Becoming the Dark Lord

Luke took a deep breath. The cool, slightly damp air of the room slipped into his lungs, carrying with it the faint scent of old wood and worn ink. He pulled the bowstring back firmly, his fingers pressing against the arrow with controlled tension. The rough leather grip pressed into his palm, and the weight of focus settled across his shoulders. It was much harder than it looked.

Over the past few days, he’d been practicing with the bow in one of the quieter rooms of the place. It had become his way of calming the mind after long hours buried in study. He could’ve trained with knives, those quick, short, familiar movements, but the bow offered something else. A challenge. A puzzle. And, strangely, a calm he couldn’t find in close-quarters combat.

The arrow flew, slicing the air with a soft whistle before striking the edge of the target he had drawn on the stone wall. A dull thud. Off-center. Missed. Again.

Luke let out a slow sigh, his shoulders sinking slightly, and reached for another arrow from the quiver. He’d quickly realized how demanding real archery was. It wasn’t just about aiming. It was about holding the bow properly, positioning the arrow precisely, aligning your whole body with discipline, and doing all of that while moving, under pressure, while being hunted.

He could barely hit anything while standing still. The idea of running, aiming, and shooting at a real enemy felt borderline ridiculous. At the same time, he was trying to feel the mana within his body. To sense its flow. To understand it. To manipulate it like someone trying to tame an invisible river running just beneath the skin.

He drew the arrow again and focused. Muscles tense. Breath controlled.

“Luke, adjust your right shoulder... just slightly to the right,” Artemis said gently, her voice floating through the air as if it belonged to the space itself. “And stop checking the arrow every time. Just focus on the target.”

He shifted his posture, feeling the muscles fall into alignment. Another deep breath. His once-restless eyes locked in on the faded center of the target. He released. The arrow sliced forward with a quiet whir and sank into the wood with a dull, muffled thump. It didn’t strike dead center, but it landed cleanly within the charcoal-drawn circle.

“How did you know?” he asked, genuine surprise still vibrating in his voice.

“I know a thing or two about archery,” Artemis replied, her tone laced with quiet pride, playful, but not mocking, as it echoed through the still room.

Luke reached for another arrow. The sound of fletching brushing against leather echoed crisply through the calm air. “It’s way harder to aim with a bow. With a knife, it’s more instinctive.”

“Then be more instinctive with the bow too. But ideally, you need an anchor point.”

“Anchor point?”

“If you pull the string from a different place every time, the arrow leaves with different force or direction. An anchor point creates consistency. You need a reliable base for aim and accuracy.”

Luke frowned, absorbing her words. It made sense. One of those truths that felt obvious the moment someone pointed it out. He grabbed another arrow, positioned it carefully, and this time, closed his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Artemis asked, her voice curious, but alert.

“Trying to manipulate mana the same way I did with stamina. Using a different weapon might give me new insight. I want to revisit the process without the habits of close combat. Like reworking an equation by changing the variables.”

Mana, so abstract, almost ethereal, flowed through him subtly, like a silent current beneath the surface of his skin. Unlike stamina, which was visceral, physical, tangible, mana required an entirely different kind of understanding. Luke didn’t just want to feel it, he wanted to grasp it. Decipher it. Map its paths the way one would trace the lines of an ancient scroll.

“I get it. Going back to the beginning,” Artemis said thoughtfully, as if the idea had touched something unexpected in her. “Man, those days were crazy. You being hunted by orcs…”

“Let me ask you something.” Luke kept his posture steady, but his tone came out casually, almost like a stray thought escaping. “Back when I was rationing supplies in that mantis cave... I noticed the fruit kept disappearing. That was you eating it, wasn’t it?”

There was a pause. The kind of silence that speaks louder than any confession.

“…It was. But don’t judge me. That situation was awful. I eat when I’m nervous.”

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“You’re always nervous, then.”

He sighed, quietly deciding not to dig any deeper into the mystery of the bottomless stomach that followed him.

“If you’re going back to the beginning, at least restock the necklace with food,” Artemis said, her tone playful, trying to lighten the moment.

“I meant mentally. Not literally.”

But then, something clicked.

Back to the beginning…

The words rang in his mind with an unexpected force. A memory surfaced, his conversation with Samael, rising from the depths of his thoughts like something just freshly spoken.

