Becoming the Dark Lord

Night had fallen. A group of orcs had set up camp along the riverbank—a crude village carved into the ruins between the dead city and the edge of Orc Forest. Makeshift tents. Wooden shacks. Open fires crackling under slabs of roasting meat. It was a temporary outpost for warbands pushing toward the city.

Some orcs tossed nets into the water, fishing under the moonlight. Others stood watch atop the rooftops, crossbows loaded and eyes sharp. Grease and blood dripped from the skewers above the flames, hissing as it hit the coals.

At the center of the encampment sat an Orc Captain—massive, scarred, broad-shouldered, his skin painted in battles past. He lounged on a rough stone throne, gnawing on the raw leg of a boar. Blood streamed down his tusks, pooling at his feet.

Two human corpses lay before him. Bodies riddled with arrows. Armor cracked. Killed like dogs. They’d dared to explore the Wild Zone... in search of the mechanisms.

Another orc approached, heavy steps muffled by damp earth. He wore a dark robe and carried a staff woven from bone and sinew. A second Captain. A spellcaster.

High above, an orc sentry scanned the perimeter. His crossbow was steady, eyes locked on the forest. The moon drifted between thick clouds. Torchlight flickered, throwing dancing shadows over the village walls.

He heard it, leaves rustling, too deliberate to be the wind. He raised his weapon, eyes sharp, every sense on edge. Then something emerged from the dark: an apple. It rolled to the edge of the camp. Then another. And another.

He frowned, confused, lifting his crossbow again, too late.

A shape moved behind him. One arm wrapped around his torso. Another drove a black blade clean through his throat. Blood arced through the air. He dropped to his knees without a sound, one hand clawing desperately for the alarm bell on his belt, but it wasn’t there. Eyes wide, he turned.

A silhouette waited in the dark. Motionless. Eyes faintly lit by torchlight, cold, detached, unblinking. Then nothing.

Another orc, stationed below, caught a flicker of movement, just a blur crossing the rooftops. A heartbeat later, one of his own collapsed beside him, choking, hands pressed to his neck, drowning in blood. But before he died, his hand brushed the bell.

The chime rang out.

The camp erupted into motion. Orcs jumped to their feet, knocking over bowls, bones, weapons. Shouts rang out as steel was drawn. Boots slammed against the ground. Leaders barked commands, soldiers scrambled to form lines, but it was chaos.

And then he appeared.

Standing alone atop the tallest rooftop, backlit by the fractured moonlight. His face was cloaked in shadow. Human, clearly. But something about him was wrong. Every orc who saw him felt it. A sudden weight in the chest. A cold sweat across their backs. Something primal recoiled. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

They scanned the rooftops again. No guards remained. All the sentries were gone.

“FILTHY HUMAN!!” the axe-wielding Orc Captain roared. “It was you! You’ve been the one attacking us night after night!”

Beside him, the mage smiled. “The General wants your head. I personally... can’t wait to deliver it.”

“KILL HIM!!” the Captain bellowed.

Archers took their positions. Bowstrings snapped. Arrows streaked through the sky. The mage captain slammed his staff to the earth, activating a command spell. Blades, spears, and axes lifted into the air, suspended in a spinning storm of magic. Then released. Dozens flew toward the rooftop in a single, lethal burst.

But the human was already in motion.

He leapt from the rooftop and sprinted forward, directly into the barrage. Arrows rained down, some glowing with enchantments. He didn’t slow. Twin kukris flashed with each movement, every strike deflected, every dodge executed with effortless grace. He weaved between death like smoke through fire, cutting projectiles from the air as if the chaos were choreographed.

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And then, he vanished.

A black streak crossed the field. He reappeared at ground level, slicing through two orc warriors before they even saw him coming. His blades moved like liquid, carving a clean arc of steel through their throats. Blood sprayed.

More came. He didn’t hesitate. He was inside the rhythm now.

Cut. Step. Twist. Kill.

The mage struck his staff down again. The ground erupted, stone spikes lancing upward, threatening to impale him. A second captain charged from behind, too fast to intercept.

The blow hit Luke hard. His body was launched across the clearing. He skidded, rolled, but landed on his feet. He exhaled once.

The shadows answered.

Darkness bled from his skin. His outline rippled, and another figure emerged behind him, a second presence, spectral and precise, following every motion with a breath’s delay.

[Demonic Blade Dance: Active]

[Afterimage Created: Dancing Mimic]

The mimic moved like a ghost in lockstep. Together, they became a blur of blades. They slashed through the enemy ranks, vanishing mid-dash only to reappear behind their victims. Every movement had purpose. Every kill was deliberate. The field became a massacre.

