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Becoming the Dark Lord - Chapter 119
🕑 Added 2025-06-20 11:02:01 +0000 UTCLuke staggered. His body was failing piece by piece, like parts of him were just shutting down. Burned skin. Broken bones. The unmistakable feeling of something bleeding deep inside where it shouldn’t.
Then it hit him — he was blind in one eye. A branch. Jammed straight through the socket. Buried deep.
Even on the edge of collapse, he felt it — the way his own blood began to retract. Dark Blood. Keeping him from falling apart completely. Holding the hemorrhage at bay.
But he still felt it. He was standing at death’s door. One step further, and it was free fall.
He gagged on his own blood, breath short, ragged, broken, as his hands trembled up to his face. His fingers closed around the branch embedded in his eye. And he pulled.
Pain tore through him like a lightning strike. His whole world shuddered. Bones creaked. His body convulsed, instinctively trying to reject what was happening. But leaving it there would kill him faster than the pain ever could.
Blind on one side, his remaining eye locked onto the shape ahead. Morvat. Closing in. Not walking — running.
“I can’t... take this anymore...” The whisper barely left his cracked lips. There were no limits left to break. No hidden reserves. No tricks.
The orc general charged like a comet on fire — his whole body blazing, spitting flames, defying the rain that should have drowned him.
Luke could have tried to react. Reach for his kukris. Look for an opening. But no. Not even that. His body simply didn’t respond.
He let the dash spell shove him backward — an escape that didn’t even feel like his own. Morvat crashed into the tree behind where Luke had been. The trunk split with a deafening crack. Flames licked up the wood, devouring leaves and branches despite the relentless downpour.
Luke staggered. One step. Barely more than a stumble. His hands reached out. And the kukris answered — sliding through the mud, cutting through the grass, snapping into his grip like they’d never left.
Morvat turned. Looked at him. Saw the wreck of what Luke had become. And smiled.
But Luke didn’t flinch. “So that’s it?” His grin was broken, lips split, blood pooling in his mouth. “Kinda disappointing. Makes sense now... why your captains died. Pathetic general.”
The smile vanished from Morvat’s face. Flames surged in a violent burst, as if his body was nothing but an open furnace. Fire roared from his skin. His aura burned scarlet, devouring everything — flesh, stamina, even his own energy.
Perfect. That’s what Luke wanted. Force him to burn. Force him to collapse.
But Morvat still had power. Too much. And Luke... Luke was past broken. Running on something that shouldn’t even exist.
The general charged — short brutal steps turning his entire body into a living, flaming spear.
Luke turned to mist. He didn’t run. Didn’t dodge. He just let the magic move him.
But Morvat wasn’t just brute strength. Mid-dash, the orc slammed his palms together. A shockwave — a blast of searing heat and crushing pressure — tore the mist apart.
Luke’s body materialized mid-fall — no time to react. The punch hit square in his chest. It crushed him. Slammed him into a tree. Bone and wood screamed on impact. His vision flickered. Black.
Luke gritted his teeth. Locked his jaw. Forced his knees to hold. He roared inside his own head, ignoring every scream from his body, every cell begging him to stop.
He pumped stamina into every fiber. Reignited the refined perception field, even if it cost him everything. Demon Blade Dance. Darkness Mimic. A second body. A living shadow. A mirror of his rage.
The orc charged. Luke charged back. No retreat. No guard. No mercy.
Only forward.
Daring death itself to try. Daring his own broken body to betray him.
Movement. Slash. Dodge. Each blade carved black lines into the air, tearing open deep trenches in the orc’s flesh.
Morvat tried to fight back, but his movements were slower now. Just like Luke’s. The difference was — the orc still thought he could crush him.
Luke blocked a punch, twisted, slid to the flank, and drove the blade deep. A kick followed, sending the orc stumbling back, dragging mud and stone in his wake.
An opening. Luke dove into it. The kukris spun in his hands — cutting flesh, scraping bone, piercing places that shouldn’t even exist. His skull pounded like it was about to split in two.
But Morvat didn’t fall. The punch came. Luke saw it. Read it. He caught every micro-tension in the orc’s shoulders.
But it didn’t matter. He had no strength left to dodge.
The impact launched him. His right-hand kukri flew from his grip, spinning into the brush, swallowed by the dark. He rolled, skidded through the mud. Blood. Leaves. Filth.
