Becoming the Dark Lord

Bartholomew had won. He’d cornered his enemies into checkmate. Ronan writhed on the ground, his body weakening as plague spread through him like roots digging into dry soil. The knight remained trapped inside the electric dome, the crown’s metal searing her with every discharge. He still had minutes of absolute control left. Enough time to watch Ronan choke out his last breath, then crush the knight and Luke without effort. The strategy was simple: paralyze, suffocate, let the plague rot them from the inside out.

A sudden pain cut through his skull like an invisible blade. He clenched his teeth, holding on. Channeling so many powerful abilities at once was exacting a price his body was no longer willing to pay.

“I can’t stop now… not after coming this far.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, he forced his voice steady and cold. His eyes fixed on the rubble where Luke hid, words sharpened into authority.

“You can still walk out of here alive. Take my offer.Give up your old life. Better to live here in the tutorial than die trying to leave it.”

As he spoke, he triggered the Death Painting again. If Luke planned a hidden strike, if he intended a suicidal gambit that would end them both, the vision would betray him in grotesque detail. But the image was the same as before: a panther lurking in shadow.

Luke stayed silent.

Is he really going to let Ronan die?

The archer finally rose from the debris. Bartholomew shifted back, keeping the dome between them.

“So that’s it? You’re really making your move?” His voice rang across the chamber. “Don’t you see you can’t win? I’m always two steps ahead of my own death!”

But when he peered into the dark, no figure met his gaze. Only shadows. Then came the high, whistling hiss of arrows slicing the air. One by one they snuffed out the torches, plunging the chamber into choking black. Bartholomew grit his teeth, reinforcing the knight’s prison. He needed to keep the advantage, to hold control. An arrow skimmed past his head, forcing him to duck. Another screamed in harder, faster. He raised a barrier on instinct—and froze as it shattered apart. The shaft buried itself deep in his abdomen.

Air ripped from his lungs. His hand clutched the wound, warm blood seeping between his fingers. More arrows followed, merciless, streaking from every angle. Every barrier he conjured cracked and collapsed under the force.

He staggered back, pouring more plague into the air, swelling the miasma until it choked every breath. His voice broke into the haze, equal parts threat and desperation.

“You’ll die too if you get close!”

He called the Death Painting again. The vision struck fast, brutal: a pig.

His body froze. What the hell did that mean?

Footsteps echoed in the dark, closing in. More arrows. He blocked one, deflected another, but the next slipped through, skewering his leg. Pain tore a scream from his throat. Again he summoned the Death Painting. Again, the pig. Always the damn pig.

“What does it mean?!”

Confusion boiled with exhaustion. The storm of spells, the constant drain—his mind blurred, thoughts unraveling. Inside the dome, the knight stirred, struggling to rise.

“No!” He snapped the crown’s power, lashing her with another surge. “You won’t move!”

And still he sought the Death Painting. This time, the image sharpened into a boar.

Fury and fear mixed into a roar. “What are you plotting, you bastard? What does it mean?!”

The hiss of an arrow made him react at the last instant. A barrier flared into place, and even in his exhaustion he allowed himself a smug smile.

“I told you! I hold the advantage!”

That was when something grabbed him from behind.

The shock was immediate. He twisted his head, and his breath caught in his throat. An orc, grotesque, tusked, with the brutal features of a boar. Exactly like the vision.

“The painting… it was this…”

Almost at the same time, a whistle cut the air. Something came screaming in at brutal speed. Bartholomew panicked, conjuring a fresh dome and sacrificing the one shielding the mechanism. His defense shattered into a thousand fragments as a curved blade, a black kukri, punched through his chest and sank straight into his heart.

No scream escaped. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, it strangled his voice before it reached his lips. He felt the threads of his life tearing one by one, fire and venom searing him from the inside out.

He collapsed to his knees, coughing blood. In desperation he dropped every spell, focusing solely on healing. The boar-orc still clutched him, but he drove a mana drill into its face. The creature dissolved into smoke, giving him freedom, only for him to crash onto the stone floor, gasping.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The knight seized the moment. Even staggering, she slipped free of the broken dome and vanished into the dark. Behind them, the mechanism came alive, runes burning across the walls with their own light.

[The mechanism has been activated. Only the one who started it can shut it down.]

Bartholomew groaned, clawing at the kukri jutting from his chest. His hand met the blade and hissed. A corrosive burn ate through his flesh, blackening skin in seconds as if his own blood were acid. He looked down and realized the same corruption was devouring his heart.

Panic struck deep.

Teeth gritted, he seized the hilt anyway. The agony of raw meat peeling from his hand almost drove him mad, but he ripped the blade free. Blood sprayed across the stone as he hurled the weapon aside and pressed both hands against his chest, flooding mana into the wound.

