Becoming the Dark Lord

Luke stood in a dense patch of forest just outside the city. He had spent the entire day testing his new skill, and if he had to describe the experience in one word, it would’ve been... weird. With his palm pressed against the trunk of a tree, he felt emotions pulse through him like subtle waves. That was how plants communicated. Not with words, but with sensations, soft, flickering things that echoed beneath the skin. Some were shy. Others, surprisingly unfriendly. And then there were those that... well, were a little too friendly.

Eventually, he started talking to them. At first, it felt ridiculous, rambling about his routine, explaining he was a botanist, describing the kind of plants he was looking for. He half-expected silence. But to his surprise, it worked. If he wanted to bond with living beings, he had to treat them like they were alive.

The tree in front of him radiated a gentle, welcoming presence.

“Hey,” he asked quietly, keeping his hand on the bark. “Did a large creature pass through here? Like... a large humanoid bull?”

The response came almost immediately, a curious flicker, followed by something that felt like: ’Hold on, I’ll ask my sisters.’

Luke smiled. Definitely one of the friendly ones.

With time, he started picking up on the difference between plants that were merely alive and those that were aware. Some held a faint kind of intelligence. Others were just part of the flow, living, yes, but without thought. The aware ones he treated with more care. If he needed to harvest something, he warned them first. Some even seemed to enjoy the attention.

Minutes later, the tree pulsed back a clear signal. ’Yes’, the creature had passed through. Luke followed the mental nudge, weaving through the undergrowth and leaping with ease from branch to branch until he reached the top of a taller tree. There it was. Below, moving slowly through the brush, his target emerged.

[Forest Minotaur: Lvl 52]

No trace of the injuries from their last fight. Fully healed. Luke controlled his breath, fingers brushing over the makeshift belt strapped around his waist. That’s where he kept his most dangerous brews. He pulled out a single vial. The liquid inside was green and faintly luminescent, pulsing with its own eerie light.

[Putrid-Noctora Venom (Uncommon)]: A necrotic hematotoxic poison extracted from a mutated parasitic plant enhanced through cursed blood experimentation. For full effect, it must enter the bloodstream, either through an open wound or direct absorption. Once active, it destroys the body from the inside out. Ingestion results only in nausea or mild symptoms. Non-lethal by mouth.

Luke unsealed the vial. With careful hands, he poured the venom across one kukri blade... then the other. It was the only vial he had. The only one he’d successfully brewed.

“At the very least, I need to use this once,” he murmured, watching the dark green liquid slide across the metal, thick and slow like oil.

This would settle it. The temptation to use poison, the doubt around its necessity, he needed to face it head-on. Prove whether his experiment was a success... or a waste of time. He steadied his stance, eyes locked on the minotaur below. His grip tightened. Stamina surged into the kukri, energy crackling like live current coiling up the blade. Power Infusion. He threw.

The kukri spun through the air and slammed into the minotaur’s back like a cannon shot. The creature stumbled, crashed sideways and flattened a tree as it hit the ground. Without hesitation, Luke sprinted between the trees, doing everything he could to stay silent.

The minotaur staggered upright, dazed, scanning the woods, ears twitching, trying to make sense of the movement around him. Its jaw unhinged, and a faint orange glow began to build in its throat. But before it could unleash the blast, a second kukri struck, also coated in venom and stamina-charged. Another concussive impact. The creature hit the ground again.

Luke recalled both kukris with a magnetic pull and started moving, circling wide, dashing through the terrain like a phantom, looking for the next opening. Downed, the beast coughed and tried to roar, only to vomit blood instead. The lungs had been hit. From two angles. The venom was working.

The minotaur lurched toward its fallen axe, but Luke hurled another kukri, nailing the creature’s hand. Instinctively, it raised the arm, and that’s when the second kukri struck, slashing across its cheek.

A guttural roar tore through the woods. Though it couldn’t see Luke, the minotaur unleashed a blazing stream of fire from its mouth, targeting the direction the blades had come from. The inferno swept through the trees, incinerating everything in its path. Luke ran, zigzagging between trunks, the heat licking at his heels... until the fire began to sputter. The coughing returned. The flames weakened.

It worked.

The creature’s primary weapon had failed. It couldn’t maintain the breath attack without intact lungs. The kukris snapped back to Luke’s hands. As the minotaur rose again, staggering but armed, Luke threw both blades once more. This time, the beast batted them away with its axe, knocking them deep into the brush. He tried to pull them back with magnetism, but there wasn’t enough time.

The minotaur charged, axe raised, smashing through undergrowth, eyes locked on him. Luke activated [Assassin’s Mark]. A red outline bloomed in his vision, tracing the creature through the trees, burning its presence into his mind. He drew his bow mid-run and fired three arrows in rapid succession. By the time the minotaur burst through the clearing, he had already anticipated its trajectory. The arrows struck, clean hits.

It roared again, tried to ignite. Nothing. Then it lowered its horns and bolted forward like a bull. Luke tossed the bow upward and raised both hands. The kukris returned mid-air, slamming into the minotaur’s legs from behind. As the bow came down, he grabbed an arrow from his quiver and let it fly, straight into the creature’s eye.

Everything blurred in motion. The minotaur staggered, crashed into a tree. Luke dashed forward, retrieving his kukris as he ran. The creature stood again, slower now, panting hard, blood leaking from its eyes and mouth. It caught sight of him weaving between trunks and raised its axe, aiming to throw. But something struck it from behind. The second phase of the plan had triggered.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The minotaur was sent flying into a tree, slamming hard. When it turned, confused, it saw Charlie, engulfed in flame, Berserker Flame active. She charged, sword blazing, and drove the blade into its chest. It reeled, ready to strike back, until Luke dropped from a branch above, both kukris in hand, landing like a predator and driving the blades deep into the creature’s face. With a swift roll, he launched himself to the side.

