Becoming the Dark Lord

Luke stood at the center of the orc village, deep within the forest. Rain poured down in sheets, hammering the ground like thousands of needles. Beside him, Charlie gripped her sword. In front of them stood Morvat — the Orc General. The strongest opponent they had ever faced. More lethal than any captain whose broken bodies now lay scattered in the mud.

The general breathed heavily. Every time his eyes fell on the corpses of his own, his jaw clenched tighter. Steam began to rise from his skin, the rain evaporating before it could even touch him.

Then came the roar. Raw. Guttural. Savage. A crimson aura exploded around him, bursting into flames that erupted straight from his body. This wasn’t just energy. This was fire — living fire that spread in waves, clinging to wooden planks, rooftops, trees. Flames devoured torches until they disintegrated into ash.

Morvat began to grow. His muscles swelled, veins bulging like thick, pulsing ropes. Bones snapped and shifted with sickening cracks as his body stretched, rising to nearly five meters tall. Berserker Mode was active.

The air itself warped. Pressure shifted. The wind swirled, dragging mud, leaves, and shards of broken wood into the vortex. The ground buckled beneath his feet, cracking in all directions. What stood before them was no longer a general. It was a cataclysm shaped like an orc.

Luke swallowed hard. He knew exactly what this monster represented.

Then Morvat charged.

Luke closed his eyes. He dropped his kukris, letting them sink into the mud. The entire world shrank. Sounds vanished. Everything turned hollow, muffled. The only thing left was the pounding in his skull, the pressure behind his eyes, the metallic taste of blood running from his nose.

His awareness collapsed into a suffocating sphere where only the present existed. Inside it, he felt everything — the stench of scorched air, the faint tremor in the ground with every step the enemy took, the suffocating heat of that burning aura closing in like a giant predator.

He raised his fists.

Strength.

That was the word hammering in his mind. If he could refine his perception... then he could do the same with strength. The human body had always modulated force by instinct — just enough to hold a feather, or enough to swing a blade. Subconscious control.

But now he was pushing that to the limit. To unnatural levels. And he succeeded. His stamina bar plummeted — even while standing still. His body devoured energy like never before. Every muscle clenched at maximum tension. Every fiber strained, seconds from tearing apart.

The impact came. Morvat lunged like a living avalanche. Luke moved too. Their fists collided — the shockwave split the air, sending mud and debris flying in a brutal blast of pressure. Luke’s feet sank deep into the ground. Earth shattered beneath him. But he didn’t fall. He didn’t back down.

Morvat’s eyes widened, overtaken for a moment by something dangerously close to disbelief. Luke stared right back. Blood ran from his nose. His eyes were bloodshot, veins pulsing, ready to burst. He drew his other fist back to his chest, then snapped it forward in a sharp gesture, beckoning the enemy.

“I thought you were stronger than that.”

The provocation stabbed like a knife. Morvat roared again. His muscles swelled even further. The aura flared, thickening into something almost liquid, devouring everything — stamina, mana, control. Exactly what Luke wanted. The angrier he got, the faster he burned himself out. But the price was shared. Luke could feel his own limits cracking. His stamina drained at an unsustainable pace. His mind vibrated on the edge of collapse.

And then, both of them lunged. Morvat’s fist came down, heavy as a steel block. Luke crossed his arms to block, his bracers trembling under the impact. The blow punched through his guard and shoved his body back. He was hurled across the mud, sliding through dirt and stones until he planted his feet, forced his weight down, and stopped himself. His chest heaved. His muscles trembled. But he was still standing. And that was all that mattered.

The hit fractured bones, but Luke didn’t retreat. He spat blood and charged again. The ground could no longer hold the rain. Every drop evaporated in the hellish heat the fight had unleashed. Morvat’s fists weren’t just punches anymore. They were earthquakes. Shockwaves of compressed air that rattled the earth. And every time Luke blocked, it felt impossible that he could survive the next one.

Off to the side, Charlie didn’t attack. She waited. She knew this wasn’t a fight where the strongest won. It was a fight where the one who endured the longest survived. Then she saw the opening—and moved. Her fist slipped past Morvat’s guard and struck straight into his ribs. The sharp crack of breaking bones echoed, frozen in the air. The general staggered, eyes wide, panting like an enraged bull. But he turned, swinging his arm like a warhammer. The blow caught Charlie square in the chest and sent her flying.

She skidded through the mud, rolled, and sprang to her feet the next instant—already back with her blade in hand, pure fury in her eyes. Morvat’s roar came with an explosion of fire. The trees around them bent under the pressure. Flames spread outward, forming a ring of destruction that sealed them in. Then darkness fell. A black mist tore across the battlefield. Above, Luke appeared like a specter—cloak flared open, black wings projected behind him, his eyes sharp as blades.

“Fall back!” he commanded. “You know what to do.”

Charlie jumped back without argument. Luke dove like an arrow. His fist crashed into Morvat’s chest, driving the monster back two full meters. The general refused to accept it. He roared and charged on all fours like a rabid beast. He moved like a twisted gorilla, fists slamming into the ground, tearing craters into the earth as he ran.

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Luke tried to dodge. Too late. The headbutt exploded against his abdomen. His body shot backward, smashing through trees, ripping through branches until he vanished into the wreckage. When he tried to breathe, nothing came. Only the smell of burnt wood and the metallic taste of his own blood registered.

He forced his eyes up. Morvat was already on him. The punch came down like a sledgehammer. Luke crossed his arms—heat, pressure, pain. A relentless barrage of strikes hammered everything: ground, stone, flesh. And nearly him along with it.

