Becoming the Dark Lord [LitRPG]

Night had fallen over the floor—or at least, what passed for night in this strange, artificial world. The massive crystal embedded in the ceiling, once radiating a steady, false daylight, had dimmed and gone dark hours ago. In its absence, oppressive shadows swallowed the zone, cloaking everything in a suffocating veil. It wasn't true darkness—but it felt colder, heavier, as if the dungeon itself was holding its breath.

The only light came from the scattered torches and campfires burning inside the ruined village.

Criminals lounged around the largest campfire, their shadows stretching long across the stone floor. Their voices were low, slurred from drink and exhaustion. Some had already collapsed into makeshift tents, snoring with the ease of men who didn't fear what came next. Others remained awake, trading stories over the crackle of flame and the rich, greasy scent of roasting meat.

Near the edge of the firelight stood their leader—William. One hand outstretched, he channeled a steady stream of fire from his palm, the blaze charring the haunch of a monstrous boar they'd hunted earlier. The flames flickered in his eyes, and for a moment, his grin caught the light—sharp and strange, more predator than man.

Laughter erupted from the group.

"So I told him to put the sword down, right? And the moment he did, the armor moved on its own! Scared the piss out of him!" one of them said between cackles.

Another slapped him on the back, nearly doubling over with laughter.

The firelight warped the camp, flickering wildly against the black. Shadows twisted along the ground, stretching long and sharp like claws. Skulls—kobold, goblin, and worse—were scattered across the dirt or mounted on wooden stakes. The gang had claimed the ruins like wild dogs, even clearing out some collapsed homes to start living inside.

They thought they were safe. But something watched them from beyond the firelight. Far beyond.

Hidden in the brush, crouched low in the grass like a hunting cat, Luke stared with eyes sharpened by Demonic Perception.

He'd been out there for over three days. No food. No water. No sleep. Just silence. Observation.

He studied them from the shadows—silent, patient. He watched them fetch water from the river's edge, argue over ration counts, sharpen blades, and patrol their camp's perimeter. During the day, he stayed buried in the trees, tracking their movements with the precision of a predator stalking prey. But when the crystal above dimmed and false night settled over the dungeon... that's when he moved closer.

He crept in silence, each step deliberate, each breath measured. He moved like a shadow stitched into flesh, smooth and soundless. Never rushing. Never faltering. A panther in the tall grass.

He observed them. He listened to their complaints as they scouted, memorized who kept their weapons close, who dozed with one eye open, and who strayed too far from the firelight. He mapped everything.

And over time, something became clear: they never left the camp unguarded. Even when they entered the dungeon, someone always stayed behind—protecting the statue.

Old Luke might've seen that as a problem. But the Luke crouched in the dark now?

He almost smiled.

Because he wasn't a scared little cat anymore.

He was a panther.

***

Crunch. Crunch.

His boots sank into the wet mud by the river's edge with a quiet squelch. The air hung heavy with moisture, clinging to his skin like a damp sheet. The faint glow of his torch flickered across the nearby trees, casting long, twitching shadows that danced with every movement.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

John liked it here. Out in the dark, where no one watched. Where the campfire chatter was just a distant murmur, and no one asked questions. Far from the stench of blood drying on his skin.

He despised that feeling—the sticky, congealed grime, the metallic tang that clung to his clothes like guilt. That's why he preferred to kill from a distance. Bows, traps—anything but close combat. Clean kills. Quiet. Efficient. No mess. No noise.

In this place, the crossbow was his tool of choice. Just a simple pull of the trigger, and the bolt would sail through the air—silent, precise. There was something nostalgic about it. Something that reminded him of the old days, back when he roamed the streets with his gang, ruling the blocks with a loaded gun and a smile.

But even then... he missed the sound of bullets.

"When I finish this damn tutorial and get back to Earth... maybe I'll start my own crew. But this time, no one's gonna stop me."

The thought sent a chill of anticipation down his spine. He was stronger now than any criminal he'd ever met. And he was only getting stronger. He would evolve. Become unstoppable.

