Becoming the Dark Lord

Oswald sat alone inside one of the war camp’s tents. The air was thick with the scent of metal, oil, and unease. Rows of canvas shelters stretched in neat lines across the muddy field, but even here, far from the front and surrounded by soldiers, the tension was suffocating. The faint creak of armor, the dull thud of boots outside, even the distant clash of training weapons seemed muted, as if the world itself were holding its breath. This place would soon become chaos.

Years spent working for Bartholomew as one of his administrators had taken their toll. After his friend, the King of Bastion, was killed, Oswald had been thrown into prison and beaten by those who despised the late king, especially members of Haven. Eventually, Erza Grimhart took him under her protection, sparing him from torture, though the irony wasn’t lost on him. Being in the care of someone who was an expert in pain was hardly comforting.

He was one of the few remaining Alchemists in the entire tutorial, actually, the last since Bartholomew’s death. It was thanks to Bartholomew that he’d become one at all. Oswald could still recall the faint smell of parchment and dust when the man handed him that ancient tome, its cover stiff with age, its ink faded to near invisibility. The book had felt alive, humming faintly as if reluctant to share its secrets.

The man had entrusted him with a rare book on alchemy, and after months of studying its teachings, Oswald had managed to awaken the profession. That was the beauty of it: anyone could become something extraordinary if they were truly dedicated. Bartholomew had believed in him, handing him a forbidden craft he had deliberately erased from public reach. Alchemy was too dangerous; it could teach the art of poison.

Only three had ever mastered it: Kruger, Bartholomew, and Oswald. Kruger specialized in liquid toxins, Bartholomew in gas-based poisons, while Oswald had taken a different path, volatile compounds, incendiary mixtures, gunpowder, and other materials capable of destruction.

Oswald had always known Bartholomew was delaying the activation of the tutorial’s mechanisms. But he also knew the man wasn’t a fool. Bartholomew had been a visionary, someone who turned chaos into community, building Bastion from the wreckage of despair. If not for Marshall’s meddling, the Safe Zone might have become a paradise. Oswald remembered those early months — laughter echoing through unfinished streets, the steady rhythm of construction, the fragile illusion that survival could turn into civilization. It had almost worked. Almost.

It was growing, thriving even. Bartholomew had been so close to creating something lasting, until Haven intervened.

Oswald bore no resentment. Not toward Bartholomew, nor the survivors who condemned him. He believed his friend could have survived, could have returned to Earth and built his paradise there. Bartholomew could have joined Allison Rhiannon, left the tutorial a hero. Even after years of obstructing the search for an exit, people would have followed him. He had the mind for leadership, the charisma to shape an empire.

But that wasn’t the path he chose.

Still, Oswald liked to think there had been a reason. Maybe a misguided one, but a reason nonetheless. Because to him, Bartholomew had never stopped being a friend.

“I came for the last shipment,” said a voice from behind.

Oswald turned. One of Erza’s attendants stood at the entrance, a woman named Christine, Ronan’s fiancée.

“They’re all in the chest, in the corner,” he replied.

Christine nodded curtly. She was the kind of person who didn’t waste words. Barely twenty, yet she carried herself with a composure and weight that made her seem older.

She knelt by the chest, lifted the lid, and opened a small box inside, silently counting its contents. The faint rattle of glass vials was the only sound between them. The light from the lantern caught on the liquid surfaces, bending and breaking across the glass like tiny shards of flame.

“E-exactly eight vials, just like we planned,” Oswald said, watching her inspect them—lifting each one, even checking beneath the glass as if the liquid might be hiding secrets.

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“Everything’s correct. These were the last of the flammables,” she murmured, not really to him but to herself, as if mentally ticking off the final line of an invisible checklist.

The liquid had been brewed from salamander fat, harvested from their corpses. It was the most potent incendiary ever made in the tutorial. Oswald had tried helping others awaken the Alchemist profession using the manuals found in the second fortress, but only he had managed to specialize successfully in volatile compounds. He was the only one capable of producing consistent results without wasting materials—an invaluable trait now that resources were scarce. Training more alchemists was out of the question. No one with only three months of experience could rival someone who’d spent years refining the craft. That alone made Oswald one of the most crucial figures in the entire tutorial.

He had a hand in everything—trap construction, weapon refinement, explosive cannon rounds, even improving the alloys for the cannons themselves. He’d developed new gunpowder through transmutation and countless other alchemical processes that kept the army supplied and alive.

“C-could you remove the chains from my feet now?” he asked quietly.

The maid placed a small key on the table. “Once we return to Earth, Lady Erza will fulfill her end of the deal.”

“Thank you,” Oswald replied.

“You’ll have a place in her faction, under the Grimhart family,” Christine added. “The New World awaits. Survive—and reaching the castle will be your true test.”

She set a bracelet on the table next, his personal storage item, which was always confiscated while he worked.

“This might interest you as well.” She laid down an envelope beside it.

Then she left, her footsteps fading into the corridor.

Oswald unlocked the shackles and rubbed his ankles before slipping the bracelet back onto his wrist. A faint shimmer of light flickered as it synced. Peering into the pocket dimension, he found his supplies: four healing potions, each capable of restoring a hundred and fifty HP—the standard issue for the war.

But when he picked up the envelope, something on the back made his breath catch.

If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. This is why I did what I did, Oswald.

: Bartholomew

Oswald froze. He knew that handwriting. It really was Bartholomew’s.

“What…? He left this for me?” he whispered, disbelief breaking through the practiced calm in his voice.

With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

“Hello, my friend. By now, I imagine you hate me. You probably think I’m a monster, or a madman. And, in a way, everyone who says that about me is right. Because I was the only one in this place willing to do what had to be done, to truly prevent the Fifty-One from happening.”

Oswald slipped a monocle from his storage item and fixed it over his right eye, the good one. The left had been clouded since birth. He’d meant to read the letter later, somewhere quiet and proper, but time had run out. At any moment, the war trumpet would sound.

Had Bartholomew given this letter to Lady Erza before he died? Or had he written it long ago, knowing this day would come?

Oswald pushed the thought aside and kept reading.

“I need to ask you a favor, Oswald. As you know, back when I lost my daughter and sank into that pit of depression, I worked for a time at an orphanage, the Moon Orphanage, in Maine. I want you to find them and donate all the money I earned during the tutorial to that institution. They’ll need it for what’s coming. My fortune is currently in Lady Erza’s possession. She’ll hand it to you, if you survive.”

“There’s also a separate portion for four orphans I met back then. By now they must be grown, maybe even with families of their own, I hope. Find them, and give each a share. Their names are Elizabeth Moon, Audrey Jones, Liam Clark, and...”

The last name was struck through. Not erased, crossed out with intent. And the mark didn’t look like Bartholomew’s handwriting.

The letter went on, detailing how Oswald was to deliver the funds to the orphanage. There was even an address written neatly at the bottom.

“I know this is a heavy burden, Oswald,” it continued, “but you’ll be compensated for it. Now, I want to tell you about the Fifty-One.”

A sudden chill pressed against his spine, cold and sharp as steel. The tent’s air seemed to collapse inward, silence falling like a weight. Even the canvas walls stopped moving, and the flickering lanternlight froze in place, caught in the stillness of that instant.

Oswald froze, raising both hands, trembling.

“Don’t move,” a voice ordered from behind him. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

With a faint motion, Oswald flicked the letter into his pocket dimension.

“I said don’t move!” The voice grew harsher, the blade biting lightly against his back.

“S-sorry,” Oswald stammered, “I just didn’t want anything in my hand. I’m not resisting, please… don’t hurt me, Jonathan.”