Charlie stepped in front of him, spectral barrier glowing. She didn’t need to use it. The red outline from Assassin’s Mark faded. The minotaur collapsed forward, lifeless.

[You have slain a Forest Minotaur: Lvl 52]

*Your class [Demonic Assassin] has reached Level 30! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)*

*Your class [Demonic Assassin] has reached Level 31! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)*

[You have acquired a ClassSkill]

*Your profession [Botanist of Mother Freya] has reached Level 16! (Bonus attribute points acquired)*

**[You have reached Level 19! Half-Demon (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)**

[An item has been added to your inventory]

*The [Death Knight] class of Princess Charlie has reached Level 25! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)*

[Princess Charlie has acquired a Class Skill]

**[Princess Charlie has reached Level 15! Skeleton (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)**

Luke stood over the minotaur’s corpse, breathing steady. He’d done it. Brought down a monster far stronger than a Midnight Warden. Not through brute force, but with precision, calculated movement, perfect timing, and a handful of baseline skills used exactly as intended. Like a proper assassin.

But victory hadn’t come easy. The turning point was simple: neutralizing the creature’s main weapon. Without the fire breath, the minotaur had been just muscle and instinct. And that edge had come from a single vial of poison. The only one of its kind. The most potent concoction he’d ever created, now gone.

He doubted he’d find that parasitic plant again, at least not in this region. That venom wasn’t just rare. It was irreplaceable. And he’d used it here. On this. Maybe that was the right call. Maybe not. But the truth was, he didn’t want to use that poison on people. Whether it was principle or the echo of a memory, Angelica’s face perhaps, he wasn’t ready to go there. So he chose to spend it on a monster.

Using it on the Beast Lord had crossed his mind, but with how massive that thing was, there was no guarantee the venom would’ve even worked. Too little to matter. This minotaur had been the last real threat before the capital. And he needed that experience if he was going to survive what came next.

“There’s no art in poisoning your prey. Whether out of respect for the hunter or the hunted,” he muttered, finally understanding the feeling that had been gnawing at him.

It wasn’t bloodlust. It wasn’t about killing clean or dirty. It was about respect. For the craft. For the fight. For himself.

The thought brought a strange peace. He was still himself. He turned his gaze toward the horizon. In the heart of the ruined city, the castle loomed, dark, still, watching. The odds were better now. His chances of finishing the tutorial had gone up. The next step was clear: face the Beast Lord, trigger the mechanisms, and finally... go home.

He opened his system interface. A new notification blinked in the corner of his screen. An item. He tapped it. And when he saw what it was, a slow, deliberate smile spread across his lips.

***

The throne room doors creaked open. Jonathan was dragged inside, wrists bound in iron cuffs, flanked by two soldiers who shoved him forward like he was nothing. His clothes were torn to rags, caked in dirt, and the stench hit the air long before he reached the center of the room. Bartholomew studied him carefully. The man looked like a vagrant. Filthy, disheveled, reeking of rot. And yet... he’d asked to be brought here.

The throne room was heavily guarded. A dozen spellcasters stood nearby, each one a specialist in barrier magic. Wands and staves were already primed for a single command. Not that Bartholomew needed them. He had more than enough magic at his disposal to vaporize Jonathan on the spot or heal himself, if it came to that.

Kruger was there too, hidden in the shadows, watching. Silent. His assassins were scattered throughout the chamber, blades ready. Jonathan hit the floor hard as the guards threw him down. Weapons remained drawn. The tension was sharp enough to cut glass.

Bartholomew’s voice was calm, almost bored. “So. What do you want from me?”

Jonathan coughed and pulled himself upright. That’s when Bartholomew got a good look at his face and recognized him. One of the refugees from the Safe Zone. The same man who’d once had the audacity to raise a hand against him.

“This guy’s just a beggar from the Zone,” one of the guards muttered, snickering to his comrade.

Jonathan chuckled. “Bartholomew.”

Instantly, every mage in the room tightened their grip. The guards raised their weapons. It didn’t matter that he’d been searched. Inventory items were always a risk.

“I have a request,” Jonathan said.

“You’re here to ask me for something?” Bartholomew replied, a faint smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Get in line.”

“We serve the same master.”

That made something cold shift inside him.

Blight? He serves Blight too?

It could’ve been a bluff, a ploy. No one else, no one, knew who Bartholomew had pledged to. Not even the soldiers at his side. Only Kruger. That secret had been hidden since the start of the tutorial, when Bartholomew accepted a mission that ended with him swearing fealty to a god.

“I don’t serve anyone,” he answered flatly. “I serve the people of the Safe Zone.”

“Rot. We are rot. And the rot that feeds my soul will spread like ash through the...” Jonathan sang softly, voice lilting and off-key, as if reciting something ancient and sacred.

Bartholomew froze. His heartbeat stuttered. Hands slick with sweat. He knew those words. That chant, those exact lines, belonged to the hymn of Blight. The worship song whispered by the god’s chosen. Proof. Real, undeniable proof.

“Leave,” Bartholomew ordered. Everyone turned toward him. No one moved. “I said get out. Now. Leave me alone with him.”

Confusion rippled through the room, but the tone left no room for argument. As the guards and mages slowly filtered out, Bartholomew sat perfectly still, eyes locked on the man before him. And beneath his calm exterior, his pulse thundered. Jonathan wasn’t lying.