Becoming the Dark Lord

Tension hung in the air the moment Bartholomew heard Jonathan humming the hymn of Blight.

“Please, leave. I have private matters to discuss with this man,” he said with a calm smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The soldiers nodded without question. Bartholomew glanced deliberately toward a specific corner of the room where he knew Kruger was hiding. A subtle hand signal followed, a silent cue only Kruger would recognize. He understood immediately. This wasn’t just some interrogation. It was serious.

Like Bartholomew, Kruger had taken on a divine pact during the tutorial. His, with Lakarion, the God of Assassination. Bartholomew’s, with Blight, the God of Rot. The two factions weren’t enemies. As long as they didn’t interfere with each other’s goals, there was no conflict. In fact, Bartholomew often supported Kruger. He was family, after all. His cousin.

Once the chamber emptied and the last echo of footsteps faded, the mask dropped. Bartholomew’s smile vanished.

“Prove it,” he demanded. “Prove you truly serve the same one I do.”

“I just sang the hymn,” Jonathan replied, lifting an eyebrow. “Isn’t that proof enough?”

Bartholomew stepped down from the throne and rubbed his forehead, eyes narrowing in thought. He had only spoken to that being once. In a dream. The memory was vivid: a massive rotting head covered in writhing tendrils, like centipedes made of meat. To hear that someone else served the same god raised more questions than answers. He had accepted the pact, yes, but only because their goals aligned. The god wanted to prevent the tutorial from reaching its end. So did Bartholomew.

“How did you come into contact with him?” he asked, curiosity sharpening his tone.

Jonathan stood up fully.

“I killed a creature in a cave,” he said. “And I found an item there. A ‘coin’ of the great Blight. That’s when it started... and I awakened a class mutation.”

Bartholomew nodded slowly. His own path had been different, triggered by a special orb and a hidden quest.

“What do you want? Why reach out to me now? What deal did you make?”

Jonathan’s face hardened. “I want revenge. And power. Nothing else.”

Revenge?

“I know about the 51,” he added, voice low but clear.

Bartholomew’s expression shifted. His eyes sharpened. He was close now, well within killing range. If necessary, he’d end this conversation with blood. Divine allegiance meant little if it conflicted with the greater plan. The deal with Blight had one rule: don’t let the tutorial finish. Everything else was fair game. Even killing his fellow followers. Not even the gods could touch him here. Within the tutorial, his will was law.

Mana stirred beneath his skin, the prelude to a spell already forming.

“I don’t want 51 to happen,” Jonathan said. “I don’t care. I don’t want this tutorial to end. I just want to finish my revenge.”

He tossed something. Bartholomew didn’t catch it. He let it fall to the ground and studied it in silence.

“That’s what I got from the cave,” Jonathan said. “You can have it. I don’t care.”

Bartholomew’s gaze remained locked on him. “And who exactly do you want to kill?”

“A man who got away. Someone who ran,” Jonathan answered. “A fugitive from the Haven.”

Understanding clicked into place.

“Ah... you’re talking about the one who killed Angelica.”

The fugitive had been officially listed as a wanted criminal within the Safe Zone. People from the Haven had come in person more than once demanding his head. Even someone with the humble profession of sketch artist had managed to piece together a pencil-drawn likeness. His face, like so many others, was now plastered on bounty boards all across the city. There would be no peace for him. No return.

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“I want to kill him with my own hands,” Jonathan said. “That’s why I need your help. Your resources. The bastard’s either hiding somewhere in the Wild Zone or maybe ran off to the orc territories. I don’t know. But I have to find him. That’s all I ask. Help me track him down... and let me be the one to end him.”

Bartholomew stared at him for a long moment, quietly amused at the irony. After all, he was the one who’d ordered Angelica’s death.

“You know, a deal’s only a deal when both sides gain something,” he replied.

Jonathan glanced down at the object on the floor. “It’s a familiar rune. You’ll get the creature as your pet. Call it payment.”

