Becoming the Dark Lord [LitRPG]

Luke hung over the vast abyss, his body held up only by his fingers, already trembling from exhaustion. The explosion that had consumed the Midnight King had finally settled, leaving behind nothing but thick dust and chunks of stone raining into the void below. The air still smelled of ash and burnt blood. Charlie was the only reason he hadn't fallen. She was anchored to him, bracing both of their weight with the spectral chain that dragged them back toward the shattered rooftop. Luke could barely even breathe. His stamina was almost gone. His mana was already spent. Every muscle felt like it was tearing apart from the inside.

With sheer effort, the two of them hauled themselves back up. The moment they reached the top, Luke collapsed onto his back, chest rising and falling in short, jagged gasps. Charlie fell beside him. Her armor was cracked all over, fractures spreading like lines in breaking glass.

She looked at her hands. The cracks were spreading across the bone, deepening too fast. One gauntlet fell away as the skeletal fingers beneath it crumbled to dust. Luke forced himself to move. His heart dropped.

"Princess Charlie?" he called.

She dropped to her knees. Luke could see her HP bar flickering, barely a sliver left. Maybe ten points at most. The princess dismissed her helmet, returning it to her inventory. Beneath it, her skull was splitting, fine fractures running through the bone as her form began to fall apart. Charlie lifted her one remaining hand and gave him a thumbs up. A small gesture. Weak. But steady. The meaning was clear: It's okay.

Touching the archangel for that long—holding him down while he was at full power—had a price. She didn't have his immunity. She never had it. Her strength had been borrowed. The consequence had always been waiting.

Her armored frame began to glow, breaking apart into drifting fragments of white light. Luke felt the final emotion she left behind, even as his vision dimmed at the edges: peace.

[Your Servant has suffered a severe soul injury and will regenerate over time.]

[Warning: Be careful, because if your servant's soul is destroyed, it will be permanent.]

Luke closed his eyes for a moment. So close. For one terrifying second, he thought he had lost her forever.

"Thank you, my friend," he whispered.

Charlie now slept within his soul, in deep restoration. She would be gone for a long time. But she had done it. She was the one who stopped the archangel from teleporting away. She held the final piece that made victory possible.

"Human." The voice was faint, dragged out. Luke turned his head and saw Franky, the serpent, sliding out from inside his torn clothing. Ash still clung to his scaled hide.

"So you really survived," Franky rasped. "Always playing dirty, human. Filthy as ever."

Luke drew a slow breath, still lying against the cold stone. "Intelligence is a form of strength too."

Franky bared his fangs in something that might have been a grin. "Yes. That is true. You are the weakest rat I have ever seen. And yet, undeniably, the cleverest. A rat regardless."

Luke lifted an eyebrow.
"Looks like someone learned metaphors while I was busy not dying."

"Oh shut up, both of you." Artemis said. "We are alive. Nearly dead, dropped into an endless abyss, exploded, speared, shattered, but yes. Alive."

Luke opened the system interface, something was bothering him. When he killed the angel, the system had rewarded him with 100 soul fragments.

Was it because it was an archangel?

The system hadn't given him any soul fragments when he killed the angel before.

In fact, that angel's soul fragment had turned into the mask…

That was extremely strange. He immediately switched to the inventory screen to see what item he had received, but then…

Footsteps. Light, but fast. Crossing the rooftops through the falling snow. A silhouette flickered through the white haze. Luke looked up. Allison was running toward them, katana in hand, her expression locked between shock and relief. The wind tangled her hair, snow clinging to her armor.

Franky vanished back under Luke's clothes in one smooth, instinctive motion. Allison came to a stop in front of him.

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"Looks like you're not a statue anymore," Luke said, voice rough.

There was a moment of silence. No words. Only the wind dragging snow across broken tiles. Then she stepped forward and embraced him. No warning. No hesitation. A full, crushing embrace. Luke's body wasn't ready for it. Not physically. Not emotionally. Pain shot up his ribs, muscles trembling.

