Becoming the Dark Lord

Ronan had been stationed at the camp in front of the gate for a long time now, months, in fact. He would return to Bastion for a while, then come back here, over and over again. A year ago, he never would have stayed away from the Safe Zone for so long, let alone linger in one place like this.

Dealing with Marshall had always been complicated. The man was unpredictable and dangerously calculating. Back then, camping here would have been a gamble they couldn’t afford. They would’ve been attacked already. After all, Ronan wasn’t just another soldier, he was one of Bastion’s most important figures. But since Marshall’s death, things had calmed. Walking openly among the soldiers, sharing meals, and sleeping in the same camp served as a quiet statement: everything’s fine now.

This spot had become a neutral ground of sorts, a gray zone between the Wild Zone and the barrier. The Midnight Wardens didn’t come near it, in fact, they kept their distance, lingering deeper inside the city.

It was almost as if the Wardens themselves formed a living defensive wall between the Safe Zone and the barrier. Ronan only began to understand that after spending real time here. They’d even started to carefully explore along the barrier’s length, bit by bit. With Marshall and the Renegades gone, progress was possible. Finding one of the mechanisms was now within reach.

With camps sprouting up in the area and more people arriving every week, the goal had become clear: start searching through the structures and ruins here.

But every time someone looked at the wall they’d built over the gate, layers of metal, stone, and packed earth, they felt the same chill. Because behind that wall lurked the giant serpent. They all knew the day would come when they’d have to face it. The thought alone was enough to keep some men awake at night. It had taken weeks before most of them were willing to sleep anywhere near the gate.

“Want more, Commander?” Eric, one of his most loyal men, stood nearby with a ladle in hand.

“No, I’m good with what I’ve got here,” Ronan replied.

He was sitting on a log beside his tent, enjoying his lunch break. A bowl of stew rested in one hand, and he tore off pieces of bread to dip into it. Nearby, a table was buried under blueprints and half-finished projects, littered with hammers, chisels, and other tools. There was even an anvil close by, and further ahead, a large stone forge.

Ronan liked working his trade as a blacksmith. The soldiers here weren’t just idling between patrols, they were mapping the area, gathering resources, putting their professions to use. Tools were in constant demand for the ambitious project underway: a tunnel linking the Safe Zone directly to this camp.

That meant pickaxes, shovels, carts, things people like Ronan could craft, and even imbue with magic. He could extract iron straight from rock, refine it without even firing up the forge, though not in bulk, and analyze soil for metal deposits with ease. Professions like blacksmiths were invaluable here. Pair one with an artificer or a weaponsmith, and you could start turning out arrows or specialized weapons on the spot.

The only thing he didn’t care for was the presence of Kruger’s soldiers. Assassins. Six of them, four men, two women. They never spoke to anyone, never tried to mingle. They just prowled around the camp, always nearby. Sometimes one would vanish for a few days, no doubt carrying a report back to Kruger.

Still, Ronan didn’t complain much. They pulled their weight, keeping the camp safe. The beasts usually kept their distance even with the campfire burning at night, but every now and then, one would get bold enough to test their luck.

If the Wardens didn’t rush to back each other up, then maybe, just maybe, killing one was possible.

With his current strength, Ronan believed it could be done, so long as he could corner one in a controlled location. He’d already managed, with a group, to take down statues when they were isolated. The problem was, the damned things screamed, drawing others, and were stronger and more vicious than the statues. They were armored warriors, after all, not unprotected archer constructs.

“The nice thing about exploring out here is it’s not as cold,” Eric said as he came over and sat beside him.

“And no sign of snow,” another soldier added.

“Definitely,” Ronan agreed.

Being so far from the great wall meant the air here wasn’t as biting as the Safe Zone’s. They could get away with light clothing instead of heavy coats.

That’s when it hit, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate in their bones. Every soldier in camp turned toward it at once. Instinct. Something primal. The quiet dread of knowing this moment might come.

“The wall!” someone shouted, already backing away.

That wall had been built layer by layer, reinforced concrete mixed with iron, hardened further with magic.

“All hands to positions!” Ronan barked. Something on the other side was trying to break through.

There were thirty soldiers here, not counting the distant exploration teams and the assassins who never factored into the headcount anyway.

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This can’t be happening.

“It’s the s-s-snake!” someone stammered.

“It can’t get through the gate!” Eric called back, trying to calm them.

“But it can destroy it,” another voice answered.

Ronan forced his mind to steady. It could be the giant serpent, or something worse, something just as strong but capable of crossing over to this side of the barrier.

He stepped forward. “Together we can hold it. We’ve already taken down statues. Archers, ready! Mages, throw up protective barriers!”

Weapons came up all around him. Sweat rolled down his temple. He was tense but had an ace to play. He was a warrior specializing in unarmed combat and possessed an epic-tier profession skill. If it came to it, he’d use it.

