Becoming the Dark Lord [LitRPG]

The forest was buried in shadow. Wind rustled faintly through the trees, but the darkness was deep—heavy. Luke gripped one of his kukris and slowly dragged the blade across the bark of a nearby tree. Deliberate. Careful. He didn't want to make noise.

He'd been marking several trees in the area—carving shallow symbols into the trunks, a silent message meant only for him.

Crunch.

Footsteps echoed behind him. A flicker of orange light flared between the trees.

Luke ducked low and moved quickly, crouch-running across the underbrush. His steps were quiet, precise, his eyes fixed on the ground to avoid twigs or dry leaves.

Three criminals emerged from the dark, stepping into the spot where he'd just been. Luke dropped flat behind a bush, motionless.

"This the place where Joseph was last seen?" one of them asked.

"Yeah. He always came here to take a dump," the second replied. "But now the bastard's gone too."

The trio argued among themselves, growing louder. Two had bows slung over their backs. The one holding the torch also gripped a sword in his free hand.

Luke wanted to use Identify, but he needed to be closer for it to trigger.

"Shit," one of them muttered. "More markings on the trees."

"L-let's get out of here," said the third, clearly shaken.

The others didn't argue. They turned and quickly made their way back to the camp.

Luke remained still until the last hint of torchlight vanished. Over the past few days, he'd been trying to map out their classes. It was a puzzle, but their equipment offered clues. And sometimes, if he got lucky, their idle conversations filled in the blanks.

There were originally fifteen of them. Now, twelve remained.

Three kills in five days. Not bad.

But since then, things had changed. The criminals had stopped going anywhere alone. Even bathroom trips were done in pairs or threes. They were scared—and worse, they were growing smarter.

No more easy targets. That was fine by Luke. He wasn't in a hurry. This was a long game.

He'd studied their gear closely and identified most of their classes. Some were obvious: three archers, two crossbowmen, two mages. The last five were trickier. At first, he assumed they were all the same class, but closer observation—and eavesdropping—revealed the truth.

Two were Mercenaries—agile dual-blade users with a focus on speed and mobility.

The other three were tougher to pin down. Their fighting styles and armor suggested Warriors or Knights—a subtle but important distinction. One of them carried a massive axe and, based on a few overheard remarks, Luke was certain he was a Warrior.

That left him with a sobering thought:

Twelve enemies. One of him. And not just enemies—people. Human beings.

Once, the idea of killing another person would've frozen him in place. Paralyzed him.

Now? He couldn't afford to think that way. He couldn't think of them as people. They were threats. Beasts. Monsters with names and voices. Because if they saw him—if they caught him—

They'd kill him without a second thought.

There's no room for mercy here. No time to hesitate. If I stall... I'll be stuck here for a year.

When he was certain the group had left, Luke moved. Crouched low, he crept through the forest toward his hiding spot—a collapsed ruin concealing a pit where the elevator platform lay dormant and hidden.

Once inside, he allowed himself a single moment of peace.

He ate a fruit. That was the only time he ever allowed himself to eat—when he was safe in the dark. But even that small comfort was beginning to fade.

The criminals rotated dungeon runs in shifts now. While some rested, others leveled. And every day that passed, the gap between them grew wider. They were getting stronger.

And Luke... was standing still.

Unlike them, Luke couldn't risk entering the dungeon. If he got seriously injured in there—broke a leg, tore a muscle—he'd be on his own. No healer, no support. The only hope would be a lucky Race Level Up... and luck wasn't something he could count on.

He pushed the thought aside and stared down at the pile of fruits on the ground. "The more cornered an animal is... the more dangerous it becomes," he whispered.

And he'd seen it firsthand. The criminals used to wander alone during the day, careless and cocky. But now? Every time they left the camp, they moved in groups. Eyes scanning every direction. Jumpy. Tight. Ready for anything.

Well... almost anything.

There was still one place they felt safe. Luke knew how the mind worked under constant alert—how it wore you down, how it begged for relief.

"The camp," he muttered.

It was the only place they let their guard down. Where they ate. Where they laughed. Where they slept. Which also made it the most dangerous place for him to go—and the most vulnerable place for them to be.