There was a tremble in his voice now. Frustration layered with desperation. Bartholomew bent down, picked up the stone, and activated Identify. After a brief sigh, he tossed it back.

“I have zero interest in owning a familiar.”

Not when the Death Painting constantly hammered at his mind with images of beasts, strange animals... and always, the black panther waiting in the dark.

“I have an army of soldiers at my command. Killers who act with a snap of my fingers. Even a priestess on my side, Erza Grimhart” he said coldly. “You think I need what you’re offering?”

Jonathan was cornered and it showed. The refusal shattered what little plan he had. His hope was unraveling fast.

Bartholomew wasn’t moved. “And besides... if you’re planning to hunt someone, wouldn’t a familiar be more useful to you?” He turned his back. “We’re done here. Get out.”

“No, wait!” Jonathan’s voice cracked. “I’ll do anything. Just help me find the bastard!”

Bartholomew didn’t flinch. “And what exactly could you offer me? Don’t tell me you want to join my ranks. There’s a long line of would-be soldiers begging for the same.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got a strong class mutation, sure. But an army... is still an army.”

And why would he keep someone touched by Blight so close, anyway? Bartholomew knew how dangerous that kind of devotion could be.

“I’ll tell everyone,” Jonathan snapped. “I know about the 51.”

The air stilled. Bartholomew stopped. The smile disappeared. He would kill him. Right here. Right now.

“And why, exactly,” he asked slowly, “should I let you walk out of here alive?”

Jonathan dropped to his knees. “Luke killed the woman I loved. That’s all this is. I don’t care about the tutorial. I don’t care if it never ends. Help me, and I’ll burn the whole Haven to the ground if you want. I’ll spy on them. I’ll sabotage them from the inside.”

Bartholomew didn’t answer right away. A chill spread across his skin. The Death Painting had shifted. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Jonathan. He had activated his Rank Skill the moment their conversation began. Over time, he’d discovered a secondary effect: the painting changed depending on his choices, on actions taken, paths followed. His death wasn’t static. It evolved.

All he had to do was watch for the ripple. And now, as he stared at Jonathan, something flickered. The panther trembled. Helping this man might change everything. Might change his fate.

“Would you spy on the Haven for me?” Bartholomew asked.

“I’d do whatever it takes,” Jonathan replied without hesitation.

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. “Would you truly be willing to stop this tutorial from ever ending?”

“I wouldn’t care if every last person here died. Even you. I don’t want this tutorial to end. I want them all to rot in this place, trapped forever, just like Angelica, who never got the chance to live.”

His voice shook with rage. Bartholomew let out a quiet laugh. There was truth in it. And then it happened. The Death Painting shifted again. The black panther now bore a single white dot on its shadowy form. A drop of paint. Small, but undeniable. It was starting. The moment he’d been waiting for. The moment where the image began to change. And that’s what he would chase now. More white drops, more disruptions, until the old painting was completely overwritten.

Of course, there were risks. A new path meant a new death. Maybe the panther’s arrival was still decades away, and tampering with fate might summon something far worse, something faster. He could end up dead in a month. But he didn’t care. That panther terrified him in a way nothing else did. It lurked in the dark corners of his mind, watching. Always watching. Like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. He couldn’t stand being hunted like that, not even by a vision. He wanted it gone. Erased. Forgotten. And he would make it happen.

He reached out his hand. “Then we have a deal. I’ll help you kill whoever you want, and in return, you help me achieve my goal.”

Jonathan gripped his hand tightly.

“Just remember,” he said, eyes locked. “Luke dies by my hands. No one else’s.”

So the agreement was sealed. Bartholomew meant every word. He would help Jonathan, guide him, feed his obsession, until he Death Painting changed entirely. And then he’d kill him. Too dangerous to be left alive with that knowledge.

Jonathan, meanwhile, made a vow of his own. Quiet. Absolute. He would keep his promise. He would kill everyone directly or indirectly responsible for Angelica’s death. Including Bartholomew.