Becoming the Dark Lord

Luke scanned the mechanism hall, eyes locking on Bartholomew at its center. The vast chamber of gray stone pressed in around him, the air heavy and saturated with poisonous vapor. At the heart of the room, perched on the central mechanism, loomed the monstrous brown sphere, Bartholomew’s creation born of his epic class skill. It pulsed like a heartbeat, exhaling a yellow haze that bled into the green cloud seeping from his body. Together they formed a choking miasma, an invisible field of death that clawed at lungs, skin, and willpower alike.

Shattered vials littered the floor, each spilling a different brew supercharged by the alchemist’s radioactive touch. Every glittering shard looked to Luke like another needle of venom pushed into the air. In his eyes, Bartholomew wasn’t a man anymore but a living factory of damage, an epicenter of pestilence. Luke’s only thought was how long Bartholomew could keep burning mana before it finally ran dry.

Nearby, he and his companions had dragged the unconscious clear of the lethal zone, laying them carefully on the cold floor near the side doors. Luke wiped sweat from his forehead, his entire body throbbing. Each breath burned like coals in his chest, and his system fed him cold numbers to match the feeling:

[Health Points (HP): 1549/]

[Mana Points (MP): 748/5100]

[Arrows in Quiver: 6/20]

Nine seconds inside that hell had cost him more than three hundred hit points. The math was cruel: at his current health, he had barely thirty seconds of survival left in the room. Even with Charlie and Ronan trying to pin Bartholomew down, there was no guarantee he’d make it out alive if he tried to reach the mechanism. Getting close to that sphere of disease would be suicide; every step would spike the damage exponentially.

“I’m going in. I’ll finish him now,” Ronan rasped, pale-faced and coughing between words.

“How much HP do you have?” Luke asked, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be enough.

“About four thousand,” Ronan muttered, lacking conviction.

Luke studied him. Health points weren’t the only problem: the cloud twisted perception, stirred vertigo and nausea. Temporary poison resistance could only hold for so long. The sickness clawed deeper than HP—it ate clarity, reflexes, and balance.

“We just have to kill the bastard,” Luke said, peering through the green haze. Bartholomew stood rooted in the center, constantly healing inside his toxic sanctuary. He didn’t retreat. He looked almost comfortable, breathing his own pestilence like it was fresh mountain air.

Ronan clenched his fist and, with Charlie at his side, poised himself to charge. With the Haven members now safe beyond the chamber, they could finally focus on the fight. Luke raised his bow and loosed arrow after arrow at Bartholomew, aiming for chest and skull, infusing each shot with stamina for extra force. Yet the king of Bastion raised mana barriers before the arrows even crossed the distance. All it took was seeing Luke move to trigger the defenses.

The man’s perception might have been low, but the power in those shields was monstrous. Luke could pour mana into his arrows to even the odds, but he had another plan—a plan that depended entirely on Princess Charlie. With the allies out of harm’s way, she could finally unleash her full power.

***

Through the sickly yellow haze, Bartholomew watched the two silhouettes closing in—Ronan and the armored knight. Every step they took made the stone floor echo like a muffled war drum. Without moving his lips, he flicked open his system interface, the translucent screen blooming before his eyes like a spectral window.

Name: Bartholomew Crawford

Level: 50

Race: Human

Rank: F

Class: Plague Doctor of Blight (Lvl 60)

Profession: Veteran Gas Alchemist (Lvl 60)

Health Points (HP): 3480/3480

Mana Points (MP): 5233/8890 (9200)

Stamina: 1608/1770

Stats:

The author’s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Strength: 109

Agility: 247 (267)

Endurance: 177

Vitality: 348

Perception: 327 (349)

Intelligence: 889 (920)

Free Points: 0

The numbers were a quiet war etched in sweat, experiments, and cruelty. Every point was a blade honed over years. Inside his diseased fog he healed without pause while his enemies withered by degrees. By his own count, he had nine minutes before his mana burned out. Potions still waited in his storage bracelet; if he pushed his body to its edge, maybe another ninety seconds. Ten minutes of absolute dominance. Ten minutes to scrub the room clean.

