw, animal, broken. Blood gushed from the severed stump.

Another impact. A knee crushed into his ribs, pinning him against the tree. One blade pressed to his throat. The other slid between his teeth, metal scraping against his tongue.

The boy leaned in.

No rage. No glee. No cruelty.

Just silence. Just judgment.

Behind him, something moved. Bones. A skeleton with a sword in hand. A knight of death, standing guard.

The commander froze. Chest trembling. Breath shallow. “Please...” he rasped. “I—I’ll give you everything. Just... let me live.”

Luke said nothing.

The blade at his throat pressed harder. A bead of blood welled—thin, red, trembling against the steel.

Their faces were inches apart. Locked.

But Luke’s eyes weren’t human. Not anymore. Cold. Merciless. Hollow.

“How many of you are there?” His voice was quiet. Controlled. Sharp as the knife.

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The commander blinked, stunned. “W-what?”

“How many.” The blade twisted—just a fraction.

“Is this all of you?” Luke asked again. Calm. Steady. “Or is there a camp?”

The man hesitated. Luke’s expression didn’t change.

“Twenty-three!” he blurted. “We—we were twenty-three total! You killed nine! Th-thirteen more are back at camp!”

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

The punch shattered his thoughts. His skull hit the tree. Before he could breathe—another hit. Harder.

“I swear! I swear to God!”

“Where’s the camp?” Luke’s voice didn’t waver.

“Check... check the mage’s bag,” the man gasped, coughing blood. “It’s all there... map... supplies... everything... just—just let me go! I’ll disappear. I won’t tell anyone...”

Luke didn’t answer.

“Take my gear,” the man sobbed. “All of it. Yours.”

No response.

The blade slid in. Clean. Precise.

His hands shot to his throat—reflex, futile. Blood mixed with rain. His body trembled. Twitched. Then fell.

And the last thing he saw... was the dark that ended him.

[You have slain a Human - Lvl 6 (Warrior - Lvl 12)]

*Your class [Demonic Assassin] has reached Level 11! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)*

**[You have reached Level 6! Half-Demon (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)**

**[Princess Charlie has reached Level 4: Skeleton (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)**

The rain poured harder. Thunder cracked above.

[Soul Fragments Gained: +8]

Luke stood still, water trailing down his face, mixing with the blood on his cheeks.

Right then, the bandit’s gear meant nothing to Luke. He wasn’t a thief. All that filled his mind was a truth, heavier than the rain hammering against his skin.

”My mom’s dead, Charlie...” His voice broke. Small. Fragile. ”She probably died in a tutorial... to people like them. Over items. Over loot.”

The realization carved into him deeper than any wound. Something inside cracked — something he had buried, suffocated, ignored his whole life. It rose now. And it wasn’t going away.

Then—

’DING DONG!’

The warning bell tolled. Midnight.

The world shifted. Subtle—but undeniable. Like the air itself had forgotten how to breathe.

Luke yanked the mage’s satchel off the corpse, the leather slick with blood. He didn’t check the contents. Just slung it over his shoulder in a single, practiced motion.

A flash of green. Charlie vanished, retreating into his soul.

Then—he ran.

His legs tore through mud and tangled roots, pumping like pistons. Standing still now... meant dying.

Midnight in the Wild Zone wasn’t just dangerous. It was death incarnate. And the Safe Zone was still too far.

Then—he heard it.

A footfall. Metallic. Precise. Too heavy, too measured, too clean to belong to anything human. Another. Then another. Rhythmic. Relentless.

Cold dread coiled through Luke’s spine. The sound echoed like a war drum made of steel—each step a hammer against the bones of the world.

Not one Warden. Several.

His instincts screamed.Run.

He pushed harder, weaving between trunks slick with rain, ducking beneath broken branches. His boots splashed through puddles. Leaves whipped against his face. His breath tore out ragged, raw.

The trees thinned. Ruins. The forest gave way to the skeletal remains of a dead city. Cracked asphalt stretched into the dark. Buildings, half-swallowed by earth and time, slumped against each other—rotten skeletons of concrete and rust.

The air reeked. Burned metal. Old smoke. Sour decay.

But the footsteps didn’t stop. Worse—they split. Two directions. Closing fast.

His pulse spiked.

Think. MOVE.

His gaze swept the wreckage. Then—there. A collapsed structure. Steel beams twisted together, forming a jagged arch where the floor had caved. At its base—barely wide enough—a narrow crevice, swallowed by shadow.

No time to think. No time to check. He dove.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Luke crawled fast, dragging the mage’s satchel behind. The air thickened—dust, mold, rot. Broken concrete shredded his sleeves. His ribs scraped stone. Shoulder to rebar. His breath shrank to shallow gasps.

Then—movement.

A shadow shifted across the sliver of light near the entrance. A metal boot. Inches from his face.

The Warden. It stood just above him.

Luke stopped breathing. His heart slammed against his ribs—so loud, so violent, it felt like the creature must hear it.

The Warden didn’t move. It listened. Silent. Calculating.

Then—impact.

The creature leapt. The rubble groaned. Dust rained down, choking the air. A steel beam caved, collapsing inches from Luke’s back.

The weight shifted—crushing. Stone pressed into his ribs. His chest constricted.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Panic clawed at the edges of his mind. His vision swam.

Move.

Luke gritted his teeth and forced himself sideways, grinding deeper into the crawlspace. Ribs scraped against concrete. Steel tore his clothes. His shoulder jammed between rebar and rock. Every breath was agony.

But forward was the only direction left.

And behind him... death waited.

Above, the world fell silent.

Then the impact hit.

The tunnel shuddered beneath the weight—a brutal jolt that sent fractures through the stone, dust raining from every crack. Concrete groaned. Steel strained.

And then... nothing.

No footsteps. No breath. Silence returned—absolute.

Luke didn’t move. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Only then did he dare breathe.

Carefully, he shifted into a crouch, wincing as rusted rebar scraped against his shoulder. He dragged the mage’s satchel into his lap and unclasped the buckle. His fingers worked fast but quiet, easing the flap open.

He tipped it. The contents spilled into the dirt—soft, controlled.

Junk. Mostly. A bent spoon. A cracked canteen. Scraps of twisted metal. A shattered flask.

Then—paper. Fragile. Water-stained. Edges frayed with age.

A map.

Luke unrolled it carefully. The ink had faded, but the lines remained clear enough. Hand-drawn markings crossed the terrain—routes weaving through forest, sigils warning of hazards, circles drawn around key locations.

His eyes scanned, tracking landmarks. There—the ruined house where he’d found the mission orb. The forest trail. The perimeter of the Safe Zone.

And south. Further than he’d gone before.

A camp.

Their camp.

Luke’s jaw tightened.

This wasn’t about survival anymore. This wasn’t about clearing a dungeon.

They’d ambushed people. Slaughtered unarmed survivors. Hunted others for sport. Treated the tutorial like a game where only they were allowed to win.

Now? Now it was personal.

He slid his fingers across the system interface, opening the mission panel. His eyes narrowed. And then, he saw it.

[Special Mission]

The orb he’d taken wasn’t for an ordinary quest.