Becoming the Dark Lord

Luke launched himself toward Ronan, only for a streak of blue lightning to rip through the air straight at him. At the last instant, he twisted midair, spinning on his axis before landing lightly on his feet, black cloak flaring open like wings. Three mages stood clumped to the left, hands glowing with spellcraft. Four archers lined up behind them, bows drawn, while five soldiers charged head-on, some wielding heavy clubs.

He still hadn’t killed anyone, only disabled them, but the battlefield was already chaos. One soldier rolled on the ground, screaming and clutching the stump where his hand used to be; others lay groaning, unconscious, or too dazed to move. At the back, Ronan was on his feet again, retreating behind a shimmering, translucent wall of magic.

“S-s-surrender!” someone shouted, voice cracking.

Luke turned his head toward the sound, a smear of blood across his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“Do I look like I’m in the mood to surrender?”

The bowstrings loosed in perfect unison. Arrows multiplied midair, one sparking with electricity, all slicing toward him with a deadly hum. Luke surged forward, black kukris flashing into his hands. Each step was a sharp, efficient cut through the wind, his body weaving past arrows that hissed by inches from his skin. The archers faltered, stepping back on instinct.

He dropped into their midst like a living shadow. One conjured a wooden shield in desperation, Luke’s kukri came down, splitting it clean in half before sliding through the gaps to slice at the man’s fingers. Another reached for an arrow, only to have his bow-hand opened by a swift slash.

The last two turned to run. Luke didn’t hurry. He pulled a bow from his inventory and, in one smooth motion, shot both in the legs. As they fell, he loosed again, arrows pinning their hands to the dirt so they wouldn’t be touching a weapon anytime soon. He moved on, calmly picking off more archers, each shot aimed at hands and legs, crippling, never killing.

Two warriors advanced from the front, massive metal shields raised, clubs at the ready. Luke dismissed the bow, palms opening toward empty air.

[Magnetic Return activated]

The kukris snapped back to him, whistling through the field like hunting blades, burying themselves in the warriors’ backs before they knew what was happening. Luke vaulted over them, using their own shields as a springboard, and landed behind.

The first began to turn, only to have his jaw shattered by a single punch that dropped him cold. The second ignited his club with some personal skill and swung, but Luke slipped past at the last moment. His kukri came down, slicing through the man’s hand, gliding up his arm to the shoulder, and the follow-up punch to the gut sent him flying.

He paused for half a second.

I might be overdoing this. These guys are weak.

The thought evaporated when a fireball burst toward him from behind. His refined perception field flared, and he simply stepped twice to the side. The explosion lit up the field, but he never slowed. Three mages waited ahead. Fear was etched so deeply into their faces that one dropped his staff outright. Another tried to summon fire, but the spell fizzled before it could form.

Luke reached him, took his arm, snapped it with a clean crack, and in the same motion slammed a fist into his face. The mage collapsed, unconscious. The other two bolted. Luke sighed, drew his bow, and fired. Two arrows through the legs, and both were on the ground.

When he turned, a warrior was charging from behind, sword raised high. Luke pivoted smoothly, letting the blade whistle past. His counter was simple and cruel: a sharp kick to the leg that snapped bone with a dry crack, followed by a punch to the throat that dropped the man choking. Luke put an arrow through the other leg to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

Another soldier came barreling in, twin hatchets in hand. Luke’s kukris flew, punching through the light armor, and before the man could hit the dirt, Luke recalled the blades with magnetic force, driving them in again, yanking them back over and over like he was stitching the man’s body with steel. When the soldier finally collapsed, Luke stomped down on his leg, shattering it.

At the edge of the chaos, two healers knelt over the wounded. Luke didn’t spare them a glance. His focus was locked on Ronan, who stood motionless, watching.

In less than two minutes, the camp was on the ground.

“You said something earlier about using force to take me in, didn’t you?” Luke walked toward him. “I’m just a little confused… was that before or after I put all your men down?”

Ronan’s jaw clenched, and he charged.

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The kukris vanished into Luke’s inventory, replaced by Angelica’s bow. Arrows shot out in quick succession, aimed for kill points, only to bounce harmlessly off Ronan’s skin and clothes, which darkened into a dull metallic gray. His body was turning into living iron.

Luke sidestepped the rush. This skill… not weak.

Ronan shouted and the pressure in the air shifted. Luke recognized it instantly as a war cry, the Battle Roar skill or something similar, granting the user a temporary boost to strength and agility. The Bastion leader’s fists came down like sledgehammers, each blow fast and heavy. Luke slipped aside, studying his rhythm, reading every motion. Ronan was already marked with Predator’s Mark, so Luke could find him even blindfolded.