Seconds dragged by, then came a harsh, echoing crash. Stone fragments and twisted shards of metal flew outward. Whatever was on the other side was strong.

“Steady,” he told the soldiers.

Where the hell are those assassins?

He scanned the camp. Gone. They’d vanished just when they were needed most. Faces around him were pale, eyes wide. A section of the metal wall ripped free and crashed to the ground far away.

Too powerful.

“It’s… the snake,” Eric muttered, voice tight with fear.

If it was, they’d need to pull back from the breach immediately. But if it wasn’t, the best move would be to hit it hard the second it stepped through, force it back so the mages could unleash their strongest spells from a safe distance.

Then a silhouette began to form in the dust.

At least it’s our size, Ronan thought, relief flickering for half a heartbeat. Anything human-sized was less terrifying than a giant serpent.

But when he glanced at his soldiers’ faces, the color had drained even further. Hands shook. Eric was drenched in sweat.

What the hell?

Then he felt it too, an oppressive weight settling over the camp. The air seemed to vanish from his lungs. That presence was wrong. Overwhelming. Ronan swallowed hard, every instinct screaming danger. And then, just as suddenly, the pressure stopped.

When the dust finally settled, only one figure stood in the wreckage.

What…?

“Uh… hi,” the man said, like he wasn’t surrounded by thirty soldiers armed to the teeth.

He was young, with slightly long black hair and skin so pale it looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in years. His clothes were ordinary but reinforced with bits of light armor, a black cloak drifting lazily in the breeze.

Ronan’s stomach sank. He knew that face, no doubt about it. The descriptions had been dead-on. Bartholomew and Jonathan had been right. This was Luke, the criminal who’d killed Angelica, the same one who had aided the Renegades in their attack. At least it wasn’t the giant serpent. Just a man.

“Y-you… you’re Luke?” Ronan asked, needing to hear it.

The stranger’s gaze locked on him, heavy and assessing. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Around them, the soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons. Eric gave a sharp nod, as if to say take him now.

“I’m Ronan, one of Bastion’s leaders. Bartholomew’s right hand. You’re coming with me. Now. You’ll be taken into custody,” he said, voice steady.

Luke blinked slowly. Whatever hint of ease had been in his expression vanished, his eyes narrowing. The air shifted, heavy and suffocating.

“And if I’m not in the mood?” His tone carried something dangerous.

The semicircle of soldiers was already in place, bows drawn, mages ready to unleash. There was no way out.

“Then we’ll use force. That’s an order,” Ronan replied, confident any resistance would be crushed.

But Luke didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look concerned.

“Then give your boss a message from me,” he said, raising two black kukris, blades that seemed to drink the light.

Eric stepped forward with his sword. “I don’t think you get the situation, friend.”

Something in the air began to warp. The sound around them dulled, like they were suddenly underwater.

“You’re coming with us,” Eric continued, voice dripping arrogance. “Or you’ll cry when we break you… Angelica’s killer.”

Luke’s eyes locked on him. Cold. His grip on the kukris tightened.

“You just picked the hard way,” Eric said. “Let’s teach him what Bastion is.”

And then, Luke vanished. A black blur tore through the space, slamming into Eric before anyone could process. Steel rang as the kukris met the sword. Eric grinned, then froze. A second blur, identical to Luke, appeared at his flank, a shadow clone striking while the real one unleashed a flurry of cuts too fast to follow. The kukris spun into the air, and while they hung there, Luke pummeled Eric: face, gut, ribs, blows like hammers, brutal and precise.

“Fire!” Ronan barked, but no one had a clean shot without hitting Eric.

The black blades snapped back into Luke’s hands in an instant. One flew into a mage’s chest, the other buried itself in an archer’s leg. Luke swept around the flank, dodging arrows with spins and low slides. A bow materialized in his grip as if it had always been there, and three rapid shots dropped three archers before they could notch again.

A creeping black mist began to crawl across the battlefield. Screams cut through the air. From within the haze, Luke burst forward, kukris crossed and aimed at Ronan.

The slash burned across Ronan’s shoulder before he could raise his gauntlets. He countered on instinct, but the blade was already coming back for him. Mana flared into a dome just in time, and Luke hammered at it with relentless, rhythmic strikes, each impact cracking it further like glass under strain. Cold fear clawed up Ronan’s spine.

A soldier rushed in from behind with an axe, but Luke spun, his blade severing the man’s hand clean. The scream was swallowed by chaos, and a savage kick sent him sprawling. Luke was on Ronan in the next breath, kukris plunging down like fangs. The dome shattered under the blow, and Ronan’s world spun as he hit the dirt.

Through the ringing steel and panicked shouts, all he saw were those eyes staring down at him. Eyes that weren’t simply fighting. They were hunting. In that moment, Ronan understood. He hadn’t provoked a man. He had woken a tiger.