Becoming the Dark Lord

The group had reached a street choked with rubble and ruined houses. Forced to detour from their original path, they moved cautiously through the wreckage.

“Trust me, it’s worth it,” Luke said, picking up the pace as he approached a more isolated house, part of its front wall already collapsed. The others followed, curious.

He entered through the side, crossed what remained of the kitchen, and stopped in front of a wooden cabinet leaning against the back wall. With some effort, he pushed it aside, revealing a narrow entrance to a small storage room.

And there it was—still intact. His spatial storage chest.

Luke dropped to one knee and opened the chest carefully. The others leaned over his shoulder, and silence was broken by quiet gasps of surprise. Inside were neatly packed bags of seeds, a few cans of food… and vials filled with familiar glowing liquids.

Potions.

“H-how did you get all this?” Anna asked, stunned.

“Don’t tell me you… stole from Bartholomew’s supply crates?” Paul said, frowning.

Angelica folded her arms. “You’re going to need a very good explanation.”

Understandable. Tensions were still high after recent suspicions that the Haven had been involved in stealing from Bastion’s event caches—any connection to them was a sensitive subject.

“These potions came from a Wild Zone chest,” Luke said. “It wasn’t easy. I spent days studying the area, mapping out the patrol patterns of a Midnight Warden… only then could I get close. This has nothing to do with Bastion.”

He turned and began placing the items on a makeshift table. “I was planning to give the seeds to the Haven slowly. If I’d shown up with everything at once, it would’ve raised too many questions.”

Laid out before them were fifteen healing potions, thirteen mana potions, and four stamina potions.

Angelica studied the contents and exhaled. “At this point, it doesn’t matter where they came from. What matters is they can save lives right now.”

The distribution was done quickly. There were twenty people present. The three mages each received four mana potions. The last one went to Angelica, whose abilities consumed large amounts of mana in combat.

“I don’t need a potion. We’re heading back,” Paul said. He and his group of five had only come to clear the path to the stash—their job now was to return to the Haven and defend the civilians while the main group headed for the ant colony.

“Take at least one healing potion with you,” Luke said, offering a vial.

Paul hesitated, then took it. “Thanks.”

The remaining fourteen, heading toward the ant colony, each took one healing potion.

“If things calm down at the Haven, I’ll bring reinforcements,” Paul promised. “But I can’t guarantee anything.”

Angelica nodded. “And we’ll try to return quickly. Hopefully in one piece.”

Paul gave a half-smile before turning. “Come back alive. You’re valuable members of the Haven.”

With that, he and his chosen five disappeared into the debris, retracing their way back through the cleared path. Luke watched them go in silence, then turned to the rest of the group.

“We’ve got four stamina potions left.”

“Keep them,” Angelica said. “It’ll be easier for anyone who needs one to come straight to you than to waste time searching during a fight.”

Everyone agreed.

They moved out soon after, pushing forward through the ruins.

The ant colony was waiting.

***

They had just slid over the rubble blocking the road—one of the containment lines set up along the border of the Safe Zone. Crossing it meant one thing: they were now officially in Wild Zone territory.

The group pushed forward toward the ant colony, but it didn’t take long before they began noticing something strange. Dead ants. Dozens of them. Scattered across the path like someone had carved a trail through sheer violence.

Farther ahead, a squad of soldiers was still engaged, firing arrows and casting spells—electricity and fire bursting in flashes among the remaining creatures.

Bartholomew’s soldiers.

“Kill them!” shouted one of the mages as he spotted the group approaching.

“We’re from the Haven!” Paul raised both hands.

“And how the hell are we supposed to know that?” another soldier shouted back, bow already drawn tight. The tension snapped into the air like a whip.

Then one of them recognized a face.

“That’s Angelica.”

“Of course it’s me, you idiot.” She marched straight toward them, as short-tempered as ever.

In the distance, they could see more soldiers moving toward the ant colony. Multiple squads—armed, organized, advancing with purpose.