"Pulling this off is insane…"

Luke gathered a handful of fruits and hurled them into the air. In a single motion, he dropped onto his back, hand flashing to his side. Like an old-west gunslinger, he drew his throwing knives from their holsters—and launched them one after the other.

Steel flashed through the dark.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He hit the ground hard, back slamming against the stone floor. The fruits landed a heartbeat later, rolling across the dirt. Each of the six had a blade embedded in it. Dead center.

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He stared at them for a moment, then sat up slowly. "This would've been suicide for the old Luke... the one who first arrived here."

He looked down at his hands. Steady. Stronger. "But I've changed."

He took a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat settle. "And besides... I'm not alone anymore."

He wasn't talking about allies.

He was talking about the part of him that had been born in the dark. The part forged from hunger, pain, and isolation. The side that no longer flinched at blood or hesitated before killing.

He sat back, letting his thoughts settle. Every detail he'd gathered over the last few days began to crystallize.

It was time. Time to plan something reckless. Something that shouldn't work. Something where the odds were completely stacked against him.

But then again... they always had been.

And he was still here. Still fighting. Still evolving.

***

William slammed his fist against the table. Another report. Another disappearance. Things hadn't been going well for days now. Strange things were happening around the camp—things no one could explain.

Clothes they'd scavenged from the dungeon vanished after being left out to dry. Water barrels they'd filled from the river were found tipped over in the middle of the night, the contents wasted. They'd had to start keeping them closer, right next to their tents—especially after one guy went to refill one... and never came back.

Four of them had vanished.

No signs. No struggle. No bodies. Just... gone.

"This is bullshit. What the hell is happening here?" Andrew snapped, pacing furiously.

When half of them had gone to the dungeon entrance earlier that day, they found something waiting for them: a kobold's head impaled on a wooden spike. And at the base of it— a human finger. Probably one of their own.

"That's a warning," one of them growled. "I told you there's something dangerous out here. Something watching us."

Joshua swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the forest outside the tent. "The... the markings," he said quietly. "We've all seen them, right? On the trees?"

They nodded. Uneasy.

"Predators—bears, big cats—they mark territory by scratching trees. What if... what if something came out of the dungeon? What if it's out here now?"

William said nothing at first. He gripped his staff tightly, rubbing his temples. He was their strongest. Their leader. The one who'd helped them understand the system after they got trapped here—thanks to all the research he'd done back on Earth. Before prison. Before this nightmare.

Finally, he stood and pointed his staff at the others. "Doesn't matter what it is," he said. "If it's hiding in this forest, we flush it out. Kill it. There's eleven of us—and we've faced worse monsters inside the dungeon. Stronger ones. We worked together and crushed them. Whatever's out there…" He narrowed his eyes. "We'll teach it who runs this floor."

They kept talking, going over plans and strategies. No one mentioned the growing fear in the back of their minds.

For now, they made a decision: no more dungeon trips until the threat was dealt with. Security measures were raised. At least five of them would stay awake at all times while the rest slept. No more single-person watch duty. And no more wandering off alone.

From now on, even taking a piss would require a team of three.

***

Joshua paced near the edge of camp, his bow in hand. In the distance, he spotted Andrew—perched on a boulder, staring silently down the trail that led to the dungeon. The guy was a crossbowman. Tough. Reliable.

Joshua's gaze drifted back to the trees.

He used to wander off at night to take a piss without a second thought. Not anymore. He didn't even have the guts to go near the tree line. Not after the last few days.

The wind had started to sound... different. Like it carried something with it. The branches creaked, casting long, twitching shadows that danced in the corners of his vision—always just out of reach.

Then—a laugh. High-pitched. Echoing between the trunks.

Joshua spun, heart hammering, arrow already notched. "W-who's there?!"

He glanced behind him. Andrew was still there. Still seated. Still staring down the path.

Swallowing hard, Joshua turned back toward the dark. The nearby torch barely lit a few meters into the trees. Beyond that, it was just a wall of black. He drew the bowstring tight.

Snap. A branch cracked.

Something darted between the trees—a shape, a figure—vanishing deeper into the forest before he could react.

Goosebumps spread across his arms. He bolted toward Andrew.

I hate this place.

He cast a nervous glance around as he ran. A shifting shadow nearly made him loose an arrow—it was just his own, warped by the torchlight.

