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Becoming the Dark Lord - Chapter 181
🕑 Added 2025-07-21 11:02:02 +0000 UTCJonathan walked through a silent cave, each of his steps echoing like a muffled thunderclap against the narrow, damp walls. The air was thick, heavy with moisture and the strong scent of ancient earth, as if time itself had stopped in that place. The stones beneath his boots were slick with moss, demanding careful footing with every move.
Ahead of him, the old figure known only as the Hanged Man led the way with calm, measured steps, as if he had walked this labyrinth a thousand times before. In his hand, a flickering torch cast an unsteady glow across the stone, sending shadows dancing across the walls, shadows that, to Jonathan, felt alive. Watching.
Over the past few days, Jonathan had learned more about the tutorial and the gods than he ever wanted to. Hidden truths had been hurled at him like blades, cutting through old certainties and revealing a world far more complex and cruel than he’d ever imagined.
“So… Marshall really was being manipulated by a god?” he asked, voice low, tense.
The Hanged Man didn’t turn. His reply came steady, unhurried.
“Yes. A god who longed for chaos.” He paused. “But I’m different. I only care for good, old-fashioned justice.”
They walked on. The cave walls tightened in places, narrowing into oppressive corridors. The sound of water dripping from unseen cracks echoed steadily in the distance, counting time with cruel patience.
“Marshall… ah,” the old man muttered, lost in thought, as if reliving something from long ago. “He played a part in your beloved’s death. If he’d used all his time and talent to complete the tutorial… maybe things would’ve turned out differently.”
The words landed heavy.
Jonathan clenched his fists, eyes fixed on the old man’s back.
“That doesn’t change what Luke did,” he said, each word tight with restrained fury. “He killed Angelica. I’ll make him pay. I’ll hunt him down… and the rest of those Renegades who are still alive. Anyone who stands in my way dies.”
The Hanged Man stopped.
He remained still for a few seconds, his back still turned.
“Or…” he said, voice almost serene, “you could use the power you’re about to receive to complete the tutorial. Let fate deliver its justice.”
“No.” Jonathan’s gaze bore into the hunched figure ahead, as if trying to pierce him with sheer hatred. “I’ll have my revenge. No one’s walking out of this place. Not until the last of them is dead.”
The old man smiled, barely visible, more felt than seen, but he didn’t turn around. He simply resumed walking, the torch swaying in his hand.
“Are we close?” Jonathan asked, irritation rising in his voice. The cave’s silence seemed to mock his urgency.
“Be patient…” the old man replied, as if telling a story to someone not yet ready to hear it. “Do you know what a legacy path is? No, I imagine you don’t. Forgive me.”
He coughed, a dry, hollow cough that echoed through the tunnels like a warning.
“When a god crafts his treasure, what we call a legacy, he forges paths sometimes never walked before. He specializes. He deepens. He creates unique branches. Every new domain, every technique, every fragment of power… it’s like a precious coin in the vault of his legacy.”
He stopped and turned slowly on his heels, finally facing Jonathan. Even in the shadow cast by the wavering torch, his eyes gleamed with a strange light, feverish. Intense.
“And every so often... a coin falls,” the old man said. “And if you’re lucky enough, you might be the one to find it.”
Silence settled once again, thick, almost reverent. Jonathan absorbed the words without breaking eye contact.
“Losing a coin doesn’t affect the god at all,” the old man went on. “On the contrary, it’s as if, indirectly, the god is making an investment. And still profiting from whatever treasure the finder manages to gather.”
With slow, measured steps, the Hanged Man resumed walking. His pace was more fluid now, almost contemplative, as if guiding Jonathan not just through the tunnel... but through a deeper thought. One older than either of them.
“These fallen coins exist because of the system. They’re sanctioned branches. Tiny permissions… sacred loopholes. That’s why class mutations are possible.”
He raised his free hand. The torch flickered more intensely, almost as if reacting to his words.
“Take the legacy of the God of Shadows, for instance. Someone with the Assassin class might one day stumble upon one of these coins, a path that leads directly into a shadow-aligned legacy. And just like that, a common assassin gains power drawn from the shadows.”
