Becoming the Dark Lord

Snow fell in heavy sheets, piling thick across the ground until every step sank deep into the white. The wind howled between the statues lined along the fortress wall, and Oswald pushed forward with his body bent, shielding his face with one arm. The stone figures around him seemed almost alive. On the other side, chaos reigned. Soulless creatures staggered through the snow, clawing their way across the frozen plain. But the statues held the line, unmoving and monumental, guarding the perimeter.

“Keep moving!” someone shouted, the voice torn apart by the wind.

Oswald dug his boots into the snow, feeling it give way beneath him. Every step felt like sinking into quicksand. The cold burned his face raw, and the thin, freezing air scraped his lungs. It felt like the earth itself was trying to swallow him whole.

“I can’t die here,” he muttered through clenched teeth, gasping, realizing he was falling behind. He was the last in the long line of survivors trudging toward the castle, a slow procession of broken souls swallowed by a storm that refused to end.

The wind eased slightly as they neared the fortress, but it was still brutal. The sky bled into the snow below until the world had no horizon, no up or down, only white and the weight of exhaustion. Oswald stumbled and fell. The snow received him with the dull thud of a cold bed. For a moment, he considered staying down. His body screamed in protest, muscles burning, his will eroding with every breath. Still, he forced himself up again, chest heaving, heart pounding in his ears.

The conflict tore at him. Behind, the storm roared, a death sentence if he turned back. Ahead, the others kept moving, defying the cold, pressing toward the distant silhouette of the castle. And somewhere between those two certainties, doubt gnawed at his mind. Something heavier weighed on him, the letter from Bartholomew. The words came back like an old wound that refused to close.

The letter had ended abruptly, grimly, with no farewells, no hope, no advice. Parts of it had been scratched out, likely by Lady Erza or someone acting under her command. The sections mentioning “51” were nearly unreadable, as if deliberately erased. What remained was a single echo of a warning, carved deep into Oswald’s thoughts, repeating with every step:

“This tutorial was built atop the fragment of a universe that no longer exists. What waits inside that castle won’t be something good, it will be something ancient, powerful, and dangerous.”

***

Luke’s horse cut through the snow in a steady gallop. Behind him, others followed, each mount carrying one of Erza’s maids. The wind lashed against them, sharp and relentless, but the rhythmic pounding of hooves carried its own defiance, an unspoken declaration of life amid the cold and the dark. A shadow flickered beside them. The curved blade of a scythe sliced through the air, clean and precise, taking the head off an undead that had lunged too close. The body crumpled into the snow, staining the white ground with a slow, spreading crimson.

Erza rode behind Luke, her posture steady despite the speed, her hair whipping wildly in the wind. She caught the severed head before it could hit the ground and tossed it aside with casual indifference.

“Quite the pleasant ride,” she said, her voice calm, almost amused.

Riding through a blizzard with Erza pressed against his back, sharing the same saddle as she swung her blade through the swarm of undead, was definitely not how Luke had pictured his day going.

Ahead, faint light flickered through the mist. Torches. More appeared as they drew closer, spreading across the haze until the battlefield gave way to a small clearing. Soldiers, women, and children clustered together, wrapped in torn cloaks and makeshift blankets. Some were crying, others praying. The sounds of battle—screams, clashing steel, distant roars—still echoed beyond the fog, but here, for a moment, there was the illusion of safety.

“You’re the last one,” Luke said as he swung off the horse. “We made it.”

Erza dismounted after him, scythe still in hand.

[Estimated Time Until End: 01 hour : 49 minutes : 37 seconds]

“The statues can’t advance any farther,” whispered the angelic voice in his mind, faint and fraying like a dying echo. “If they move beyond this point, they’ll return to sleep.”

Luke had heard that voice before, but each time it felt weaker, as though whatever remained of her was fading away. Near the fires, Ronan, Allison, and the others stood waiting, alert to the group’s arrival.

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

“What in the hell did you do?” Ronan asked, eyes wide. “How did you get those statues to fight for us?”

“Luck,” Luke replied, walking past him. “A whole lot of it.”

Anne and Erza were already barking orders to the maids, checking supplies, inspecting weapons, setting formation. The tension was still thick, but beneath it lingered something new, fragile and dangerous. Hope. No one dared say it out loud.