In the razor-thin gap between two blows, Luke reacted. His knee shot up, smashing into Morvat’s chest, knocking the giant half a step back. In the same motion, Luke spun, unleashing a roundhouse kick that crashed square into the orc’s jaw. Morvat flew. His body tore through tree trunks, carving a trench of destruction for dozens of meters.

Luke staggered. His legs trembled beneath him. But he didn’t stop. He unleashed everything. Every last drop of strength. His body blurred with speed. He leapt—high—then dove like a meteor. The impact shattered the ground, slamming Morvat into a crater of mud and fire.

The giant rose immediately. Veins throbbed beneath his skin, his bloodshot eyes burning with rage. He charged — an avalanche of muscle and fury. Luke barely had time to raise his arms before the barrage of punches swallowed him whole. Each strike compressed his bones. Joints screamed. His armor groaned. His body launched into the air — and Morvat jumped after him.

Above the treetops, they collided. Luke twisted — fist to the face. Blood burst into the air. He flared his cloak, gliding behind Morvat’s falling body. Another punch. Harder. Morvat’s skull snapped sideways as his body plummeted, crashing through trees on the way down.

Luke glided after him. The moment his feet hit the ground — flames. Morvat surged from the fire. A wall of heat blasted outward. His punch caught Luke in the ribs, sending him tumbling through mud until his back smashed against a boulder. For a moment, he didn’t move. Blood spilled from his lips. His left arm was dead weight. His legs trembled. But he stood. And standing was enough.

Ahead, Morvat stalked forward like a living natural disaster, steam and fire pouring from his nostrils. His glare was pure hatred. The orc’s roar tore through the forest. His flaming fist rose, ripping the air apart with the heat of a living forge.

Luke tried to dodge. Almost.

The first punch grazed past. The second landed flush. His body flew like an anchor, crashing through branches, snapping trunks, tumbling through mud. His chest convulsed, coughing blood. His lungs burned. The ground shook. Reflex kicked in — he rolled. A crater exploded where his head had just been.

Silence. Just the muffled crackle of fire under the rain — and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His body screamed, but he didn’t stop. He dragged himself up, forcing muscles that begged for mercy. Every breath felt like shards of glass slicing from the inside.

Morvat charged. Luke vanished into mist — a bullet through smoke. He reappeared at the flank, already mid-jump. His fist shot forward, loaded with every drop of stamina, driving straight into the orc’s ribs.

The impact was brutal. Dry. Final. Morvat stumbled back, gasping — his eyes darted to his side where a hairline fracture split his ribcage. But when he turned to retaliate, Luke was already gone. The general spun on his heels, eyes wild, nostrils flaring, trying to track the scent of scorched earth.

“SHOW YOURSELF!” he roared, spewing fire from his mouth.

The sound came from behind. Morvat whipped around, fist cocked — only to see a throwing knife sink into the tree trunk beside him. A distraction. Too late. A shadow dropped from above. Luke fell from the treetops, feet together, driving a brutal double kick straight into the orc’s head. Morvat’s skull cratered into the ground, mud exploding in all directions. But the weight of the impact sent Luke tumbling as well. Both rolled across the mud, tangled in blood, dirt, and smoke.

They got up. Staggering. Broken. But standing. Morvat spat out a tooth, his eyes glowing with sheer, unfiltered rage. Luke wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, staring the giant down like nothing else existed in the world.

“I’m guessing... dentists aren’t big in orc culture.” The grin came anyway. Crooked. Bloody. Defiant.

Fire ignited in the general’s chest. “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

Morvat erupted in flames — his crimson aura pulsing wildly, completely out of control. Every punch made the world tremble. Luke dodged. His perception field screamed at him. But his body... couldn’t keep up anymore. Every step was pain. Every block, another fracture splintering through bone. And still, he pushed forward. Still, he advanced. A punch to the jaw. Another. A clean hook landed. Morvat staggered backward, skidding through the mud, his hands carving trenches in the ground as he struggled to stay upright.

But Luke dropped to his knees, gasping, shaking.

“Still... not enough...” he growled between clenched teeth. He forced himself up — legs trembling, burning — and went again.

The general grunted, staggered. The ground trembled. Trees collapsed around them. It wasn’t a fight anymore. It was rage. Survival. A pure, brutal will to exist.

“YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME! MY THRONE! MY CLAN! EVERYTHING!” Morvat’s roar split the sky like thunder, raw desperation pouring from every word. Flames engulfed his body. His aura burned like it was consuming his own flesh. He was blind with rage.

Luke expanded his perception field — and collapsed it back. Sharpened. Refined. Razor-thin focus. The kukris flew into his hands, answering the call like hunting dogs. Silence. Everything vanished. The sound of the forest. The rain. The fire. The wind. Only one thing remained. The sound of blood dripping from his nose.

“Round two... pea-brain.” And he ran.

The general charged to meet him. Every step an explosion. Every movement a collapse of earth. They collided. Luke unleashed everything. Demon Blade Dance. Mimic Dancer. Two bodies. One mind. They cut like demons. Luke struck where it hurt, where it cracked, where flesh gave way. A living blade — precise. Surgical. Lethal. But Morvat hit back. The kick landed clean in his gut. Luke’s body flew.

Morvat leaped after him. Mid-air, his fist crashed down like a cannonball. Luke slammed into the ground, crushed under the weight. His legs gave out. His ribs splintered. He tried to stand. The general grabbed him by the legs, spun — and hurled him into a tree. The crack was sharp. Something broke. The world spun.

Luke tried to open his eyes... but saw only shadow. The entire left side of his vision... was gone.

“...Shit...”

His hand reached up, fumbling across his face. A branch. Piercing his eye. He was blind on one side. His body was done. Breaking. Dying.