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Becoming the Dark Lord - Chapter 115
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 11:02:01 +0000 UTCThe Mantis charged, fast, loud, lethal.
Luke didn’t run. Didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes.
It either works or it ends here.
And he let go. Let go of sight. Let go of control. Let go of fear. Surrendered to instinct. To the field. To the pulse of the world vibrating beneath his skin.
Blood trickled from his nose. His head throbbed. But the noise, the chaos, shrank. The vibration of every step. The shift of air against steel. The smell of dust. The sound of muscle pulling, of weight shifting.
The blade came. A scythe of iron. A death sentence. Too fast. Too lethal.
Luke moved. The kukris rose at a perfect angle. The strike slid off, diverted. The Mantis staggered a step sideways.
Another blade came. Faster. Brutal. Luke blocked again. Metal sang as the edge skidded across his weapons.
The Mantis faltered. Hesitated. This wasn’t luck. This was precision.
It reeled back, then snapped, furious. Both arms lifted. The storm began.
A blur of steel. A whirlwind of death. Strike after strike, relentless, hammering.
Luke stood his ground. Deflect. Redirect. Parry. Every hit met resistance. His arms burned. His legs trembled under the pressure. But the line held.
The monster stepped back. A tremor of confusion. A note of fear. This had never happened. Prey wasn’t supposed to survive. Prey wasn’t supposed to fight back.
Luke opened his eyes. And in the dark, they glowed, sharp, unnatural. His lips pulled into a grin.
“Not as easy as you thought, huh?”
And he lunged.
The Mantis retreated, slicing wildly to keep him away. But Luke was already past the blades, slipping through the gaps in its rhythm. His feet tore across the stone. His body a blur.
A scythe whipped toward him. Luke deflected, kicked off the limb mid-swing, sprinted up the length of it like a wild animal. The other arm came around. He spun midair, blocked, let the force propel him higher.
Both kukris snapped forward, thrown like fangs. They buried into the monster’s face. Luke was already behind them, leaping into the follow-up, feet planting against the Mantis’s skull.
The creature reeled, screeched, staggered back. But there was no pause. No mercy.
They clashed in a storm of violence. Blade against blade. Flesh against steel. The Mantis struck in bursts, fast, savage. Luke deflected. Dodged. Rolled. Countered.
His perception read everything. The twitch before a strike. The shift in weight. The breath before a lunge.
A scythe dropped toward him. Luke vanished into mist, reappearing behind. Blades out. A clean slash across the knee joint.
The limb hardened, turning to metal mid-impact. But Luke used it anyway. A springboard. He kicked off. Rose higher.
Another blade arced toward him. He twisted, caught the strike on crossed kukris. Deflected. Redirected. Landed low. Then slid fast beneath the body. Straight for the legs. One clean slice before the transformation finished.
The limb severed.
The Mantis crashed sideways, stumbled. Desperate, it stabbed both arms down, trying to skewer him.
One. Two. Three.
Luke dodged each. Rolled. Vaulted over a blade. Ran across its forearm. A scythe punched the ground behind him, missing by inches. He spun, both kukris raised, brought them down.
Metal cracked. A scream tore the air. Ichor sprayed. The Mantis stumbled back, one blade split, half its face leaking black fluid.
It swung wildly now. Slower. Desperate. Predictable.
Luke flowed between the strikes. A step here. A roll there. His feet never stopped moving.
The monster lunged, jaws open, mandibles wide. Luke twisted midair, cloak flaring. Soft fall engaged. His body drifted sideways, sliding through the air like a shadow.
Kicked off the wall. Impulse. Climbed higher.
The Mantis locked on, its eyes full of hate. All it saw was a black shadow with wings, diving. And two blades coming for its face.
The kukris struck clean, straight into the monster’s eye. Luke drove them deeper. Pushed past resistance. Past bone. Past tissue. Straight into the brain.
The Mantis shrieked. Twitched. Legs spasmed. Then fell.
The body hit the ground with a thunderous crash. Dust rose. Stones trembled.
Then silence.
[You have slain a Devourer Mantis (Beast Captain) – Level 28]
[An item has been added to your inventory.]
Your class [Demonic Assassin] has reached Level 24! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)
Luke rolled to the side, ready for another strike — but the silence around him said everything. The Mantis was dead.