He drew in a long breath, the miasma as natural to him as fresh air was to others. Parts of his plan had slipped, but not enough to topple him. The ambush with Kruger had been his high-stakes gamble, and somehow they’d survived. No matter. He’d built this scenario to gather every enemy and bleed them with patience. The fortress was his board, every piece moving where he wanted. Once the purge finished outside, no one would be left to interfere.

Names paraded through his mind like a cold checklist. Kill the three here. Then only Allison, Mason, and Evangeline remain.

The others—Eleanor, Jack—annoying but not dangerous. Allison and Mason were leaders. Evangeline a shadow hard to catch. Luke, the calculating assassin. Ronan, the symbol of resistance. Cut them down tonight and the spine of the opposition snapped. The trauma of the mechanism would finish the job, turning allies on each other, fear rotting everything. After that, his utopia would finally be within reach.

His final trump card waited there: the Death Painting. Oracle and executioner in one, it showed him a ciphered vision of his end each time he invoked it. Over and over he had seen the same image—a panther crouched in darkness. His constant omen, his vigil and his doom.

But now something shifted.

The painting flickered like a candle about to snuff out. The panther dissolved, replaced by an iron gate slick with blood. A cold ripple crawled up his spine. The meaning was unclear, but the warning was unmistakable: this fight wouldn’t follow the usual script. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

Ronan charged forward, Iron Skin active, muscles and veins hard as steel plates. The king of Bastion raised barriers with perfect timing, swatting away blows that could crack pillars. The Death Painting blinked again, showing a burning rat inside a birdcage.

A cage on fire… that’s me, trapped under the dome.

Bartholomew didn’t hesitate. At the last instant he dropped the defensive dome and called up another skill: a blue mana drill shimmered into existence in front of him and shot toward the armored knight. With a sweep of his other hand he raised a fresh barrier wall in Ronan’s path. The warrior slammed into it and ricocheted back, coughing as another wave of green vapor struck him full in the face.

Inside the haze, the Death Painting flickered again. This time it showed a pigeon riddled with arrows. A crooked smile tugged at Bartholomew’s lips. Got it. I’m the pigeon, but not today.

He eased back, barriers lifting like spectral curtains, arrows clattering harmlessly against them and falling to the floor. Mana pulsed through him like liquid adrenaline. This was the peak of his craft, the moment every experiment and sacrifice had been leading toward.

He raised his hand once more.

[Mana Drill (Rare)]: The healer conjures a spinning drill of pure mana, hovering before their hand. Originally developed for precise incisions on large creatures during complex medical procedures, this technique has become a deadly weapon. A manifestation of healing transformed into piercing power.

The drill spun like a sapphire tornado and bored into Ronan’s abdomen, shredding Iron Skin as if it were dried clay. Then the knight erupted through the fumes in a blur of fire and steel, her strike swift and furious. The Death Painting had already shown this moment. Bartholomew pivoted aside, venting another poisonous cloud and layering more barriers, the tension of the fight ratcheting upward.

She came through the smoke with a low, restrained roar, her whole body cloaked in living flames. Every footfall seared the stone, the ancient runes quivering under the heat. For a heartbeat, Bartholomew felt as though the entire chamber had become a battleground from legend. He took a step back, realizing she wasn’t merely resisting his poison, she was thriving in it.

Damn it… why isn’t she affected?

Ronan charged behind her, Iron Skin beginning to splinter. Blisters of disease rose across his body like an invisible map of wounds. Ragged coughs tore at his chest, yet he kept coming, relentless. Bartholomew threw up another barrier, but the Death Painting whispered a fresh warning: a torn sandbag spilling its grains.

The knight struck. Her sword hit the barrier like a hammer on glass, sending shards of mana flying. She slammed her fist next, and the dome quivered, blue cracks spreading. Pressure from the impact crawled up Bartholomew’s arm. Just before the final blow he dropped the barrier and countered, conjuring another spinning drill that hissed through the air. It slammed into her flank, but she only staggered a single step, helm glowing with two red slits staring straight at him.

“You’re… not normal!” Bartholomew’s voice echoed through the chamber.

She raised her fist. The Death Painting flickered once more, this time, a bullseye with a hole blown through its center.