Becoming the Dark Lord

Mason walked arm in arm with Lucy toward the fortress gates. His pulse refused to settle, and he couldn’t tell whether the nerves came from the mission itself, or from the stunning woman clinging to his side.

This woman is really Luke?

Even after being warned, he still had to ask, just to hear it confirmed.

“Lu-Lucy?” Mason ventured.

“Yes, darling, I’m Lucy. Did you forget my name?” she replied with a radiant smile.

His heart lurched. Mason swallowed hard and jerked his gaze away. It’s a man. Calm down. She’s a man.

The fortress gates loomed. Two guards raised their hands, signaling them to stop. Mason’s stomach tightened. These weren’t ordinary sentries, they were barrier mages. Elite. They worked in pairs, one fueling the shield while the other recovered mana, swapping seamlessly every few hours. A flawless cycle. There was only one true way inside. Scale the walls, and the watchtowers would spot you instantly. Which meant this barrier was the true test.

“Good evening, Mason, and…” One of the guards turned to her.

“Lucy,” she answered smoothly.

The man’s gaze slid down her figure, pausing at the slit of her dress, where pale skin gleamed under torchlight. The gown was designed to provoke.

“She’s my girlfriend,” Mason said quickly, his voice sharp. “The one I invited.”

One guard pulled a stack of parchment from his satchel, flipping through sketches of criminals, fugitives, Renegade faces. Their eyes darted between Lucy and the wanted portraits.

“My sweet Mason has told me so much about this place,” Lucy said, fluttering her fan with delicate grace.

Sweet Mason?

She waved herself again. “It’s a little warm out here… or is it just me?” Her fingers toyed with the neckline of her dress.

One guard glanced down, caught himself under Mason’s glare, and looked away with a cough.

“It is pretty warm,” he muttered, earning an elbow from his partner.

“You know the rules, Mason, but I’ll repeat them anyway. First: only one person can enter at a time.”

“It’s because of the barrier, darling,” Mason explained quickly. “It detects the exact number of people crossing. Stops anyone from sneaking in with a stealth skill.”

“Oh, how fascinating,” Lucy cooed. “But honestly, who would be crazy enough to invade this place? Especially with two men as strong and muscular as you standing guard.”

One of the mages straightened unconsciously at the compliment, squaring his shoulders.

“As this is a special event, you must follow the carpeted path only. Do not stray. If you lose your way, there are guards posted throughout the fortress. Ask for assistance.”

At last, the barrier parted. The guards stepped aside.

“Ladies first,” Mason offered stiffly.

“Thank you, darling. You’re such a gentleman,” Lucy replied sweetly, gliding past him as though she had been born to play this role.

Mason watched as Lucy stepped lightly through the shimmering barrier. The mages’ gazes followed her, tracking every movement like hawks.

“One person only,” one guard murmured.

“Confirmed,” the other replied.

Mason’s jaw tightened. That was the truth of it—if Evangeline had tried her shadow tricks here, she would have been exposed instantly. No slipping past this ward, no clever escape. No entry into Bastion. Without this path, the mission would have died at the gates.

When Lucy cleared the barrier, the guards finally gestured for Mason to proceed. He stepped forward, pulse hammering in his ears. On the other side, she waited. The gown clung to her frame, revealing the elegant line of her shoulders and the pale curve of her back. Mason’s eyes betrayed him for a second—flicking down, then jerking away as his head shook violently.

It’s a man. It’s a man. It’s a man!

Lucy turned gracefully to face him, her fan poised, her smile perfectly sweet.

“Darling, this place is incredible,” she said softly, her tone carrying just enough warmth to sting.

“Y-yeah…” Mason stammered, at a loss for what to say, his voice cracking under the weight of absurdity.

She drifted closer, stopping just at his side. “Shall we?”

His hand twitched. Should he take her arm again? Hold her hand? What was he supposed to do? The simple act felt like defusing a trap. Awkwardly, he started to slide his arm around her back.

Lucy’s eyes snapped cold, her voice dropping to a blade-thin whisper. “If you put your hand on my waist or back, I’ll cut your fingers off.”

“R-right. Got it,” Mason muttered, recoiling instantly, his face stiff with horror.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The fan snapped open again, hiding the faintest curve of her smirk.

***

Luke had crossed the outer walls and now stepped into the main hall of Bastion’s fortress. More guards lined the doorway, eyes following him with clinical precision. His whole body was tense.

Damn it, I’m burning up.

He fanned himself with the ornate accessory Evangeline had pressed into his hand, tugging at the dress in irritation.

“D-don’t adjust the neckline like that, darling… it’s, uh, a little distracting,” Mason whispered urgently.

“This damn dress is crushing my chest,” Lucy muttered back, sharp and low.

For some reason, Mason swallowed hard.

Luke still couldn’t fathom how women moved so naturally with breasts. To him, the body felt like it was perpetually tipping forward, an imbalance that grated at every step.

He forced his thoughts back to the plan, replaying each step. Getting here had already been an ordeal. He and Allison had ducked into an inn Jack rented in advance, changing clothes in secrecy. Luke had brewed a crude perfume and shampoo to mask his scent, while Jack, traitor that he was, had procured makeup. Lipstick. Luke had sworn vengeance for that particular humiliation. And then came the walk. Heels, every step from the inn to Bastion.

