Becoming the Dark Lord

The boss stood before him—a creature clad in perfect black armor, surrounded by ruin. No words. No sounds. Just an overwhelming presence—solid, immovable, final. Towering. Oppressive. Absolute.

Every step it took felt like a death sentence driven deeper into the earth. The ground cracked beneath its weight, each movement a tremor, as if the world itself flinched.

Luke couldn’t move. Not out of fear—he was far beyond that. But exhaustion had turned his limbs into stone. His left leg bled freely. His remaining arm dangled by threads of torn muscle and exposed tendon. His vision blurred—double, maybe triple. The battlefield blended with fading memories.

A tear rolled down his cheek. He watched it fall. Slow. Silent. It hit his trembling palm with the taste of iron and regret.

The boss raised the boulder high above its head, muscles bulging, straining to contain the fury burning within. Its eyes gleamed—ancient rage.

Then came the roar.

”AARRRGH!”

Even the dead trees shuddered.

And in that moment... Luke remembered.

His mother’s face—something he hadn’t recalled in years. He remembered her final embrace, her scent, her voice: gentle, steady, stubborn in its love. Other faces followed—Clara, Martin, Noah, Lillian. People who had reached out to him. People he had pushed away out of pride, out of fear of being hurt again, out of loyalty to a past he refused to release.

Now he was going to lose everything. Everything he never learned to cherish.

The boulder came down. Not like a fall. An execution.

Luke threw himself aside, his body screaming in agony. He didn’t roll with grace. Didn’t leap like a hero. He collapsed—shoulder dragging through dirt, skin tearing open. Pain exploded like white lightning behind his eyes. But he lived.

The boulder struck where he’d stood a second ago, tearing open the stone and launching a cloud of dust and rock. A crater formed. Fragments sliced his face and leg—one embedded deep into his shoulder, nearly knocking him unconscious.

But he stood. Shaking. Bleeding. Still standing.

”Then I’ll do it my way...” he muttered, blood spilling from cracked teeth.

With his one remaining hand, he pulled four knives from the holster strapped to his thigh. Their polished edges caught the fading light, reflecting the image of a dying man.

He threw them.

They sliced through the air in perfect arcs—

Then split mid-flight, glowing faintly, doubling into eight projectiles.

They struck the boss.

The monster let out a guttural snarl and staggered a step—not in pain, just instinct.

Luke was already moving. He hadn’t expected to win with those strikes. He only needed an opening. He circled wide, darting between fallen trees, breath short and sharp, each step burning.

More knives. More duplications.

The boss swung wildly. Its arms were like steel hammers, slamming the ground with every missed blow. But Luke moved like a shadow through the wreckage—vaulting over a rock, skimming under a twisted root. He rolled, hipbone screaming, but rose again in one motion. No pause. No breath.

A fist slammed into the ground beside him, sending stones flying like shrapnel.

One shard pierced his back, lodging itself between his ribs. It went in deep. He screamed.

His body collapsed, but like a cat, he rolled and rose in a single breath. He kept going.

No direction. No plan. No tactics. Only reflex. Only movement.

He was searching for something—anything. Anything that could save him. But what he found... was the end.

The place where the bridge once stood was now only emptiness. A precipice. The void beneath the dungeon, black as hunger. Bottomless. Final.

Behind him—

”ROOOOOAR!”

The boss was coming.

Slow steps. Purposeful.

Each one sounded like dirt being shoveled onto a coffin.

Luke turned, barely able to stand. The creature lifted another boulder—bigger—gripped in both hands.

This was it. No energy. No escape.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Then—

“WAIT!” Luke shouted with everything left in his throat. His voice came out hoarse, cracked, desperate.

The boss paused. Luke raised his hand, fingers twitching uncontrollably. He reached for one final knife. The last one.

His hand barely closed around it. Broken fingers refused to obey. But he raised the weapon anyway—with the dignity of the dying.

“Duel with the king,” he said. “A sword fight. Like real warriors.”

The creature stood still. The wind whispered in silence.

Luke panted, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. The knife trembled like a leaf in his hand. Ridiculous. But real.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he said. “Then come.”

Silence—the kind that only comes before the end.

The boss stared at him. Two black slits for eyes. To that demon, Luke was nothing but a broken human. Barely standing. Barely breathing. One arm left. Ribs exposed beneath torn flesh, coated in blood and ash.

And yet...

The boss dropped the boulders. They hit the ground with a weight that echoed like a funeral bell. Final.

Then, slowly, the creature reached for its sheath. Again—silence.

A claw gripped the hilt of the blade. It wasn’t ceremonial. It was execution made metal.

Luke had seen that sword in action. It didn’t cut.

It shattered.

SHHHK—CLANG.

The sound of steel sliding free rang through the dead air like judgment.

Luke swallowed hard. His knife was a joke compared to that weapon. But he didn’t step back.

“A duel. The way it’s meant to be...” he whispered, more to himself than the monster.

His knees nearly gave in. He forced himself upright. Straightened his back. Raised the knife.

Posture set. Combat stance. With one arm.

The boss mirrored him. Blade held over one shoulder. Feet rooted like ancient trees.

And for one instant, they weren’t enemies. They were warriors. And everything else faded.