But he stood. On pain. On rage. On sheer, brutal stubbornness.
His hand snapped out. The kukri came flying back — slamming into his palm like it belonged there.
Luke didn’t stop. He would never stop. He poured everything into the next charge — stamina into his legs, his arms, his hands, his spine, his neck. Every fiber. Every cell. Every ruined muscle screamed under the weight of it.
Morvat roared. Fire ignited around him — but Luke saw it. The orc’s body was shrinking. The iron skin... softening. Turning back into flesh.
He couldn’t waste it. He surged forward. The kukris spun, screaming through the air — a furious dance of steel and desperation.
And then he felt it. Something inside him — snapped. A dry crack from deep within. His body was shutting down. Collapsing.
“More.” The scream tore from his throat — raw, desperate, violent.
He forced it. Refined his strength. Refined his perception. Blood exploded from his damaged eye. He didn’t care.
His entire body trembled, shrieking in agony — but he crushed it. He buried the pain.
A blow came for his head. He slipped under it. Spun. His heel snapped up, crashing into Morvat’s jaw, snapping the orc’s head back.
The spin never stopped. The blades traced a full arc — ripping through flesh, severing muscle, carving deep, brutal wounds.
The Mimic followed. A shadow of him. Mirroring every strike. High speed. High precision. High fury.
He became a mantis — piercing, stabbing, drilling the kukris into the orc like demonic needles. Every ounce of stamina went into his arms. Into the blades.
Morvat tried. Tried to react. Tried to block. Tried to punch. Too slow. Every attempt came too late. Each swing opened another wound. Each miss brought more pain.
Blood sprayed. The orc’s body became a living sieve.
Luke tossed one kukri into the air. His free hand clenched. All the stamina he had left — all of it — poured into that fist.
It dropped straight into Morvat’s gut. The impact folded the orc in half. Blood shot from his mouth as his massive body was lifted clean off the ground, flailing like a ragdoll.
Luke jumped. Mid-air, he spun. Every last drop of strength focused into his leg. His heel crushed Morvat’s jaw.
The orc crashed down — smashed through a tree, slammed into the earth, opening a crater.
But the moment Luke landed — he felt it. His legs wobbled. The bone in his shin snapped. A sharp, white-hot bolt of pain shot up his spine.
He tried to step. The legs... simply... didn’t respond.
Then the hit came. Morvat — smaller now, shrinking — but still a beast — lunged. The punch caught Luke right in the chin.
His head whipped back. Darkness.
He hit the ground flat. Another punch. And another. And another.
He couldn’t see anymore. Nothing but a black fog. A dense, suffocating haze swallowing everything.
Then his body tore through a tree. The kukris flew from his hands. The impact crushed whatever air was left in his lungs.
His legs didn’t exist anymore. His body... was nothing but a pile of broken flesh.
Morvat closed in. Smaller. Weaker. The berserker aura was gone, burned out. But he was still dangerous. Still a monster. Both hands locked around Luke’s throat, squeezing, crushing.
“Is this it, human? This is all you’ve got?!”
Luke tried to answer, but nothing came. Just a strangled gasp. No words. The orc hurled him into another tree. His body hit. Crashed down. No air. No strength. No hope.
And yet, Luke’s hand rose. Trembling. Shaking. Barely moving. Morvat’s eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing?”
A ghost of a grin pulled at Luke’s split lips. His voice was nothing but a cracked whisper. “...stealing your HP.”
The skill triggered. A flicker. A thread. Barely anything. A drop. A second. Another second. Almost nothing. But it was what he had left.
Morvat snarled, teeth grinding as his foot lifted, ready to crush Luke’s skull. “Any last words?!”
“I’m putting the ring on the ring finger,” Luke shouted — the signal. The code.
The notification hit like a gunshot.
[Princess Charlie has slain an Orc Scout – Lvl 14]
*[Princess Charlie has reached Level 12 – Skeleton (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)*
The ground shook. Trees exploded. Something hit Morvat so fast and hard that his body lifted off the ground like dead weight, flung through the mud, crashing through tree trunks. And there, in front of Luke, stood Princess Charlie — whole, restored, at full power. Full HP. Full mana. The plan had worked.
She turned her head slowly, scanning the broken ruin that was Luke, then, locked her gaze onto Morvat.
Rage.
Pure rage.
A cold, sharp fury that felt like it could slice through the very air.