“I... I actually won,” he muttered, barely believing it.
Charlie came running to him. Her emotions echoed through their bond, radiating pure relief and wild euphoria. She raised her hand.
Luke answered with a high five, letting out a low laugh.
“Finally. We can get out of this damn place.” He glanced around. “Or at least... try.”
That cursed cave. He had survived. Somehow, he had actually won. And now, in front of him, lay the tunnel that had been blocked by the creature. A new path. A way forward.
“Even if I have to dig my way out through the mountain...” he muttered. “It’s possible now. With that monster gone.”
He looked up. The gap high in the ceiling was still out of reach. But digging... maybe it could work. He could climb part of the wall using the kukris, and with Princess Charlie’s strength and her Iron Fists, they could slowly carve a way upward. It would take time. But it was better than waiting around to die.
His gaze shifted back to the massive corpse of the Mantis. The giant creature lay there, a testament to what he had become. To how far he had evolved.
'Eeeek.'
“Thank you...” he murmured, lifting his eyes to the ceiling when a familiar sound caught his ear.
Bats glided through the upper reaches of the cavern, moving effortlessly through the dark as if the world below had never mattered. They vanished down the tunnel.
Luke watched them, then chuckled to himself.
“I can’t believe... I actually look like Batman now.”
He let the humor bleed some of the tension from his body, but he didn’t let it distract him for long. He opened the system interface — a new item was glowing among the rewards from the fight. He would check it soon.
But in that moment, a current of air brushed through the chamber.
Swoosh.
A light breeze drifted across him, coming from the tunnel the Mantis had once blocked.
Luke froze.
“Wind...?”
He turned, staring down the open path.
If there was wind...
“There’s an exit.”
***
Erza Grimhart sat on the balcony of her room, overlooking the Safe Zone from above.
In her hand, a glass of wine. On the table beside her, an unopened bottle — one of the rewards from the weekly loot chests. She sipped the ruby liquid like it was blood, eyes scanning the city below.
Down there, Bartholomew’s soldiers were fighting off yet another beast invasion. Among them were the women she had trained herself. Beginners, still learning how to kill efficiently, but for now, without elegance. A true assassin wasn’t someone who was merely trained. It was someone born from adversity, something shaped by death. That was why, ever since she was a child, her family had thrown her into dangerous environments.
Only those who faced death could become part of it.
Erza’s thoughts drifted back to her conversation with Apostle Siegfried.
He had spoken of someone. A singular presence that had gone unnoticed by everyone — even by the gods. A human who had caught Samael’s attention. But the identity of that person, Siegfried could not reveal. The rules of the tutorial were clear. If the gods had candidates under observation, the others were forbidden from knowing who they were.
That annoyed Erza more than she liked to admit.
The very existence of those rules meant that, scattered across this world, there were individuals with enough potential to be chosen. Candidates for divine pillars of faith. And she wanted to face them. Test them. Kill them. One by one.
But she was trapped.
Bound by the restrictions Siegfried had imposed. She could not interfere with the mission. Could not provide direct support to anyone. Only observe. Only wait.
She could still eliminate a few participants — as long as her actions did not directly influence the progress of the tutorial. But what would be the point in killing the very people who could speed the process up? Better to let them live. Use them. Make them carry the burden to the end.
Deep down, she hoped at least a few of those idiots would make it far enough.
Keeping them alive was more fun anyway. Watching the weak scramble, desperate to prove their worth — that entertained her.
If someone was going to push this damned challenge forward, then let them hurry. She only wanted to see what came next. What was coming to change the world.
Erza lifted her eyes toward the distant castle on the horizon, then glanced once more at the skirmishes in the streets of the Safe Zone.
“Can’t wait for the chaos to start,” she murmured with a lazy smile.
Then she stepped back inside, disappearing into the shadows of the fortress.
***
The invasion had happened the night before in the Safe Zone. Now, a small group of soldiers was setting up camp at the border. They were there to assess the damage. Parts of the wooden wall had collapsed. Fences were shattered. They would prepare a detailed report and deliver it to Oswald to start the repairs.
“At least this one was easy,” said one of the soldiers, stretching beside the fire.
“Yeah... I figured we’d get a few months without another. Remember the last one? Five captains showed up.”
