Becoming the Dark Lord

Night lay heavy over the battlefield. Eleanor stood alone atop a wooden watchtower, the cold wind slipping through its gaps and tugging at the torn flags above her. Even with hundreds of soldiers spread across the green plain below, an unnatural silence clung to the air, a silence no sound of movement or clatter of armor could break. It was the kind of silence that comes before the inevitable.

Behind her, the capital and the third fortress glimmered faintly under the moonlight, like dying embers in the dark. Ahead stretched an endless field of tall grass swaying in the wind, and at its farthest edge loomed a colossal, translucent barrier, so vast it seemed to cleave the world in two. Beyond it, still and immense, waited the castle.

That castle...

All the years she had spent trapped in the tutorial, she had never truly believed she would see it up close. And now there it was before her, still impossibly distant, like a dream that refused to be reached. In just a few hours, only two outcomes would remain. Either she’d die here among the countless others, or, if luck had any mercy, she’d fight through hell itself, reach the castle, and step through the portal said to lie within.

The way home was there. So close she could almost feel it, yet so far that hope itself felt heavy as iron.

These past days, she’d often found herself staring toward that dark fortress on the horizon. Its jagged silhouette seemed alive, watching them in silence, as though whatever monster lurked inside was studying their every move through the windows. Sometimes Eleanor wondered if that gaze was real or just the shape of fear born from exhaustion.

And then came the cruel doubt: what if it was all an illusion? What if the barrier projected a mirage, and the real castle lay somewhere else, closer perhaps, or infinitely farther away? Uncertainty was a slow poison. And time, its executioner. They had six hours. Six hours to fight, survive, and reach the target. If they failed, death would be their only reward.

Eleanor descended from the archer’s tower. The wooden planks creaked beneath her boots. The air was thick with smoke, frost, and tension. Around her, the camp stirred quietly, soldiers tightening straps, engineers checking ammunition, healers arranging herbs. Makeshift cannons dotted the terrain, crude but vital symbols of hope. Ballista towers rose like silent guardians, ready to tear apart anything that dared breach the barrier.

She walked slowly through it all, her eyes tracing every detail. Each placement, each adjustment was the product of sleepless nights, plans redrawn, defenses rebuilt with what little strength and faith remained. When she reached the archers’ division, they stood as one, their faces drawn but resolute.

“Thank you for everything, Professor Eleanor.”

She paused for a breath before answering. “I only gave you a few pointers. The effort was yours.”

The words were modest, but her voice carried something deeper. For weeks she had trained these young soldiers, shaped their discipline, sharpened their instincts. Now they stood before her, archers, students, comrades, ready to die beside her if it came to that. One by one, they approached, offering gratitude not in grand speeches but in nods, faint smiles, quiet gestures.

Eugene came running, his spear strapped to his back, his face slick with sweat and urgency.

“We’ve only got a few minutes left.”

“Alright, I’ll take my position.”

A woman strode forward through the rows of archers, her steps confident, her silhouette traced by the pale torchlight. It was Layla. one of the most promising archers Eleanor had trained.

“Professor Eleanor, I owe you my deepest thanks for teaching me to become a better archer.”

Eleanor regarded her calmly. She knew the girl well. Layla was one of the few people Luke actually interacted with, and for that reason, Eleanor had given her special attention during training.

“As I’ve told all of you before, I only give advice. You’re the ones who draw the bow and hit the target.”

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Before Layla could respond, a young archer came stumbling up, face flushed and clutching a crumpled flower in his hands.

“P-Professor Eleanor, I wanted to—”

The words died halfway out of his mouth. It was a scene she’d already lived through several times over the past few days. She knew exactly how it went.

“I-I wanted to—”

Eleanor sighed and arched a brow. “I’m not dead yet, so don’t go throwing flowers on my coffin.”

“N-no, professor, I actually wanted to—”

“I know. It was a joke.” She gave him a faint smile, though her gaze stayed sharp. “Unfortunately, I can’t accept, but thank you for your feelings.”