"I… am kind of injured," he muttered.

But he didn't push her away. She held on longer than he expected. When she finally released him, she drew a deep breath.

"I thought you were dead."

"Dead?" Luke blinked.

Artemis snorted in his mind. 'Exploding light, you being impaled, falling off a fortress into a dark abyss, plenty of reasons to assume you died.'

"I don't die like that," Luke answered. "Everything went according to plan."

Before she could respond, a sound cut through the silence, the clinking and dragging of chains scraping against stone. They both turned toward the edge of the abyss. Something was being hauled up from the darkness below, slow and heavy.

A moment later, the shape came into view. It was the archangel's body from the torso down, still bound by the chain. The explosion hadn't just injured the creature, it had torn it in half, leaving only the lower half intact, as if the upper body had been erased entirely.

Luke felt a chill run up his spine. Even with its power weakened by the mask, half of the creature had remained after the blast. If the archangel had been at full strength, that explosion would have meant nothing. It wouldn't have died. It probably wouldn't have even been hurt.

Allison steadied her breath. "We need to find the others. We need to see who's still alive."

They turned toward the bridge. Dozens of onlookers stood there, frozen in place, staring at the aftermath. They had seen the light. Or at least, the end.

Allison placed a hand on Luke's shoulder. Her face… It was smiling. Truly smiling.

"We did it, Luke." Her voice shook. "We're going home. Back to Earth."

For the first time, those words felt real. They took off across the rooftops, boots slipping through snow and shattered stone. But something caught Luke's eye. Something burning in the frost.

He stopped. Among broken tiles and blackened rubble, something was still smoldering. Luke knelt and brushed away the ash. The mask. Or what was left of it. Cracked shards, edges charred from the blast, still warm to the touch.

"Thank you, angel," he murmured, lifting the fragments carefully.

A voice responded, faint, distant, more memory than sound:

"This… may be the last time we speak… Live well… however your world allows you to…"

With that, the mask fell silent, and Luke returned it to the inventory. When he looked at the system interface, the repair process for the item hadn't even begun. Maybe the mask couldn't be repaired at all, since it was a soul.

Luke stood. His legs nearly gave out. But he ran anyway, forcing his body to follow Allison's silhouette ahead of him.

[Health Points (HP): 389/4340]

[Mana Points (MP): 0/(5100)]

[Stamina: 17/(2950)]

One step away from death.

As they approached the broken edge overlooking the throne chamber, Luke saw it: what remained of the archangel being dragged back inside by the chain, its body little more than a ruin.

"I'll find another way down," Luke said, feeling his muscles fail.

"Don't start," Allison replied, looping an arm around his waist before he could argue. "I'm taking you to a healer."

"Wait, what are you—"

Too late. She jumped.

They dropped into open air and slammed down into the throne hall. The impact sent a sharp, audible shock through the room.

"I had a gliding cape," Luke groaned, trying to remember how ribs were supposed to feel when aligned.

"Oh. My bad," Allison answered without a trace of regret.

Soldiers surrounded the broken wreck of the archangel's body, still being dragged across the floor by the remnants of the chain.

Quinn was the first to step forward. "You actually did it."

Eleanor followed, her expression a mix of awe and exhaustion. "What happened up there?"

Luke didn't answer. His gaze was already searching.

"The throne. Where is it?"

Eleanor exhaled, something like relief settling into her shoulders. "There."

She pointed.

The throne stood exactly where it belonged, embedded once more in the heart of the chamber, glowing with a slow, steady pulse. The castle felt alive around it—breathing, waiting.

"So it's over," Luke whispered.

A voice answered from the far side of the hall—steady, but worn thin.

"Well done."

Erza Grimhart stepped out of the shadows. Her skin was split with deep cracks, hands crumbling at the edges. But as she walked, shards of shattered stone and porcelain lifted from the floor, stitching themselves back into her frame. Piece by piece, step by step, her body rebuilt itself as she advanced.