“Bartholomew sent reinforcements here?” Angelica asked, frowning. “I thought he was holding position at Bastion.”

“He sent part of the forces to deal with the ant colony,” the officer replied, still watching them carefully. “If Bastion falls, it’s bad. But if we lose the entire Safe Zone... it’s game over.”

“You might be authoritarian, but at least you’re not completely incompetent,” Jonathan muttered.

Allison stepped up beside Luke and pointed toward the base of the hill, where the mouth of the old mine yawned open in the earth like the throat of some buried beast.

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“Your perception will come in handy down there,” she said. “I bet it’s a natural deathtrap.”

Luke nodded. The entrance didn’t look like a tunnel—it looked like something waiting to swallow them whole.

“So we just go in, kill the General, and that’s it?” Anna asked, trying to sound casual.

“A powerful team of ours went in thirty minutes ago,” the officer replied, voice tight. “None of them have come back out. We’ve been clearing the reinforcements trying to strengthen the ant colony. Any help you can offer is more than welcome.”

Angelica turned to the group. “So… are we doing this?”

“Do we even have a choice?” Jonathan grunted, already stepping forward.

“I’m going in with you,” said the officer. “I’ve got friends in there. I was waiting for backup before going in.”

The group began to move again, descending over the rocks and drawing closer to the mine’s entrance.

Then—

A scream echoed from the darkness inside. High. Human. Desperate.

***

Marshall stood in the heart of Bastion’s great hall. Once a monument of wealth—tapestries, rare pelts, elegant furniture—now reduced to blood and rubble. Corpses littered the marble floor. Crimson streaks dripped down the steps. Screams echoed from deeper corridors. Explosions. The rhythmic, hollow march of monsters.

The plan had worked.

He’d done it.

The ants were inside—swarming through the fortress. And while they devoured the defenders, the Renegades hunted the king.

“Where’s your loyal right-hand, Bartholomew?” Marshall’s voice echoed as he advanced, crossbow in hand, eyes sweeping the shadows.

Behind a shattered pillar, Bartholomew wheezed for breath. His guards were dead. The Renegades stood alive. Restless. Vicious.

“I thought your security detail would put up more of a fight,” one of them muttered, nudging a corpse with his foot.

Bartholomew made a run for it.

Too late.

Fireballs rained from above. One caught him mid-sprint. He crashed to the floor with a pained grunt, crawling toward another pillar like a wounded animal.

Marshall followed at a slow, measured pace. “Where’s the divine might of your little crown?” he called out. “Oh, that’s right… It only works when you’re near it.”

He raised the crossbow. Click. Fired.

The bolt buried itself in Bartholomew’s back. The king gasped, collapsed.

Marshall reloaded.

But the crown pulsed with light. A surge of energy exploded outward. Marshall dove just as a bolt of electricity scorched the ground where he’d been. The air shimmered. Renegade mages emerged along the flanks, forming a perfect triangle around the hall. Their movements were precise. Ritualistic.

Bartholomew crawled, reaching toward the crown, trying to activate its power.

Too late.

The spell formations locked into place—geometric barriers snapping into position with mechanical precision. A magical prison.

He turned to run—too slow. The walls sealed shut.

Marshall raised the crossbow one last time. This time, the bolt pulsed with dense mana—heavier than air, glowing with intention. He fired.

It arced like a falling star—then crashed into the center of the barrier. The explosion tore through the air. The floor cracked. Bartholomew screamed, flung backward by the blast. The crown flew from his head, spinning across the marble before sliding out of reach, sparking against the ground.

A mage extended a spectral hand and flung it farther—too far for Bartholomew to reclaim through inventory.

He was defenseless.

Marshall broke into a sprint. He dropped the crossbow. Planted his boot against the king’s chest. And started to punch.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Each blow landed with a wet crack, blood misting the air.

