Becoming the Dark Lord

Eleanor loosed arrow after arrow, her bow singing with every pull. Each shot cut through the air and found its mark, rotting flesh, shattered armor, twisted bodies collapsing into the snow. There was no time to retrieve spent arrows; the undead kept coming, endless and relentless, tripping over one another as they surged forward. She and the few still standing beside her were completely cut off. The circle had closed before they even realized it, and now the enemy seemed to multiply with every passing minute. The worst of it wasn’t the numbers, it was the Generals. Level Eighty monsters. One alone could turn the entire battlefield into a slaughterhouse.

A roar split the air, deep enough to shake the ground beneath her boots. Eleanor broke into a run. The snow lashed against her legs, the cold biting at her cheeks, but she didn’t slow down. One clean shot dropped a charging corpse ahead, its body crumpling into the bloodstained snow.

“Keep firing!” she shouted, voice hoarse from the cold and from screaming. “Hold the perimeter!”

Another metallic roar thundered behind her. A Warden General was locked in combat with a squad of soldiers, their formation barely holding. Lesser undead tried to rush in to aid their commander, but Eleanor’s arrows cut them down before they could get close. Her hands moved on instinct, draw, release, draw again. She was one of the fastest archers in the division, and she knew it. Every instinct screamed to face the General herself, but she couldn’t. Not yet. The soldiers could barely keep the tide from consuming them.

“Go! Move!” Dustin’s voice carried over the storm. He was only a few meters away, heavy gauntlets crackling with energy. He lunged forward and slammed his fists into the ground, making the earth tremble. The shock made the undead stagger, losing their balance and falling one after another.

Eleanor didn’t waste the opening. She sprinted toward the unit holding the line against the General, loosing arrows as she ran. Every shot struck true, dropping another corpse. The snow ran dark with blood so thick it looked almost black. The cold no longer mattered; the heat of the fight burned through everything.

The Warden General roared again, its massive frame shaking under the barrage. Arrows pierced its cracked armor, breaking through layer after layer of regenerative metal. Eleanor knew the trick: drain its mana first. Once the regeneration failed, even ordinary arrows could kill it. Ahead, Gilbert hurled enchanted hand-axes in rapid succession. His belt glowed faintly, an item that conjured new hand axes with every throw. Each strike forced the General back a step, its massive halberd sweeping through the air in wide arcs, each blow kicking up a curtain of snow.

through the air, each blow throwing up a curtain of snow.

A mage off to the side unleashed a volley of fireballs. The explosions swallowed the screams, buying precious seconds for the melee fighters to breathe.

“Eleanor! The cannon!” Gilbert shouted, never breaking rhythm.

She understood instantly.

Pushing through the chaos, she sprinted across the snow, dodging wreckage and bodies. The checkpoint ahead was nothing but ruin, collapsed towers, shredded tents, the air thick with iron and smoke. Piles of corpses marked the devastation the enemy had left behind.

The wind stung her face, carrying flecks of white from the blizzard. The battlefield had lost all shape or order, just a wasteland of frozen blood, broken armor, and the jagged remains of weapons buried in ice.

Eleanor’s breath came ragged, every inhale burning her lungs. She pressed on toward what was left of the camp’s defenses. The archer towers lay in splinters, the wooden beams shattered and buried under snow. Beyond them stretched a graveyard of tents and shattered barricades, disappearing into the storm.

She clutched the bow against her chest. I need to find the cannon.

Gilbert wouldn’t have sent that message unless it was their only chance to stop the General. Moving through the shadows of collapsed tents, she dodged broken spears and charred scraps of flesh. The cold was brutal, the kind that gnawed at bone, but adrenaline kept her moving.

“It has to be around here somewhere,” she muttered, scanning the camp. The wind howled between the structures, carrying the distant echoes of battle.

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Something caught her eye—a strip of torn fabric snagged on a half-buried shape glinting beneath the snow. Eleanor sprinted toward it. As she drew closer, the outline became clear: the mouth of a cannon, toppled but intact.

Around it, the camp looked like a graveyard. Frozen footprints, trails of blood, the black husks of extinguished fires. The silence here felt different—dense, suffocating.

