Becoming the Dark Lord

The three assassin maids stared at him after asking for his name. Luke froze. For a fleeting second, he considered saying his name was Christine. But the thought died as quickly as it came. If even one of them knew the real Christine, he’d be finished. Worse, what if one of these women was Christine herself?

His chest tightened, the air ripped from his lungs like he had been struck by an invisible fist.

“There’s no need,” Lucy replied, voice wrapped in a calm she didn’t feel. “My duty is only to serve.”

The maids exchanged brief glances, then seemed to understand.

“Thank you for your work,” one of them said.

Another stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on Lucy’s shoulder. The touch was soft, but carried a weight that unsettled more than a blade at her throat.

“May the empire of Master Lakarion be eternal,” she whispered with reverence, her eyes fixed directly on Lucy’s.

Luke’s muscles locked. Sweat prickled along his nape.

“May the empire of Master Lakarion be eternal!” he repeated, trying to mimic the same conviction he had heard.

The women nodded, satisfied, and walked away. Their steps echoed down the corridor until they were swallowed by silence. Only then did Luke let himself breathe. But relief brought no comfort. The weight they left behind was worse than the tension in the main hall. He crouched again, scrubbing the floor with exaggerated focus. Every motion said: this is all I am, just a maid doing her work. If one of them turned back, they would see only that. He couldn’t risk a crack in the mask.

Minutes crawled by like hours. At last, convinced the danger had passed, Luke made a small gesture. The mop, bucket, and rag vanished into his storage. In the same instant, his body dissolved into mist. Darkness folded around him like an old cloak. The fog slid across the floor, then drifted up the wall toward the hidden opening behind the painting. His vaporous form seeped into the drilled gap, tendrils of shadow slipping through stone until he emerged on the other side.

The passage was choked with rubble. Broken stone, splintered beams, and scattered debris filled the corridor as though a collapse had buried it long ago. It wasn’t natural. Someone had piled this mess here to block intruders. Luke pressed forward, his mist weaving through cracks and narrow gaps, pushing patiently through the wreckage until…

There. A faint glow, barely visible, flickered in the dark. Drawn to it, he slid past the final heap of stone and emerged into a concealed chamber. The sight stole his breath. His heart thundered.

“I made it,” he whispered, reshaping into flesh and bone.

The room was eerily familiar, almost a mirror of the second fortress’s chamber. Torches mounted on the walls painted everything in trembling light. At the center rested the mechanism itself, a wheel of glowing runes that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Luke stepped closer, cautious, every sense sharp. The smell of damp stone mixed with a tang of charred wood, clinging to the air.

The torches threw restless shadows across the walls, making the carved designs writhe and shift like living things. For an instant, Luke swore they were watching him. In the second fortress, the murals had shown twisted, deformed beings bowing to a figure with six eyes. That alone had been disturbing enough. But here, the scene was different. The six eyed figure appeared again, this time seated on a towering throne, a sovereign gazing down in silence. The lines were sharper, the presence more regal, almost divine. Beneath the throne, streams of runes spread outward like roots, burrowing into the stone itself.

Luke narrowed his eyes. Among the countless runes, one glowed brighter than the rest. His system flared, translating only a single word.

“The Architect…” he whispered.

But before he could draw closer, the glow began to fade, smothered like a candle in the wind. When he glanced back at the throne, the rune’s translation was gone, erased as if it had never existed. He drew a slow breath. There was no time to chase every mystery. He had a mission, and getting lost in riddles would only kill him. Luke stepped up to the mechanism, the great wheel etched with runes. Raising his hand, he recited the enigma with a steady voice:

“When the night hides its first glimmer, the cycle begins in the absence of light. Return to the first sanctuary, where darkness is the key to uncover the secret.”

The words echoed, heavy and strange, and for a heartbeat he thought the runes pulsed in reply. His gaze slid to the side wall, to the sequence of moons carved in perfect order. Exactly as Evangeline had described. Beneath each moon, the phases repeated, a code hidden in lunar cycles. He stopped before the crescent moon mural, remembering the first mechanism. That had been the starting point, the key to unraveling the puzzle. The logic was merciless in its simplicity. Each riddle tied to the moon’s rhythm.

This time, the answer was obvious. “When the night hides its first glimmer... the cycle begins in the absence of light.” ℯℯ𝘭.

Only one moon was born in perfect shadow. No glow, no reflection, no witness in the sky.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“New Moon,” he muttered, certain.

He leaned in, tracing the sequence with his eyes. The order revealed itself: New Moon, Full Moon, Waxing Crescent, Waning Moon.

A memory of his mother slipped in uninvited. She had loved the stars, the moon, the endless night sky. Even her last name had something to do with it. Luke shook it off. He couldn’t afford nostalgia now. Pulling paper from his storage, he scribbled furiously, capturing every symbol and line.

“I’m not stupid enough to rely on memory here,” he growled under his breath.