Luke approached Mason, Jack, Evangeline, and Allison.

“Brought Annabelle and Barbie,” he said. “Now we’ve got the full set. And less than two hours to kill two Rank D monsters.”

Erza spun her scythe once and rested it on her shoulder. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s move.”

The group followed the narrow path leading into the forest. Hooves crunched through snow, boots pressed into the earth, and the whisper of branches above merged with the distant hum of battle.

Ronan joined them, bringing a squad of soldiers close behind.

“The civilians will stay hidden in the woods,” he said. “Once one of us confirms the bridge is clear, they’ll cross.”

The wind howled through the trees, and for a brief moment, no one spoke. The snow kept falling, soft and relentless. Luke nodded and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. He touched the storage necklace, slipping mentally into the pocket dimension where Angelica’s body rested. The civilians were gathered there, all alive. None of them had died on the way.

I did it, Angelica.

Only one thing remained: kill the Witch, kill the King, then get everyone home.

“Do not remove the mask from your face, the army’s magic will end,” the mask rasped, voice distant and strained.

“I know,” he answered without slowing his pace.

He quickened his pace. Everyone was talking over each other, discussing the resources they had left. Most of the potions were already used up.

“I can use my Breath three times before my mana runs out,” Allison said.

“I still have two uses of Shadow Prison,” Evangeline replied. “And you, Cinderella? Don’t tell me you’re out of mana.”

All eyes fell on Luke.

[Mana Points (MP): 4751/5100]

“I’ve got plenty,” he said. “Around 4,700 for the King, and still some left over.”

The castle loomed ahead, immense and shrouded in mist. Its walls were black and ancient, etched with symbols that glimmered faintly in the sleet.

“I can open the fight with the Witch using my epic skills right away,” Mason offered.

“And I’ve got this.” Luke showed his vial of acid, the one he planned to use on the witch. He then stored it back in his inventory.

“I’ll support where I can,” Ronan said. “No mana, but I’ve still got a sword. The others do too, right, guys?”

“Yes, sir,” a soldier replied. “Four long years in this tutorial. I want to finish these bastards once and for all.”

More soldiers joined, drifting toward the group.

“I want in too!” one of them shouted.

Voices multiplied. “Me too!” “Count me in!”

Eleanor stood among them, flanked by Cecilia, Quinn, Dustin, Gilbert, and other familiar faces from Bastion.

“If we all go together, we’ll clear the castle faster,” a soldier said.

Erza’s look was cold. “Do not get in our way. Help with the Witch at most. Other than that, do not interfere.”

They got the message. Nobody answered.

When they reached the bridge, the soldiers halted and a new fear rolled across the air. The Midnight Lord’s body lay there, huge and still, glazed with ice and dried blood. Silence stretched for long seconds.

“Y-you fought that?” Ronan stammered, incredulous.

“Are you all going into the castle, or are you falling back?” Mason snapped, impatience cracking his voice.

Ronan raised his sword. “We’ll go first. If anything appears, we buy you time.”

The soldiers formed a shield wall, shields locked, and advanced. The gesture was brave, maybe reckless. Erza arched a brow, clearly annoyed.

“You’re blocking part of our view, and slowing us down,” she muttered to herself.

Anne walked just behind her, eyeing the soldiers with disdain. “Weak... soldiers, they die quick.”

They began to cross the bridge. Luke stopped halfway.

“You go ahead,” he said. “I have something to do first.”

The group froze, confused.

“It’ll take too long to explain, just like with the mask. Trust me. I’ll catch up.”

He climbed down from the bridge and ran back toward the forest. On the trail he saw the gathered people, anxious and frightened. The storm there was milder, though still unrelenting. Luke closed his eyes and issued one last mental command to the mask.

The statues received the updated order. They would keep slaughtering the undead across the field and hold their ground without retreat. Soldiers organized fires, guided the civilians, and maintained the line. After making sure things were stable, Luke went to the Midnight Lord’s corpse. The cadaver lay motionless, its presence almost living in its enormity.

“Why are you still here, human? Afraid of the castle?” Franky asked.

“Afraid?” Luke stepped closer. “No. The last thing I want is to avoid that castle. I came here because of you.”

“My, me?” the snake asked, confused.

Luke stood before the defeated monster and stared at it for a long, silent moment. “I’m going to give you this Wyvern’s core.”