“The origin of witchcraft… something magical, yet without magic…”

Over the past week, Luke had devoured books one after another, diving into every kind of profession imaginable. He’d read about farmers, sculptors, cooks, even economists. The library was immense, its halls filled with centuries of knowledge, like a forest of sleeping wisdom. But now… now something had shifted.

“What kind of profession,” he murmured, speaking half to himself, “would make someone seem like a sorcerer in the past? No magic. Just appearance. Practice. Result.”

The soft rustle of fabric broke his train of thought.

“Lady Artemis, would you care for more tea?” Kalysto asked as she entered with measured grace, balancing a silver tray in her hands.

“Tea!” Luke shouted, spinning around so abruptly he nearly knocked the tray from her hands.

Kalysto flinched, eyes wide. “What?!”

“THAT’S IT!”

He bolted from the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway like restrained thunder, leaving Kalysto stunned, still holding the tray in midair.

Luke headed straight for the book hall. The stacks he’d organized remained just as he’d left them, blocks of knowledge, carefully sorted by subject, like paper fortresses guarding forgotten truths. Dust floated gently in the sunlight streaming from tall windows, casting the room in the reverent hush of a temple.

Samael, as always, sat sunk into a dark leather chair, reading in perfect silence. Soft light touched the edges of the pages, but he didn’t so much as glance up as Luke entered, breathless.

Luke didn’t care. He ignored everything around him and rushed to the pile he’d built around professions, the ones that had once seemed promising, echoing the idea of witchcraft. With rising urgency, he began tearing through them, tossing aside titles that now felt too obvious. Too hollow. Too superficial.

He was done with surface-level answers. He needed to go deeper. Basic professions. Essential. Ancient. So ancient that, in the modern world he came from, they were seen as useless. Relics of a forgotten age. Obsolete. But maybe, just maybe, that was exactly the point.

Maybe in that quiet simplicity, invisible to modern eyes, lay the true origin of witchcraft. Magical, but without magic. Where it all began.

***

Samael watched in silence. Luke was once again buried in books, but this time, it wasn’t out of duty. He read with focus, with pleasure. He savored the words, the concepts, the connections. He organized the titles by theme, cross-referenced professions, traced patterns, investigated origins.

Did he finally realize it...?

Hours passed. Time melted slowly, dissolving into the quiet of the library. Luke remained completely absorbed, eyes gliding over lines of text, fingers turning pages with near-reverent care. Until, finally, he stepped closer to Samael.

He held a book in both hands as if it were something precious, almost sacred. The leather binding was aged, darkened by time, but still firm beneath his fingers.

“I’ve made my choice. This is the one,” he said, voice steady, extending the volume.

Samael took it calmly, his eyes drifting to the title with a deliberate, ceremonial slowness. A thick silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken weight.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Do you really believe this is the true ancient witchcraft?”

For a moment, Luke hesitated. The question, sharp, clean, and piercing, felt like a test. A trap with a wrong answer looming. But when his eyes dropped once more to the cover of the book, the certainty returned, rising in him like a quiet fire.

“I’m sure. This is the right one.”

Samael snapped his fingers lightly. A new book materialized in the air before them, not with flash or noise, but with the quiet grace of a falling leaf. It hovered for a breath, then settled gently on the table. It gave off a subtle presence, almost alive.

“This is the profession’s book. Read it, and the profession becomes yours. But be warned: this may change your path completely. From this point on, new choices will unfold.”

Samael’s voice had taken on a grave tone, and his gaze locked onto Luke’s, as if branding the moment into his soul.

“Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?”

Luke drew in a slow breath. The air felt heavier now, more real. His eyes locked onto the book before him, the cover glowing faintly, as if responding to his intent.

“You’re not going to tell me if I got it right?”

“No. Only after you’ve learned the profession will I give you an answer. So… is this your final choice?”

Luke extended his hand. For a heartbeat, his fingers hovered above the cover. Then, with calm resolve, he touched it. A light vibration passed through his skin, like an ancient whisper stirring from sleep.

“I’ve made my decision.”

A soft notification shimmered before his eyes.

[Do you accept this profession?]

The book’s cover began to radiate with golden light, warm, steady, like a silent flame that didn’t burn, but illuminated from within.

Luke nodded, his gesture quiet but resolute.

[Congratulations. You have acquired the profession…]