The Hanged Man glanced over his shoulder and looked Jonathan straight in the eye. His gaze was steady, deep, and layered with meaning.
“It’s not the pure essence of the god’s power. But it is a path. One of many... opened by those who came before.”
A fresh bout of coughing overtook him. Shaking slightly, the old man covered his mouth and paused to steady himself. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher but no less resolute.
“It’s like a pirate’s treasure,” he said. “There’s so much out there waiting to be found. Buried. Forgotten. Just waiting for the lucky soul who’ll unearth it.”
He lifted the torch higher. The flame wavered, casting light across the uneven stone walls, rough ridges, deep cracks, small insects fleeing from the sudden heat.
“And it applies to everything: items, skills, professions, titles, classes... and even more secret things.”
Jonathan followed in silence, but inside him, the old man’s words turned like newly awakened gears. Every phrase felt like it peeled back another layer of reality, and what lay beneath was a world far deeper, full of traps... and promises.
“The newcomers,” the Hanged Man continued, “the freshly inducted into the system, they’re drawn to these treasures like moths to flame. That’s part of the reason the gods invest in you.”
He stopped again. The torch trembled slightly in his grip, but his eyes remained sharp and clear.
“It’s a way for them to reclaim the treasures they once left behind. Lost to them because they’ve gone too far down their own paths. A costless investment... with guaranteed return.”
He turned fully to face Jonathan. The light revealed the deep lines across his face, the wear of countless years etched into his skin, but his eyes burned with the knowing fire of someone who had seen too much, and understood even more.
“It’s all about investment. Treasure. Reward.”
Jonathan stared at him, jaw clenched, body tense. Then, without a word, he turned his gaze forward.
Before them lay the entrance to a larger chamber, shrouded in darkness and dampness, an opening as black as the maw of some great beast, exhaling a cold that couldn’t be seen but was undeniably there.
“It’s in there.” The Hanged Man’s voice came almost gently, like a father sending his son into a storm. “Good luck. If you survive the encounter... and kill the creature... you’ll obtain the power you desire.”
Jonathan didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the chamber, where moisture trickled down the edges like tears carved in stone. The old man placed the torch beside him, propping it against the rock with quiet care. It was symbolic, a beginning.
Without another word, the Hanged Man turned. His footsteps echoed softly as he vanished back into the tunnels.
Jonathan crouched, picked up the torch, then set it down again. He drew a deep breath. The air was cold, thick, laced with a metallic scent, like old blood mingled with dirt.
Then he stepped forward.
The chamber floor was uneven, and each footfall made faint cracking sounds, like the darkness itself was splintering beneath him. The torch’s glow barely reached the edge of the vast room ahead. It felt like the space extended far beyond what the eyes could see or what sanity could endure.
Something stirred in the dark.
First a sound, wet, dragging, like flesh sliding across stone. Then a weight, as if the chamber itself was struggling to breathe. The silence shattered like glass.
Then came the roar.
It exploded against the walls, shaking them with fury. A deep, guttural cry of hatred. Jonathan braced himself, eyes wide, muscles pulled taut like bowstrings.
[??]
The creature emerged from the void.
Jonathan drew both sabers. His fingers gripped the hilts with purpose, the familiar steel grounding him in the present. His whole body was ready to die, but curiously, his heart was calm. As if everything that came next had already been written.
He had accepted death long ago.
But now, he would fight for life. Not out of hope.
Out of vengeance.
For Angelica.
She had died because of Luke. Because of the Renegades. Because of the weak she tried to protect. Because of the cowards who hid behind her. Because of the entire damned Refuge.
He would kill them all.
Every strike would be a sentence. Every enemy, a debt paid. No one would walk out of this tutorial. No one would live to enjoy what had been stolen from her.
“This tutorial... ends with me!”
With a raw scream locked in his throat, Jonathan charged.
Blades in hand, he rushed toward the monstrosity, and the darkness swallowed him whole, like a living wave hungry for blood, driven by broken promises.
Far behind him, in the silence of the tunnels, the Hanged Man vanished into the shadows, whistling his strange, solitary tune, oddly lighthearted.
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