“None this time,” another replied. “Barely any monsters. No coordination. We handled it fast — and got tons of meat out of it. Don’t need to hunt for a while.”
“Yeah, but now we have to wander the Wild Zone scavenging dimensional storage chests,” grumbled the third. “Bartholomew wants to expand the depot. Again.”
Footsteps echoed through the trees. Instantly, everyone grabbed their weapons.
A figure emerged from the brush. It was someone from the Haven. Paul.
“Damn it, Paul. We almost shot you,” one of the soldiers grumbled, lowering his bow.
“And I almost died of a heart attack,” Paul laughed. “Came to check the damage. Barely any on our side.”
“Same here. This invasion was more of a nuisance than an actual threat.”
Paul looked over the improvised walls and nodded. Then, from his storage item, he pulled out a large pot.
“Anyone want tea? It’s hot.”
“I’ll take some,” one of the soldiers said. Paul poured a mug and leaned against a tree.
“Guess I’ll hang around for a bit,” he muttered. “Not in the mood for more work today.”
“We’re all with you on that,” the soldier replied with a grin.
The conversation drifted to lighter topics. One of them, a little embarrassed, shared that his wife was pregnant.
“Congratulations,” Paul said, taking a sip of tea.
“Thanks,” the soldier replied with a sigh. “At first... it was a shock. Having a child. Here. In this world. It’s strange. But if others can do it... maybe I can too.”
“I hope your child is born healthy,” Paul offered. Calm. Polite.
“That’s all I want now. But... I have to admit, I got scared.”
“Scared?” Paul raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Ever since I found out. I started feeling... afraid. Of dying out there. In the Wild Zone. Before that, it never bothered me.”
Paul stirred his cup lazily. “I’ve never felt fear.”
The soldier chuckled. “I used to think the same. But... along with the fear came something else. Something strange. This... happiness. I wake up more motivated now. You should try it sometime. Having a family.”
Paul went quiet. For a moment, it looked like he was actually considering it.
Silence.
One of the men scribbled in his notebook, counting fallen trees, marking which could be turned into barricades.
Then Paul spoke. Voice steady. Almost cheerful.
“Guys... I’ve got some news for you.”
No warning. No signal. Just motion—pure, violent, efficient motion.
His blade snapped out. A clean, perfect cut across the first man’s throat. Blood sprayed in a graceful arc as the body folded. The others didn’t even have time to process the sound before the second man was already falling, a sword buried between his ribs.
“What the hell are you doing?!” one of them shouted, voice cracked in disbelief.
Paul didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His body blurred—speed skill activated. The world stuttered as he appeared at the hammer-wielder’s flank, dodging the desperate swing before driving steel into flesh.
The fourth man panicked, fumbling for his bow. An arrow loosed.
It never landed.
Translucent hands—phantom limbs—manifested midair. They snatched the arrow effortlessly, as if catching falling leaves.
Paul turned. Calm. Mechanical. His sword plunged straight through the third man’s torso. The phantom arms wrapped around the body mid-scream, lifting him off the ground like a puppet.
The last soldier staggered backward. His hands trembled. His face was pure terror.
“W-why...?” he stammered.
Paul smiled. Small. Cold. Detached.
“Why not?”
The ghostly arms shot forward. No weapons this time. Just force. Fingers like vices locked around the man’s wrists and ankles, yanking him upward.
He struggled. Kicked. Screamed. It didn’t matter.
The limbs twisted. Opposite directions. Tendons stretched past their limits.
A wet, violent snap. Bone tore from joint. Flesh split. The scream pitched higher—raw, primal.
Paul tilted his head, watching like an artist studying brush strokes. One hand lifted lazily. The phantom tendrils plunged into the man’s chest, boring through skin, through ribs, through muscle—like hands sinking into clay.
The thrashing slowed. Became twitching. Then nothing.
Silence fell.
Nothing remained but blood and ruin.
Paul stepped toward the wooden wall nearby. One spectral limb dipped into a pool of blood, then dragged itself across the planks. Slow. Deliberate.
A symbol. A letter R, split down the middle with a dagger driven through its heart.
The mark of the Renegades.
His fingers traced the air as if savoring it. “The war must go on,” he whispered.
And then he vanished into the trees.
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