The young man bowed his head, face burning. “R-right… I understand.”

Eleanor tilted her head with a tired half-smile. “Still, you get points for effort. If you’d shown up with a necklace instead, you’d be marching into battle with a black eye.”

He blinked, confused.

“Forget it. It’s an inside joke,” she muttered, already stepping away with brisk purpose, as if that small escape could ease the weight pressing on her chest.

“You seem pretty popular,” Layla commented, walking beside her.

“That was the eighth one today. I guess the promise of certain death gives people courage.”

They walked side by side while Eugene followed a few paces behind, keeping an eye on the field as the last preparations took shape.

“And what about you, Layla? No confessions coming your way?” Eleanor asked.

Layla made a face. “C-confessions? No. I don’t let anyone even try. Men are all scumbags, and I’ve seen firsthand how scumbags act.”

Eleanor laughed softly—short and sharp, like a bowstring snapping.

Layla, however, seemed completely serious.

“I mean it, professor. I met a real scumbag once. Talks to plants, of all things,” she said, crossing her arms. “The worst kind.”

Eleanor just shook her head and let the girl vent as they walked toward the archers’ section. Layla talked the entire way, about the Scumbag, about broken promises and irritating habits. In a strange way, it was comforting. The conversation pulled Eleanor’s mind away from the war waiting just beyond the horizon.

When they finally reached Layla’s position, Eleanor wished her luck and stepped aside. Eugene moved up beside her again, walking with steady steps but a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“You’re pretty popular with the students,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Eleanor shrugged. “They’ve spent more time with me these last few months than with anyone else. A lot of archery simulations.”

She adjusted her hood, pausing for a moment. “Some of them even… confessed,” she added, recalling the young archer from earlier. “That was the eighth one today alone. And in the past few weeks, there’s been all kinds—soldiers from Bastion, civilians… I think the fear of dying gave them courage.”

Eugene looked toward the fortress behind them, his gaze distant. “I think… maybe that’s a good thing. You know, confessing to the people you like before you die.”

Eleanor stopped, frowning slightly. “Don’t tell me you’ve done that with someone.”

“No. But… I’ve thought about it.”

He drew a deep breath, eyes shifting away. “Do you know if Allison and Luke… have something?”

Eleanor answered almost immediately. “No.”

Eugene raised an eyebrow. “Really? You said that awfully fast. I mean, they’re always together. They even spent days living alone in a cave before the war… you know how rumors start.”

“Those two are emotional idiots. They know more about killing than they do about feelings. I’d call them dense, but honestly, it’s just immaturity.”

She sighed softly. “It’s far more likely they spent that time talking about skills, magic, and swords than anything romantic.”

Eugene let out a shaky laugh, relief creeping into his tone. “B-but… do you think maybe one of them feels something for the other?”

Eleanor gave him a sidelong look, her expression almost maternal. “Eugene, you’re asking very personal questions. But like I said, those two don’t think about that kind of thing.”

“I feel strangely relieved,” he murmured, forcing a smile.

“That doesn’t mean that when one of them finally realizes what they feel, they’ll accept it easily,” she added quietly. “Each of them carries too many scars.”

She paused, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Still, maybe I should go talk to her now,” Eugene said, gathering a sudden burst of courage. “At least I could say something—”

“Not in a million years, Eugene.”

Her response was instant, sharp, and absolute.

“You will never be reciprocated.”

His voice cracked in disbelief. “Why? Because she’s some kind of princess? I’ll prove I’m worthy. I’ll enlist in her family’s army, I’ll—”

He stopped when he caught her expression harden.

“You’ll never be reciprocated,” Eleanor said evenly, “because you’ve never actually spoken to Allison.”

Eugene blinked, confused. “I don’t understand.”

She turned to face him, her tone calm but cutting—like an arrow striking clean through.

“You’ve been talking to Allison Rhiannon this whole time. Not Allison. And if you’ve never spoken to Allison, then you never had even the slightest chance.”