Still, before moving on, his gaze strayed back to the throne. The six eyed figure sat there, silent and absolute.

“I’m never coming back here. Not dressed as a woman, not as a man. Never again,” he muttered, trying to smother his own tension with humor.

Artemis chuckled inside his mind, a soft, mocking laugh.

“You’re breaking the game itself…”

“The world belongs to the clever,” Luke shot back, never lifting his eyes from the paper.

Without wasting another second, his body unraveled into mist. Darkness claimed him, his form scattering into shadowed particles that slid between stone and wood. The return path felt narrower now, more suffocating, as though the fortress itself was trying to hold him captive. Every crack in the wall, every narrow gap the mist seeped through left him with the unsettling sense that he was abandoning secrets better left buried. At last, he reached the wall. The small hole was exactly where he remembered. Luke let only a sliver of his mist drift through first, curling past the edge of the framed painting to scout the other side.

Silence. No footsteps, no voices.

Relieved, he let the rest of the cloud slip through. Darkness spilled into the corridor until he reformed beside the painting, solid flesh returning with the thrum of a racing heartbeat. His feet touched stone again. He had done it.

’Well done, Ethan Hunt.’ Artemis teased, her voice ringing with amusement inside his skull. ’Now head down the corridor and turn left.’

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. But instead of following her directions, his feet carried him right.

’What the hell are you doing?’ Artemis snapped.

Improvising, he thought back, not slowing his pace.

The corridor ahead was busy, full of servants hurrying with arms full of linens, dishes, and supplies. Their distracted movements worked in his favor. To them, Lucy was just another maid lost in the shuffle. Luke matched their rhythm, brisk enough to look purposeful, not so quick that anyone would look twice.

Artemis’ voice sharpened, practically hissing in his mind. ’You’ve lost it. That way leads straight into the territory of the most dangerous woman here!’

He ignored her. Step after step, until the passage opened onto a wide staircase.

The stone groaned faintly underfoot as he climbed. At the top, he froze. A small army of cooks surged past, arms laden with trays and steaming bowls. The hallway had been converted into a makeshift kitchen, chaos thick with the scent of roasted meat, sharp spices, and bread still warm from the oven. Trays vanished into storage bracelets, only to reappear in the hands of butlers sprinting toward the banquet hall.

Luke edged back, trying to melt into the flow of movement. He had barely taken two steps when a voice barked at him.

“You! Are you on shift?”

His blood iced. Slowly, he turned. A man stood there, clipboard in hand, the unmistakable air of a head chef radiating authority.

“Yes,” Luke replied at once, face calm, tone flat.

No hesitation from the chef. He pulled a stack of trays from his bracelet and shoved them into Lucy’s arms.

“Table five. Move. I need the next run ready now.”

Without another glance, the man disappeared back into the chaos. Luke let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He looked down at the trays balanced against his arms and nearly smirked. Fortune, it seemed, hadn’t abandoned him just yet.

No one questions a maid carrying food.

He moved through the fortress with measured steps, posture humble, eyes lowered, every detail of the role precise. Guards, servants, courtiers, none of them spared him more than a passing glance. Until he turned a corner. There, planted in front of a reinforced door, stood a soldier in full armor. His stance was rigid, his gaze unyielding. Luke drew a steady breath and stepped forward with practiced confidence.

“I was ordered to deliver this tray to the one inside,” he said, voice cool and detached, as if it were nothing more than routine.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m not opening this door again.”

Luke let his brow tighten, allowing just enough irritation to seep into his tone.

“Then ask my superior, if you’ve got the guts. Better yet, head straight to the party and interrupt Kruger himself. See how much he enjoys being bothered.”

The name landed like a blade. The soldier stiffened, breathing heavier, but he didn’t argue. With a muttered curse, he pulled a key from his storage bracelet and slid it into the lock. Luke seized the moment. The tray vanished into his pocket dimension with a subtle flick of his hand. The lock clicked, metal grinding.

“Food…” the guard muttered as he pushed the door open.

“Again?” a woman’s voice echoed from within, weary and tinged with annoyance.

The soldier took one step inside. That was all Luke needed. His arm snaked around the man’s throat, a flawless chokehold snapping into place. The guard thrashed, but Luke’s grip crushed the fight out of him. One sharp blow to the skull, and the man’s body sagged limp.

He dragged the unconscious soldier into the room, kicked the door shut behind him.

“Wh-what are you doing?!” the woman’s voice cracked, fear cutting through her fatigue.

Luke didn’t waste a second. Rope and gag appeared in his hands, summoned from storage. Binding and silencing the guard took only moments, muscle memory guiding each knot with ruthless efficiency.

Only then did he lift his gaze.

The woman stood before him, hair disheveled, her face drawn with exhaustion yet her eyes burned with defiance. She stepped back, incredulous.

“Who… who are you?”

Luke inhaled, lowered his voice, and answered with steady resolve.

“It’s me, Luke… and I’ve come to rescue you, Eleanor.”