He held back. Couldn't show fear. Couldn't lose face in front of the others. Criminal or not, weakness was a death sentence in a group like theirs.

Still... he needed backup.

He reached Andrew's side, panting. "Andrew..." he said, voice low. "I saw something out there, man."

No response.

Andrew didn't move. Just kept staring at the dungeon path.

"I'm serious," Joshua said, stepping closer. "I swear I saw—"

He froze. Terror ripped through his chest.

"God... no."

Andrew's clothes were soaked in blood, dozens of knives buried in his chest and sides.

He was dead.

A noise echoed from the forest. Joshua spun, arrow raised. "Come out, you bastard! I'll kill you!"

He spotted movement and let the arrow fly.

Thunk. The shot hit something. He saw it twitch.

With trembling fingers, he grabbed another arrow and aimed. A silhouette began to walk forward—slow, steady.

As it stepped into the light of the torch, Joshua's face drained of color.

A skeleton.

"What the f—"

A hand grabbed his neck from behind.

Before he could react, the blade sliced his throat—fast, precise, fatal.

Blood burst out, hot and thick, splattering the ground and soaking his chest. His eyes widened. His mouth opened, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they grasped at nothing.

The world faded, the sounds around him muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. His body swayed one last time.

Then—silence.

[You have slain a Human - Lvl 2 (Archer - Lvl 5)]

Luke stepped out of the brush, lowering his blade. His voice was calm. Focused.

"Nice distraction, Princess Charlie."

The skeleton gave a sharp tug, pulling the arrow from between its ribs before falling still again.

Luke's gaze shifted to the camp.

"One down. Nine to go."

***

"Wake up! Everyone, wake the hell up!" Ryan's voice tore through the night.

William shot upright, already grabbing his staff. He bolted from the tent, ready to unleash fire the moment he saw a threat. Others spilled out behind him, weapons drawn, faces tense.

"What is it, Ryan?!" William snapped.

Ryan didn't answer. He pointed.

They followed his gaze—and froze.

"Holy shit..." someone whispered.

Hanging from a tall tree, illuminated by flickering torchlight, were two corpses.

Andrew. Joshua.

Their bodies swayed slightly, arms limp, blood dripping from open wounds. Blades were still lodged in their flesh.

The group advanced cautiously, weapons raised.

"Did anyone hear anything?" William asked, scanning the treeline.

"Nothing," Ryan said, gripping his staff tighter. "Not a sound all night."

William was sweating now. "Someone got inside the camp. Killed two of us. And none of you saw a damn thing?!"

"There's something on the ground!" one of the others shouted. "A number! In blood!"

All eyes turned.

A crimson 5 was scrawled in thick strokes beside the bodies. At its base, a blood-drawn arrow pointed away from the tree.

They followed it.

"Four," Ryan muttered, staring at the next mark carved into a tree trunk.

Another arrow led them on.

"Three," painted across a flat stone.

"Two," scratched into the dirt.

The final arrow pointed toward the camp's water barrels.

On one of them—drawn in a shaky, dripping stroke—was the number:

"One?" Ryan asked.

Then—it happened.

A split-second flash of motion. Something burst out of the barrel.

"ZERO!" a voice roared from within the water.

Knives exploded through the air—then duplicated mid-flight. Ryan's body jerked violently as blade after blade pierced his chest. He collapsed backward, gurgling blood.

"KILL HIM! KILL THAT BASTARD!" William shouted, raising his staff to cast a fireball.

But—

Fssshh!

A hiss. Then a thick cloud erupted. Smoke billowed across the camp—blinding, choking. A smoke bomb.

William flinched and fired blindly. The fireball blasted a tent to pieces—not the attacker.

Screams rang out. Steel clashed in the dark. The chaos had begun.

Luke emerged from the smoke behind a mercenary, kukris flashing in each hand. The man turned, barely raising his sword in time.

Steel met steel. Luke spun, his blade slicing across the man's arm.

Then—Assassin's Dash.

He vanished from the mercenary's line of sight—only to reappear at his side. The kukri buried itself deep in the man's skull.

The mercenary crumpled to the dirt, wide eyes staring into nothing.

Luke melted back into the smoke like a ghost. A shadow. A predator.

Seven left.