She searched for a supply chest. Every forward post kept one hidden nearby. “Come on, come on…” she whispered, digging through snow and debris until her hand struck wood. “Finally.”

Brushing the frost off the lid, she flipped it open. Inside, a soft blue light shimmered—the signature glow of an enchanted storage chest, a miniature dimensional armory.

She rummaged through the contents: vials, scrolls, spare bolts. Then her fingers brushed against a coarse pouch.

[Alchemical Gunpowder (Common)]: Crafted by an alchemist through the transmutation of rare minerals and unstable reagents. Burns clean and fast, releasing a concentrated burst of force ideal for firearms and siege engines.

Right after that, she spotted the dull gleam of three cannonballs resting at the bottom.

[Cannonball (Uncommon)]: Forged from hardened iron and perfectly balanced for maximum momentum. Strikes with crushing impact, shattering stone and steel alike.

She was about to close the chest when a fourth sphere rolled free, landing by her boot. The moment she picked it up, heat pulsed through her fingertips. Frowning, she activated Identify.

[Flaming Cannonball (Rare)]: A cannonball forged around the core of a Flame Salamander. The core still radiates heat and holds raw fire within. Upon impact, the ammunition detonates in a concentrated fiery explosion, burning everything nearby.

Eleanor stared at it in silence, the faint red glow pulsing under the metal shell. This one was different—special. Designed for high-level enemies. She lifted it with both hands. The heat was intense but bearable; the weight, however, was staggering. Even with her enhanced stats, she had to reinforce her arms with stamina to keep it steady.

Grabbing some scraps of cloth, she hurried back to the cannon. The cold faded to a distant haze—there was only the task now. She tore open the pouch of powder and poured a measured amount into the barrel, stuffing strips of cloth on top to stabilize it.

“Please don’t blow up in my face,” she muttered, pushing the cannonball in with slow, careful movements. Alchemic powder was more stable than standard black powder, but it was still volatile enough to end her instantly.

Using a splintered beam, she rammed the charge deep into the barrel and locked it in place. Then she adjusted the cannon’s aim. The General was still far off but visible through the storm—a hulking shadow carving through what few soldiers remained.

“Bring the bastard closer!” she shouted, fine-tuning the angle.

The clash of steel rang across the battlefield, even against the roar of the wind. The creature bellowed and slammed its halberd into the frozen ground, shaking the snow loose from the ruined tents.

Eleanor steadied her breath. Her hands were trembling, not from the cold, but from sheer tension. She took in the scene—the corpses, the blood, the white steam spilling from her lips—and forced her mind to focus.

Then she heard it behind her—a low, guttural noise. Grunting.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

When she turned, at least ten undead were emerging from the fog, staggering yet fast. She drew an arrow without thinking. The wind tugged at the bowstring, but each shot hit clean.

[You have slain a…]

[You have slain a…]

[You have slain a…]

[You have slain a…]

[You have slain a…]

The notifications flickered as bodies piled in the snow. Her last arrow pierced a skull and vanished with the dull thud of impact. Before she could nock another, something sliced the air—a spear whipped past her shoulder with a vicious hum. Eleanor stumbled back, heart hammering.

A larger figure stepped through the mist. A Warden. Unlike the shambling corpses, this one moved with speed and precision. Gray armor clung to its form, its face hidden behind a cracked helm. The spear moved as though it were part of its arm.

She dodged the first strike, but the next came as a punch—fast and brutal. The hit slammed into her chest, throwing her into the snow. The world spun, muffled beneath the pounding of her heartbeat.

“Eleanor! Shoot!” someone shouted through the wind, their voice distant, fading.

The taste of iron filled her mouth. She forced a breath, the freezing air searing her lungs. The Warden charged, dragging its spear behind it, carving deep trenches in the ground. A lesser undead lunged from the side. Eleanor kicked it away, the crack of bone sharp in her ears. She tried to rise, but another grabbed her from behind. Rotting nails tore into the leather of her armor. She screamed, twisted, and drove her bow like a lever, throwing the creature off.

Another one came sprinting toward her, its mangled face pulled into a grin of exposed teeth. She barely moved before a third corpse leapt over the others and crashed into her, knocking her flat against the frozen ground. The world shrank to cold, blood, and the distant clash of weapons.