“I can’t die here. Not now!”

His vision flickered. Consciousness frayed. Each heartbeat was a war between mana trying to patch his heart together and poison tearing it back apart. It was like bailing water from a sinking ship with his bare hands.

Then, through the shadows, footsteps echoed. Slow. Measured.

With the torches destroyed, the chamber drowned in gloom. Out of that darkness, a figure emerged.

Luke.

But he was no longer the same archer. His silhouette seemed woven from living shadow, a black cloak wrapping him as though the night itself had clothed him. Hood and mask hid his face, leaving only his eyes, two cold points of light, locked on him with predatory certainty.

Bartholomew’s own eyes widened when he saw the hands: black, feline, ending in sharp claws.

And then he understood.

The visions of the Death Painting. The panther in the dark.

“The panther…” he whispered, fear choking his voice.

Luke kept walking, unhurried, inevitable. The darkness seemed to move with him, an extension of his will.

“No…” Bartholomew gagged on his own blood.

Luke stopped in front of him, voice firm, cold. “It’s over, Bartholomew.”

Panic flared. Bartholomew forced his ruined body to rise, even as his chest gaped open and bled.

“I’m going to fulfill the promise I made to the owner of this bow,” Luke said, his voice low and unshakable.

“No, no… no…” Bartholomew stammered, trembling. He wasn’t speaking to Luke anymore, but to himself, desperate to deny the fate closing in on him. His heart faltered with every step.

Death wasn’t a surprise. It had been walking at his side for months. But now, standing right before him, it was inevitable.

“Every step I took…” his thoughts rambled, delirious as he braced against the wall, “…was to move farther away from it… not closer.”

He staggered, then tried to run. Healing wasn’t enough. Mana drained through his fingers like sand. An arrow hissed through the air and buried itself in his back. His scream tore out raw, but he didn’t stop.

He looked over his shoulder—Luke was still coming, calm, steady, drawing another arrow.

Another shot struck his back. The pain was blinding, but he bit down on it, forcing his body forward.

He found a false wall. With blood-slicked hands he pushed it open, stumbling into a hidden chamber, his secret refuge. But the door ahead was locked.

“No…” His voice came out shallow, broken. “No…”

A mana drill flared from his palm, smashing through the lock. He stumbled down the corridor, one hand clutching his burning chest, the other dragging against the wall for balance. Going for the exit meant running straight into his enemies. He clenched his jaw and turned toward the stairs. Another arrow slammed into his back. His body almost gave way, but rage kept him upright.

At the top, he dared to look down. Luke was there. Still. Waiting. His cloak of shadow made him part of the darkness itself, a predator watching from the brush. The panther from the vision. Bartholomew broke into a sprint. Luke only followed, loosing arrows in a steady rhythm. Each one that pierced his back ripped a groan from his lungs, yet he still forced himself forward.

Until he reached the window. Without thinking, he jumped. The crash onto the lawn made his bones scream. Once, a fall like that wouldn’t have left a scratch. Now every pain multiplied, tearing through his broken body.

“S…someone… help me…” His attempt at a shout rasped out weak and hollow.

The silence answered. And in that silence, memories rose. Marshall, the friend he had killed. Bryan, Angelica’s brother, slain by his schemes. Angelica herself, the woman he had set up to die. The weight of his choices pressed harder than the blood spilling from his chest.

Bartholomew dragged himself across the grass, trembling hands pressed to the wound. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. Healing barely flickered. He coughed, then laughed in desperation, a bitter sound swallowed by the night.

Out of the shadows, Luke appeared. Calm. Unyielding. Bow in hand. His eyes glowed through the mask, predatory slits of light. And when Bartholomew blinked, he saw someone standing beside Luke who shouldn’t be there. Angelica. She watched him in silence, like a ghost. But when he blinked again, she was gone.

“I see…” His lips twisted into a half-crazed smile. “So… she’s still there… with you.”

Luke said nothing. He simply raised the bow.

“It’s over,” he said. “You die here, forgotten, alone. Not like the woman you stole everything from. Even in death, there are still people who remember her.”

“Wait…” Bartholomew raised a hand, pleading.

Luke didn’t hesitate. The bowstring drew tighter.

“You need to understand…” Bartholomew’s voice cracked, his vision blurring. “When you learn the reason… you’ll stand with me.”

Blood filled his throat. He choked on it, forcing the words out in a final gasp. “I only wanted… to protect everyone… from 51. That’s all…”

Luke’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “What is 51?”

No answer came.

Bartholomew’s world slipped away, his strength draining like water from a shattered cup. Darkness swallowed his mind whole. And in that darkness, a voice cut through, cold, merciless, sharp as steel.

“This is as far as you go,” Erza Grimhart said.