Then the Axe Captain roared. He dragged his weapon across the earth, the ground splitting beneath it. He lifted it high, channeling a sphere of kinetic energy, and hurled it forward with devastating force.

But Luke didn’t stop. He moved toward it.

Toward the next kill.

Luke moved instinctively—dodging, leaping, twisting midair—slashing across the Captain’s back in a single, fluid strike. Blood sprayed behind him as the wound opened. The status effect was immediate.

[Bleed: Status Effect Applied]

The Orc Captain staggered, caught off-guard, but Luke’s focus had already shifted to the mage.

A volley of spears flew his way, telekinetically launched with precision. He deflected them one by one, blades flashing with relentless control as he stepped into each parry. The mage raised a shield—too late. The barrier cracked, then shattered. Spiked stone spheres followed, hurtling toward him. Luke dashed once—twice—dodging with perfect timing as he closed the distance, blades ready.

Then—an arrow struck him from behind. He stumbled, turning just in time to see five archers drawing again, bows glowing with pulsing mana. They released.

The arrows burst midair, forming a lattice of glowing light—a mana net that wrapped around Luke’s limbs and froze him in place with a vibrating hum. He strained against it, muscles tensing, but it held. One of the Captains stepped forward, axe raised high, ready to end it.

Luke smiled.

A spectral fist erupted from the shadows, smashing into the Captain’s face and staggering him backward. A figure landed between them—tall, armored, steady. Red-bladed sword drawn. Eyes sharp.

Charlie.

Luke surged forward, tearing through the mana net with brute force as the light shattered around him. He stepped beside her, breathing shallow but steady.

The Orc Captain spat blood and a broken tooth onto the ground. “I’LL KILL YOU!” he roared, pointing at the knight.

Charlie raised a hand and curled two fingers. ’Come.’

It wasn’t a threat—it was an insult.

The Captain’s aura flared in response—wild, red, violent. His muscles bulged, veins surging as he charged like a war machine. But Charlie didn’t move. Her palm lifted again, and spectral chains exploded from her gauntlet, glowing green and alive. They wrapped around his limbs, halting his momentum just long enough. She spun and sliced his face open with a clean arc of steel.

The battle exploded.

He broke the chains with a roar and smashed her across the field. Luke moved in immediately, black smoke curling from his body as his mimic reappeared one step behind—perfectly synced. Two against one. The afterimage danced beside him, echoing every motion.

Charlie turned her attention to the mage. He tried to summon a new barrier, but her blade shattered it. A spectral chain lashed from her hand, binding him mid-incantation. He couldn’t finish the spell.

Luke dropped from above.

His blades spun as he fell, slashing deep across the mage’s chest. Charlie was right behind him—her sword gleamed as it drove into the orc’s body, pinning him in place. The mage’s scream barely left his throat before his head rolled across the ground.

[Princess Charlie has slain…]

Only one Captain remained—and he wasn’t hesitating.

He charged.

Charlie met him head-on, raising her sword to block the blow with such force that the earth trembled beneath them. Then she dashed forward with supernatural speed, activating her next skill: [Spectral Charge]. Her off-hand ignited.

[Iron Fist]

The strike landed like a silent explosion. Luke joined the attack, flanking from the side, blades flashing. The Captain tried to block—but it was too late.

Charlie struck from the front. Luke slashed from the flank.

[Heavy Strike]

Her sword came down in a brutal arc, cleaving into the Captain’s face. Blood sprayed. One eye ruptured.

He dropped to his knees.

She removed her helmet.

What he saw wasn’t a face—it was bone. Pale skull. Twin green eyes blazing with necrotic fire.

Charlie looked down at him and raised her fist.

Then again. And again. And again.

[Iron Fist]

[Iron Fist]

[Iron Fist]

Until there was nothing left. Until he collapsed—lifeless.

[Princess Charlie has slain Krotar, the Orc Captain: Lvl 22]

*The [Death Knight] class of Princess Charlie has reached Level 17! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)*

**[You have reached Level 10! Half-Demon (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)**

[New Race Skill Available]

[An item has been added to your inventory]

Only one orc remained—impaled between two trees. His hands severed. Left behind like someone wanted him to witness everything.

Luke and Charlie walked toward him. Charlie gripped the orc and yanked him off the branches, dropping him in the dirt. Luke followed, carrying something heavy in each hand.

Two severed heads. The heads of the orc captains.

He dropped them into the orc’s lap. Then knelt, gripped the creature’s hair, and pulled his face up. His voice was low. Steady. Unshakable.

“Tell Morvat I’m coming for him.”