’Luke, believe me, you look gorgeous.’ Artemis teased in his mind.

I can’t believe I’m risking my life in a damned dress.

’So what?’

Everything! If I die like this, I’ll revert to my real body, a man in a dress. I refuse to die that way. If it has to happen, I’d rather fall in some epic battle. Not like this.

’Relax. You’re not some Viking who needs to die with a blade to reach Valhalla. Though if it were real… imagine striding into their hall in that gown.’ Artemis’s tone dripped smug satisfaction.

Luke clenched his jaw, rage simmering hotter than nerves. Part of him wanted to gouge out the eyes of every man who had dared to stare at his body on the way here.

He and Mason stood waiting in the corridor, a long red carpet stretching deeper into the fortress. At every branching hall stood a guard, statuesque, unblinking. They waited for Allison.

She was still at the entrance, speaking with Oswald, Bartholomew’s chief administrator, who lingered to confirm her identity. Her sudden arrival had stirred quiet chaos. She had been invited countless times before, even promised a permanent place within Bastion. Yet she had always refused. Until tonight.

“My apologies for the delay, Lady Rhiannon,” Oswald said at last, leaning in as a subordinate whispered in his ear. “You may enter.”

And then she was with them. Luke’s throat tightened. She was dazzling. While his own gown was cut to provoke, designed to make heads turn, hers was understated, elegant, subtle. And somehow, that restraint only heightened her beauty.

He looked away quickly. Seeing Allison like this was unsettling. He was used to her armor, her plain practicality, her bluntness. But seeing her deliberately feminine, poised, radiant, it stirred something he refused to name.

What the hell kind of situation is this? She’s glowing like a goddess, and I’m standing beside her in a damned dress.

There was no universe where he could even think of complimenting her. The three of them moved forward along the carpeted path. Unlike their battered stronghold, scarred by collapsed walls, dried blood, webs, mold, and rubble, Bastion’s fortress gleamed.

The corridors were immaculate. Paintings lined the walls, busts stood proudly on polished pedestals, candelabras spilled warm light, and potted plants perfumed the air with subtle sweetness. Every inch was wealth, order, power. At last, they reached the grand hall. Once a refectory, it now shone as a banquet chamber, transformed for spectacle. Two guards stood at either side of the open doors.

“Please, go in. Enjoy your evening,” one said with a bow.

The three of them entered in silence. Music drifted through the air, soft strings, a gentle flute, the hum of voices, the clink of silverware. But the moment they crossed the threshold of the banquet hall, all of it froze. The music died. Conversations cut off. A hundred heads turned at once. Luke’s stomach twisted, his nerves spiking sharp and suffocating. Then a figure slipped past them, stepping forward with theatrical grace.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Lady Rhiannon, who has honored us with her presence tonight,” Oswald announced.

Applause shattered the stillness. Music swelled again, louder this time, as if to mask the rising chatter. Guests surged forward, drawn like moths to a flame.

“Lady Rhiannon, I’ve long admired your family,” one man said, bowing.

“I’ve worshiped your goddess since childhood,” another declared.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” added someone else.

More and more pressed close, eager for a moment of her gaze, a word, a smile. Allison glided forward through them, every step measured, every nod and smile perfectly noble. And then, as if the crowd itself parted by design, he appeared. Bartholomew.

Allison’s smile stilled into composure. “Bartholomew.”

“Lady Rhiannon,” he said warmly, inclining his head with courtly charm. “It is an honor to welcome you to my fortress, especially tonight.”

Luke froze. There he was. The man he wanted dead more than anyone else. The one who had deceived them all, who had chained this world’s people, who had orchestrated Angelica’s death.

The man stood close enough to kill with a single strike. Luke’s fingers twitched with phantom weight. Just one clean slash across the throat, a single decisive blow with his kukri, and it would all be over. Too easy. He forced himself to breathe, Evangeline’s warnings crashing back into his mind. Bartholomew wore his crown. Even before a blade could fall, its power would flare.

The crown’s defense wasn’t subtle. It was merciless. It projected an electrical field that sharpened every nerve, every reflex, feeding him awareness in all directions. It reacted instantly to intent, to hostility itself. Not even an arrow from behind could land. Marshall had tried more than once. The crown had saved him every time.

Distance? Worthless. A slit throat? Futile. Bartholomew was a healer, his flesh would seal faster than death could claim him. Poison? A joke. He had studied toxins, mastered them, carried antidotes in his storage. His body was hardened, perhaps immune outright. Every path of assassination was blocked. Every weakness accounted for.

The only way to kill him was in direct combat. But Mason had said it himself: Bartholomew had once faced Marshall and the Renegades’ best, alone, and lived. He carried a hidden card, a weapon so devastating only a handful knew of it.

Every weakness a man could have, Bartholomew had already stripped away. And still, Luke wanted to try. The urge was savage, primal. He saw it in his mind, kukris flashing into existence, piercing skull or heart, crushing brain, ending it before thought or magic could intervene. For a heartbeat, his body almost moved. Luke locked eyes with the man who had stolen everything from him. His stare was cold, sharp, unyielding.

“And you, miss?” Bartholomew asked, turning his attention at last. “What is your name?”

“Lucy,” Luke answered.

And in that instant, something shifted.