“All this time… this is all I ever wanted.”

Punch.

Another.

Bartholomew’s face began to cave under the force. Teeth shattered. Skin split. Still, the king reached deep, began whispering healing through clenched, bloodied lips.

“Bastard!”

Marshall kicked him in the head. Then again. Then stomped on his face.

“Come on!” he snarled, breath ragged. “Everyone gets their turn!”

Around them, the Renegades howled. Vengeance. Madness. Catharsis.

And Bartholomew—the so-called king of Bastion—lay broken and alone on the floor.

Marshall raised his fist once more.

“You pathetic excuse for a healer,” he spat. “You let them all die for this crown!”

He struck again.

And Bartholomew—laughed.

Blood dripped from his lips. His teeth shattered. And still—he laughed.

At first, it was barely a sound. A rasp. Then a hoarse chuckle. Then a full, ragged, gut-deep laugh that echoed through the ruin.

Marshall froze. “What’s so funny?” he snapped. “You’re about to die.”

Bartholomew’s laughter faded. He raised his head. His eyes were steady—cold, serene. Then he smiled. Not the smile of a man broken by defeat, but of someone who had just played his final card.

“I’m not a healer anymore,” he said, voice smooth, metallic. “My class evolved.”

He drew a long, deliberate breath—like poison was oxygen. “I am a Plague Doctor.”

His right arm blackened instantly. Veins bulged beneath the skin. Blisters ruptured. The flesh rotted in seconds.

Then came the mist—thick, green, alive. It poured from his body like disease given form, heavy with decay, rich with malice.

Marshall staggered back. “What the hell—?”

But it was already too late.

The mist swept through the hall. The first breath scorched like acid. The second carved open lungs. Screams erupted as Renegades dropped where they stood, choking, writhing, the plague devouring them from the inside. Eyes bled. Skin cracked. The infection fed fast—insatiable.

Marshall dropped. His knees hit marble with a sharp echo. His hands shook. His vision broke into fractured light as blood poured from his nose. His arms blistered, his skin bubbling and blackening. And through the haze, Bartholomew stepped forward—untouched, healed, glowing.

“You really thought I’d let this happen,” he said quietly, “if I didn’t want it to?”

He wasn’t shouting. There was no need. No panic. No rage. Only control.

Marshall tried to crawl. Blood filled his throat. His limbs trembled. He stared down at his arms—his skin decaying in real time, veins black as tar, fingers twitching and failing.

“You... bastard…” he gasped.

Bartholomew knelt beside him, eyes faintly aglow, his smile unchanged.

“You were cultivated. Every one of you.” He leaned in, voice like a secret. “You gave me experience. You were the investment.”

His gaze swept the broken throne room.

“And this... is the return.”

With a gasp of defiance, Marshall grabbed his crossbow and fired. The bolt slammed into Bartholomew’s chest. It exploded—crackling with mana, smoke pouring out.

Bartholomew didn’t flinch. He looked down at the wound and smiled wider.

“The cloud doesn’t kill me,” he said softly. He inhaled. “It heals me.”

Marshall’s scream never left his throat.

He tried to crawl again. His hands slipped in blood. His body convulsed. He reached toward Bartholomew’s neck, but his fingers barely moved.

“Thank you, Marshall,” Bartholomew said as he rose. “My range is short. My abilities require proximity.”

He turned to walk away, paused, and without looking back, added, “Seeing you all come to me willingly? Reassuring.”

Marshall’s jaw clenched. His body twitched violently. With scorched lungs, he forced out one final, broken word.

“Traitor…”

It came as a rasp—shattered and small.

“You exiled us. You started this…”

Bartholomew stopped. Silence stretched thin.

Then he turned, slow and calm, crouched once more, and whispered—his voice gentle, his smile soft, but his eyes hollow and unblinking—something that made Marshall’s gaze widen in raw, silent terror even as life slipped from him.

“It’s all because of the 51.”