Then came the light. The boss’s blade ignited—not in fire, but in raw, searing energy. A yellow radiance that made the air ripple.

Luke felt it. The weight of death charging straight at him.

The world shrank. There was only him... and the blade that would end it.

But he didn’t run. His knife stayed raised. His body trembled. But his eyes—were steady.

It was a challenge.

It was a choice.

And the boss accepted.

”ROOOOOAR!”

The monster charged, sword raised high.

A living wall. A hurricane of flesh, steel, and death.

Luke screamed back—but he didn’t run to attack. He ran to kill. And right before the impact... he let go of the knife and threw something else.

A smoke bomb.

THUMP!

The black sphere struck the creature’s chest and exploded.

FOOOOOOSH!

A thick, choking cloud engulfed the battlefield. The boss slashed through it, swinging wide with a roar—a strike so powerful it carved the fog apart—

but Luke was already gone.

He’d used Assassin’s Dash, veering to the side. A blur. Silent as death. The boss, blinded by smoke and bound by momentum, committed to the attack. It charged forward.

And then—

It was gone.

Falling into the abyss.

”ROOOAAAAAR...”

The sound faded—thinner, softer—swallowed by the void.

Luke watched the monster vanish into nothing.

“An assassin doesn’t fight fair…” he muttered.

[The Eighth General of Death (Servant of the Dark Lord) has been defeated]

[Congratulations! You have cleared the third and final challenge: Duel with the King]

He didn’t smile. He didn’t celebrate. He simply collapsed. His body gave out. Pain, once masked by adrenaline, crashed into him like a tidal wave.

“I... I actually… did it…” he whispered, barely audible.

But then it hit. The taste. Blood—hot, metallic—pouring into his mouth. He gagged. It spilled from his lips in a thick stream. Luke looked down and froze.

Everything was red. His torso was soaked. He tried to sit up. But he felt nothing. No legs. Because—

they weren’t there.

“Hah...?” The sound that escaped his throat wasn’t even human. His gaze dropped.

There they were.

His legs.

Lying meters away. Like broken doll parts.

“AaaaaaAAAHH—!” The scream tore from his lungs. Reflexive. Raw.

He collapsed to his side, the world spinning. The stone beneath him felt soft now, almost warm. But the warmth wasn’t real. It was his blood leaving him. The cut had been perfect. The boss’s sword had landed the blow—even mid-fall, even blind. It had sliced him in half.

“W...what…?”

The pain began to fade. Not because he was healing. But because his body was shutting down. His vision blurred at the edges. The light at the center pulsed—small, flickering, like a dying flame. Thoughts no longer came in words. Only static. A trembling echo of life.

Guess this is it…

His fingers twitched. His lips trembled.

But his mind... was sinking.

And then—

“WORTHY SACRIFICE!”

The voice wasn’t human. It wasn’t even mortal. It cracked the world itself—a thunder from inside the bones of reality. The island trembled. The ceiling of the cavern cracked and groaned.

And then—

[Your deeds in battle have impressed the creator of this challenge!]

The notification shone like a beacon, lighting up the dark. Luke didn’t understand. Blood covered everything. He couldn’t tell if he was still alive… or just hallucinating.

And then—

The abyss opened. Not below him, but around him. Darkness spilled out like living smoke, stretching across the island, swallowing the trees, the temple, the cavern’s sky itself.

And from that darkness, two eyes—slitted, yellow, burning.

And a smile, too wide.

Impossibly wide.

A face formed from shadow and teeth stared at him, as if the abyss itself had a king. The darkness crept closer—silent, heavy, alive.

“You gave me one of my own servants as a sacrifice,” the voice echoed inside his mind. It was deep. Endless. So ancient it felt like it had always existed—before time, before thought.

“The first and only to ever conquer this dungeon. An impossible dungeon. For the only way to defeat it… is to make it destroy itself.”

Luke didn’t answer. The world was already gone. His thoughts could barely form words. Every breath pulled him one step closer to the end.

“What… are you…?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“I am…” the voice replied calmly. “Darkness.”

Then the Darkness touched him—not like a hand, but like a fate.

[Do you accept the Demonic Bloodline?]

The notification hovered in front of him. Red. Alive. As if the system itself was bleeding.

“If you accept my bloodline… I will heal you.” The voice was sharp. Unfeeling.

“No…” Luke murmured, even weaker now. “Go to hell.”

“Hahahaha…”

The eyes narrowed.

The smile widened.

“You want to find your mother, don’t you?”

Luke closed his eyes. Ready to die.

“Are you really giving up on her? On the ones still waiting for you back on Earth?”

...

“NO!”

The scream tore out of him. From his soul.

His chest burned. His heart surged—weak, but still beating.

“Then accept the bloodline… and I’ll heal you.”

The darkness pressed in. Closer.

“You have four seconds of life left.”

The system pulsed.

[Do you accept the Demonic Bloodline?]

Luke stared at the prompt. He saw no choice. No salvation.

“…I accept.”

He closed his eyes.

And let go.

A single drop of black fluid emerged from the dark. It hovered. Spinning. Dense. Alive. And entered Luke’s mouth.

“Hahahaha… Thank you for accepting my bloodline… my heir.”

[Congratulations on accepting to become the Dark Lord, oh mighty one.]