The kukris reappeared in his grip. He ducked under a punch and slashed across Ronan’s shoulder. The steel-like skin held. Luke backed off, raised a hand, and activated Basic Blood Regeneration on the wound he’d opened on Ronan’s shoulder at the start of the fight. Even a shallow cut was enough to leech a bit of the man’s HP.

Only the skin’s iron.

Ronan stomped, the impact rumbling through the field. The next punch Luke caught on both blades, but even so it shoved him backward until roots burst from the ground, wrapping around his boots and anchoring him in place. He slipped past two more attacks, then was suddenly hurled backward without being touched, smashing through a tent.

Magnetic punch.

Ronan charged in, fists clenched. As the next blow came, Luke twisted aside and brought the kukri’s handle, sheathed in mana, crashing down on his head. The sound rang out metallic, like a hammer striking an anvil.

Ronan staggered. Luke didn’t give him space, he hammered the man’s head with short, rapid strikes, each one echoing like nails driven into steel. The warrior stumbled back, the iron shell trembling over flesh. Luke pushed forward, channeling mana and stamina into his glove, just enough to avoid breaking his own bones, and slammed a punch into his face.

The hit launched Ronan off his feet. Pain flared through Luke’s hand, but he ignored it. The result mattered more. When Ronan hit the ground, Luke was already on him, driving a kukri straight into his eye. The blade sank deep. That part, at least, wasn’t iron. And then came the punches. One after another, each blow slammed Ronan’s head against the ground.

“This is the message!” Luke shouted. “Tell your boss Bartholomew I’ll do the exact same thing to him!”

The iron shell began to fade, revealing bloodied flesh, swollen and misshapen from the impacts.

“NOW!” a voice roared.

The air split. Luke tried to move, but the arrow was too fast, dead on, right to the heart.

[Health Points (HP): 3513/3530]

[-1000 HP]

[Health Points (HP): 2513/3530]

His body absorbed the hit, but he still stepped back. Standing ahead of him was the man he’d beaten down earlier, the one who’d called him Angelica’s killer. His face was a mask of blood, but his eyes burned with hate.

“I told you… you’d regret this,” the man growled, sword in hand as he advanced.

Luke raised a hand and stopped the blade mid-swing, like it weighed nothing.

“And I told you I had a message for Bartholomew,” he replied, voice low and razor-sharp.

A kukri snapped back into his hand with magnetic force. The kick to the man’s chest sent him flying.

“How? You should be dead!”

Luke spun the kukri in a wide arc, infusing it with stamina and mana. It whirled through the air like a hunting blade and took the man’s leg clean off. His scream tore through the camp.

“People have tried to kill me so many times… I’ve gotten used to it,” Luke said, staring down at him.

Another arrow hissed past his cheek. He sidestepped, scanning the battlefield. All the nearby archers were already down. This shot had come from far away. Calling on Assassin’s Tracking, he followed the lingering trail of mana. The source: a half-collapsed building in the distance.

Another arrow flew, Luke moved aside and loosed one of his own, drenched in stamina. The impact blew apart a chunk of the building, sending a cloud of dust into the air. His gaze returned to Ronan, barely standing, missing an eye, his face unrecognizable.

“Gonna face me,” Luke asked, “or take care of your soldiers?”

Ronan said nothing. Just stood there, chest heaving.

“Give Bartholomew my message. Soon… I’m coming for him.”

Luke broke into a run, disappearing into the ruins.

***

Ronan stood there, watching Luke disappear into the ruins until he was gone from sight. Then his legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, fists sinking into the dirt. The taste of blood filled his mouth. Each breath came ragged, scraping his throat on the way in.

The camp was silent, except for the broken sounds, groans, choked cries, the gasps of the wounded. Soldiers lay scattered across the ground: some clutching what was left of their limbs, others trembling in shock. Mages lay unconscious. Archers writhed with arrows still pinning their hands to the earth.

The place was wrecked. One archer, his arm slick with blood and his face twisted in pain, still managed to lift his bow. The arrow he fired didn’t aim for a target, it arced high into the sky before bursting into a plume of colored smoke. The signal could be seen for miles.

Somewhere in the distance, the faint toll of alarm bells began to ring. Time moved strangely after that, dragging and collapsing all at once. When the reinforcements finally came pounding across the dirt, the sound of their boots jolted Ronan back to the present.

They stopped dead. Silence fell again. Their eyes swept over the wreckage, the shredded tents, the blood-soaked ground, the broken bodies, before settling on him. His face told the story without needing words. Sunken features. One eye missing. Skin split and bruised in a dozen places.

“What… what happened here?” one of the soldiers asked, his voice wavering.

Ronan lifted his gaze slowly. When he spoke, his tone was low and gravel-edged, but it carried enough weight to smother every sound in the camp.

“A monster… a monster crossed to our side of the barrier.”