Becoming the Dark Lord

Lucy moved through Bastion’s narrow corridors with measured steps, head slightly bowed, eyes fixed just short of the ground. The silence around her wasn’t hers alone. It was the unspoken law of the fortress, a weight pressed into every slab of black stone, into every flickering shadow cast by the torches. Guards stood like living statues, their gazes brushing over her only long enough for a curt nod. Nothing more.

In the days leading up to this, Luke had wrung every scrap of information out of Jack about how the fortress maids carried themselves. Wearing the uniform wasn’t enough. You had to wear the role. Jack had painted the picture with almost cruel precision: steps too light to echo, voices clipped and restrained, faces never daring a smile. They were disciples of Erza, initiates of the assassin order. Servants in appearance, blades in truth. Silent guardians of Bastion.

No one dared address them beyond what was absolutely necessary. To flirt, mock, or even joke with one was unthinkable. They carried an aura of untouchable authority, and behind it all was the greater fear of the woman they served, the heiress of the Grimhart clan. For Luke, that fear was his greatest shield.

Lucy kept her pace steady, slipping deeper into the fortress when Artemis’s voice slid into his mind, as clear as if she walked at his side.

’Luke, keep straight. Ignore the next three forks. At the fourth, turn right.’

Artemis had the full map of Bastion, and from inside her pocket dimension, she acted as his hidden eyes. The same dimension that fed her books, snacks, and endless distractions had now turned her into something like a living GPS. Luke, though he’d never say it aloud, was grateful. Without her guidance, he’d have been forced to memorize every winding route through this fortress.

Not that she was doing it out of charity. The greedy soul had already demanded to be spoiled with food once this mission ended, and even tried bargaining for one or two peeks while he bathed. He shut that down fast, promising instead to double the amount of food she wanted.

The metallic clatter of hurried footsteps cut through the corridor. Soldiers stormed toward him, armor clashing and groaning with each stride. In one swift motion, Luke pulled a feather duster from storage and set to cleaning a side table as if dust was the deadliest threat in Bastion.

“Move it, I’m not missing roll call again!” one of the soldiers barked.

“Then stop shoving!” another snapped back.

Luke lowered his head, kept the duster moving, every stroke deliberate, natural. The men thundered past, still bickering as their voices trailed down the hall. He caught the important detail: they were headed to a shift change. Likely just coming off perimeter patrol. Tired. Distracted.

Exhaling slowly, Luke stashed the duster and slipped back into motion. Every second mattered. The longer he lingered, the greater the chance of running into the wrong set of eyes.

’Keep moving, succubus girl.’ Artemis teased, her voice dripping with amusement.

Luke dipped his head in a show of obedience, though inwardly he rolled his eyes. Artemis loved her little nicknames, and calling him “succubus girl” right now wasn’t helping. Turning the corner, he froze. An entire garrison clogged the hallway ahead. At least fifteen men, a mix of knights, archers, and mages. They chatted casually, relaxed.

I must be the unluckiest bastard alive.

But luck or not, turning back would draw more suspicion than pressing forward. So Lucy lowered her gaze, drew the feather duster from storage, and set it neatly in her hands. Step by slow step, she drifted past the soldiers like a shadow. Most of them barely looked her way, eyes sliding off as they returned to their conversations. The disguise held.

Until a voice cut through the air. “Excuse me, could you tell me where Christine is?”

The name hit like a blade to the ribs. Luke’s eyes snapped up, tension flaring hot beneath his skin. That face. That voice. Ronan. Bartholomew’s second-in-command. The man he had fought before.

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Of all the people in this labyrinth, it had to be him.

Luke lifted his eyes just enough to meet the man’s. Ronan didn’t seem suspicious. His stance was calm but commanding, the kind of presence that made others shrink without a word. His restored gaze swept over Lucy as though searching for truths no maid’s uniform could reveal.

“Isn’t she usually in her usual place at this hour?” Lucy’s voice was low, even, carefully measured.