"You're not finishing the tutorial. And you're definitely not going back to Earth."

John froze. The voice came out of nowhere—cold, sharp, and close as a knife to the throat.

"Who's there?!"

His instincts snapped into place. He summoned his crossbow from his inventory in a flash and swung it upward, aiming blindly into the thick veil of night.

His eyes darted across the treeline, but all he saw were shadows—twisting, swaying in the torchlight like ghosts with nowhere to go. The forest had gone quiet. Too quiet.

"Shit... Frankie, if this is some kind of joke, you're dead, man!" he muttered, yanking his shirt on in a hurry.

Crunch. Crunch.

Footsteps. The grass rustled. Something moved out there—something he couldn't see.

"Tom? That you?" His voice carried forced irritation, but his finger was slick with sweat on the trigger.

The darkness around him pulsed. It wasn't just the absence of light anymore. It felt alive. It was watching him. It was pressing on him.

"I'm not in the mood for this crap tonight."

John stepped toward the sound.

Splash.

His body twisted at the noise. The crossbow tracked the river. Something had hit the water. His eyes focused—a throwing knife. It spun beneath the surface, sinking into the current.

"What the hell...?"

"That's called a distraction."

The voice came from right behind him.

John whipped around—but not fast enough.

A hand lunged out of the dark, shoving the crossbow upward. The bolt flew wild into the trees, vanishing into the night.

Then came the impact. A blunt force slammed into his chest and sent him sprawling backward.

He opened his mouth to shout, but something sharp slid across his throat. The blade gleamed for a heartbeat—then buried itself deep into his neck.

John gasped. His hands trembled. His eyes widened. He tried to speak, but only red bubbles spilled past his lips.

Choking, he yanked the blade from his neck. Warm blood cascaded between his fingers. It was a black machete—curved, cold, soaked in his blood.

With a final grunt of effort, he turned the weapon toward the silhouette emerging from the shadows—but it was gone before he could even swing. The machete was snatched mid-air.

John's breath caught in his chest.

And then—

THUCK! Steel pierced his ribs.

THUCK! Another.

THUCK! And another.

The machetes struck with ruthless rhythm, spinning back into his attacker's hands, only to be hurled again. A deadly dance. Precise. Cruel.

John collapsed to his knees. His vision blurred, lungs heaving as blood bubbled in his throat. Every breath came ragged, every twitch of his limbs slower, heavier.

Then—from the shadows—he emerged.

John's eyes went wide. No. No, it can't be... the boy?!

A surge of blind rage shot through him. How?!

How could he be losing to a goddamn kid?

With what little strength remained, he crawled across the mud, dragging himself toward his crossbow. Every inch was a war against death itself. His trembling fingers reached—almost touched it—

CRACK. Pain exploded through his hand.

The boy's foot slammed down, crushing John's fingers into the wet earth. He tried to scream—but only a strangled, gurgling rasp escaped.

The boy crouched in front of him. And John knew. He wasn't the same.

Those eyes... predator's eyes. Cold. Empty. No hesitation. No mercy.

John tried to back away, squirming like a dying animal. His own blood smeared across the ground in thick trails. His lungs burned, and every bloody cough dragged him closer to the end. He wanted to scream for help. He wanted to live. But all he could do was choke on his own blood.

The boy said nothing. He simply reached for the torch—the last sliver of light in that suffocating dark—and tossed it into the river.

The fire hissed. The flames vanished. Darkness swallowed him whole.

And then, a voice. Calm. Quiet.

"Goodbye."

Pain.

Cold.

And then… nothing.

Luke stared at the corpse in front of him. No hesitation. No remorse. He grabbed the body by the collar and shoved it into the current. The river accepted it in silence, pulling it downstream. The lifeless form spun in the water like a discarded puppet, limp and broken. Luke followed it with his eyes, walking along the bank until the body slipped over the edge and vanished beneath the waterfall.

Only then did he breathe.

He turned toward the camp in the distance.

"One down. Fourteen to go."