Her sword vanished back into her inventory. She walked — no rush. Every step made the mud tremble. Her fists clenched, knuckles glowing, wrapped in raw energy.
[Iron Fist – Activated]
Morvat stared, stunned. “The knight woman...”
Even without words, her body said everything. She was furious. And the more Luke’s broken image flashed in her mind, the harder the rage overflowed — dry, hollow, crushing.
Luke dragged an arm forward, his perception field snapping open, clear, wide, razor sharp. He pointed at Morvat and kept draining. A thin line of HP slipped away — barely anything, but enough to hollow the general out further.
They charged. Charlie and Morvat, fist to fist. The impact cracked the earth, split the ground, and for a moment the entire forest held its breath. But only one fist broke — Morvat’s.
He staggered back, eyes wide, staring down at his trembling arm, then at Luke, then at his own hands. He understood. The crimson aura was gone. Berserker, over. Mana, drained. Stamina, empty. The price of rage had come due.
But it wasn’t just that. Charlie was different now. It wasn’t the stat boost. It wasn’t the level-up. It was technique. Control. Precision. Refinement. Luke had taught her — how to push stamina through bone and motion, how to convert momentum into pure force, how to make every joint, every shift, every fraction of movement hit like a weapon.
But there was one brutal difference between them. When Luke did it, his own bones threatened to snap. But Charlie didn’t have that problem, because her bones... were made of iron.
She advanced. Her fist drove straight into the general’s gut, crushing muscle and organs. Blood exploded from Morvat’s mouth as his body was launched into the air, crashing through trees, dragging mud, fire, and wreckage with him.
“Damn... you...” he coughed, struggling to get up, spitting blood. But he couldn’t even stand. Because Charlie was already there.
A relentless barrage of punches slammed into his face — over and over, no pause, no mercy. Each hit broke something. Another bone. Another crack. He collapsed. Tried to rise. A kick to the stomach blasted him off the ground.
Charlie leapt. Came down on him like a shadow of pure fury. Her fists fell like hammers — a brutal, cadenced onslaught, crushing flesh, pulverizing bones, shattering whatever was left of his resistance.
Morvat screamed — a desperate, suffocating sound — but his voice drowned beneath the dull, brutal rhythm of fists breaking everything. In a last burst of desperation, he shoved her back, throwing her off balance for a second. He lunged — staggering like a wounded beast — aiming one last, wild punch.
But Charlie caught it. Mid-air. No strain. No pity. She yanked. A punch to the stomach. Another to the jaw. One more — right across his face. His skull shook. His jaw snapped. Morvat’s body was hurled across the forest, smashing through trees, crashing through branches, rolling through the mud like a ragdoll.
He tried to run. His legs were failing — but he tried. Charlie didn’t allow it. Spectral chains ripped through the air, wrapping around his arms and legs, dragging him back, slamming him to the ground.
She stepped in front of him. Silent. Cold. Unhurried. Her fist rose — and Morvat, pure panic in his eyes, yanked a sword from his inventory.
“DIE!!” he roared, swinging it at her.
The blade came down. Charlie caught it. Squeezed. The sword cracked... and snapped. The orc froze.
Her fist dropped. Straight into his throat. Morvat collapsed to his knees, choking on blood, hands trembling as they clawed at his crushed windpipe. But Charlie didn’t stop. She didn’t know how to stop. Her fists kept rising. Kept falling. No pause. No mercy. No hesitation.
Every scratch. Every hit Luke had taken. She’d make him pay it back — triple. And she wouldn’t stop. She’d crush him. Over and over.
Stamina burned — devoured at a brutal pace. Every hit ripped blood. Flesh. Bone. Every punch was a sentence. A verdict. Execution.
Until the final blow came. Her fist crashed down — loaded with everything. The skull gave out. The earth trembled. Morvat’s body collapsed, sank into the mud. Silence.
Then the system chimed.
[Princess Charlie has slain Morvat (Orc General) – Lvl 32]
[An item has been added to your inventory]
Your class [Demonic Assassin] has reached Level 25! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)
[You have unlocked a new Class Skill]
On the ground, Luke closed his eyes, sucked in what little air he could... and smiled, blood running down his lips.
“It worked.”
The crazy plan... actually worked.
But the system wasn’t done yet. A final notification appeared.
[Talent Awakened…]
[Processing…]
[Princess Charlie has acquired a Second Class: Pugilist]
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