Ronan exhaled, stepping closer. “We had an argument. She’s been avoiding me. If you know where she is, I’d appreciate it.”

Every muscle in Luke’s body screamed to act, to cut all fifteen men down where they stood if it came to that. But outwardly, only the cold mask of a servant remained.

“What happens in private isn’t my concern,” Lucy answered, tone clipped, distant. “And it’s not my place to interfere. If she hasn’t told you, then I shouldn’t either.”

The silence stretched longer than it should have. Ronan narrowed his eyes, studying her, maybe weighing whether the maid’s words carried truth.

At last, he sighed. “All right… I understand.”

Luke dipped his chin in a small bow and moved on. His pace didn’t quicken, but his intent to leave was clear. Only when he was several steps away did he let his shoulders loosen. That could have gone very, very wrong.

’That was close. For a second I thought you’d have to seduce him.’ Artemis teased in his mind, the words dripping with amusement.

***

Luke moved through the corridors until he reached the spot Artemis had pointed out. At first glance, nothing about this section of the fortress looked unusual. The walls were dressed with paintings, bronze ornaments, and decorative armor, all arranged carefully to project normalcy. But Luke knew better. Behind that façade lay the mechanism chamber, a secret Bartholomew had gone to great lengths to keep hidden from curious eyes.

From his storage, Luke pulled a hand drill, the tool that would carve his way in.

“I need to be fast,” he whispered under his breath.

‘Your time to shine, Natasha Romanoff’ Artemis teased.

His jaw tightened. He ignored her, forcing his focus into the task.

He tested the wall with soft taps, hand gliding across the cold stone until he felt the faintest weakness. Once he found it, he slid the frame off its hooks and rested it gently against the floor. Channeling stamina into his arm, he infused the drill, the metal humming faintly as it absorbed the energy. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed into the black stone.

The work was patient, painstaking. The drill bit turned in steady rhythm, peeling off flecks of stone that dropped soundlessly onto a damp cloth spread beneath him. A broom and bucket sat nearby, completing the illusion of a maid’s cleaning kit. To anyone passing, it would look like nothing more than routine maintenance.

Footsteps echoed. Voices followed.

“Maybe a tower farther east,” one soldier was saying, distracted by the paper in his hands. “But your plan’s good, just not for now.”

Luke stepped back for a moment, setting the painting back in place to cover the future. Then, feather duster in hand, he polished the frame with casual indifference. The men passed, giving him nothing more than a polite nod.

“Evening, miss,” one said.

Lucy gave only a shallow dip of the head. She waited until their footsteps faded, then crouched again by the wall. Twenty seconds. Then the drill slid back into the hole, biting deeper. Every turn increased the risk. He couldn’t rush. He had to keep the pressure even, let the drill eat its way forward until…

There. A sudden give. The resistance vanished. He had broken through. As he withdrew the bit, fine gray dust scattered across the cloth. Luke’s pulse quickened. He was close. Too close to make mistakes. Then his senses screamed. Not footsteps. Presences. Silent, deliberate. Three of them.

He moved fast. Drill stashed. Frame replaced. Feather duster traded for a mop. By the time the figures came into view, Luke was hunched over the floor, scrubbing like it was the only thing that mattered.

“We already cleaned this area today,” one of the women said.

Oh, shit... it’s the maids.

Three maids. Not ordinary servants, but Erza’s apprentices. Assassins. Their eyes were sharp, reading every twitch of his body, every breath. Far deadlier than the armored men who filled these halls.

“I was just… being proactive,” Lucy replied smoothly, pointing to the faint dust scattered across the stone. “Look, dirt.”

Their gazes followed his gesture. Luke’s face stayed calm, but inside he pressed every ounce of focus into his stealth skill, slowing his breath, muting his presence, forcing his existence to feel small, forgettable.

“I see. Good work. I’ll report this to Lady Erza,” one of them said. Her eyes lingered. “What’s your name?”

Luke’s heart jolted. His face betrayed nothing.

Name?

Name?

Name?

They might know every servant in the fortress. One wrong word, and the game was over.