Becoming the Dark Lord [LitRPG]

The night had passed. Morning light broke through the clouds as Luke and Allison trudged down yet another slope. They had walked through the entire night until they reached the third sewer tunnel.

"Another sealed one," Allison muttered, slumping to the ground.

Luke stood silently, staring at the thick iron bars.

"You want to keep walking? Maybe another twelve hours?" he asked calmly.

Allison groaned, pushing himself upright with his katana.

"And if we turn back, it'll take at least a full day to return. Forty-eight hours lost, just like that."

They fell into silence.

"In all the sewer tunnels we've seen so far… not a single mark, not a trace of anyone else," Allison finally said.

Luke didn't reply immediately. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the barred tunnel entrance, understanding exactly what Allison meant.

"I really hope someone out there was lucky enough to be teleported inside the wall," Luke said after a while. "Because outside... there's nothing. No sign of life. Just us."

They had no other choice.

They started the long trek back toward the orc encampment. Their only viable path into the city.

"If the wall really surrounds the entire kingdom, it might be circular," Allison offered, trying to sound optimistic. "There could be thousands of sewer entries. If others were teleported out here too, maybe they found another way in."

"Or," Luke countered, "It's just a straight line. A wall cutting across the land, ending at a natural barrier, like the ocean or a mountain."

They walked in silence for a while, the crunch of their steps through undergrowth the only sound between them.

The decision had been made.

They would face the orcs.

***

Luke lay flat in the tall grass, hidden deep in the shadows, eyes locked on the orc encampment. Two days of observation.

Allison was posted elsewhere, scouting from another angle. Luke had told him he wanted time alone, to watch. To learn.

The orcs moved with heavy steps and crude discipline. Tall, muscular, bestial humanoids with thick arms, tusks jutting from their lower jaws, and makeshift weapons strapped to their backs. Some wore bone necklaces or crude helmets fashioned from yeti skulls. The smell of blood and ash lingered in the air.

Luke's eyes moved from one target to another, studying everything. The way they lifted weapons. Which hand they favored. Who trained with bows, and how fast they loosed arrows. He watched the ones that split logs with axes, calculating the force of their swings, the balance of the blades, even the slight curve in the steel that caused the wood to splinter sideways.

Every movement told a story. Every action revealed something he could exploit.

He wasn't just watching monsters; he was watching patterns. Learning. Absorbing.

The thud of an axe, the shattering of wood. The quick pull of bowstrings. The rhythm of patrol routes. The flickers of their attention, the moments when their eyes drifted.

Instinct. That's what it was.

These creatures weren't trained; they were born with these roles. They moved with purpose coded into their bones.

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A lion isn't taught to kill. A snake doesn't learn to strike. They just do.

And maybe that calm he felt sometimes, those rare moments when his heart slowed and the world became sharp and clear, maybe that was his own instinct awakening. Not something taught. Something buried deep. Waiting.

Luke's hand tightened on the grip of his kukri as he absorbed even more knowledge.

***

Luke slipped away into the forest, moving silently while Allison kept watch back at the edge of camp. Under the cover of shadows, he opened his system screen.

There it was, the final decision, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat in the corner of his vision.

He had held off long enough.

"I won't be ruled by instinct," he muttered, eyes fixed on the glowing text. "I'll weaponize it. That includes you."

[You have acquired the Race Skill: Dark Blood]

Pain erupted through his body like wildfire.

He dropped to his knees, clutching his chest as if his veins were boiling. It wasn't just heat; it was movement, as though something alive had been injected into his bloodstream and was now writhing through every inch of him.

Gritting his teeth, Luke refused to scream.

He forced himself upright, trembling as he fought against the surge of energy inside him. Something slithered beneath the surface of his skin, tiny motions like insects crawling under his flesh, coiling along his arms and spine.

When the pain finally dulled, he reached for one of his kukris and slashed the palm of his hand.

Blood dripped out, deep red at first, then black.

A thick, inky fluid oozed from the wound.

Luke narrowed his eyes and gripped the black droplet between his fingers. It pulsed in his hand, almost... curious.

"You obey me. Not the other way around," he said coldly. "You're part of my body. My will. Got it?"

The black drop twitched, as if responding.

"Good," Luke said, releasing it.

The black fluid hovered for a moment, then slithered up his arm and slid smoothly back into the cut, vanishing beneath his skin like it had never left.

***

Atop the highest watchtower in the orc camp, two sentries stood guard. One held a primitive bow, the other a jagged stone spear. They stood motionless, eyes scanning the forest edge for intruders.

Far below, orcs moved with purpose, sharpening weapons, cooking over firepits, organizing patrols. Crude huts lined the treeline, each one made from timber and bones.

One of the sentries grunted and pointed his bow. A faint flicker of orange danced in the distance.

Fire.

He grabbed the small bone bell at his belt and rang it sharply:

TINK-TINK

Seconds later, the entire camp responded in kind. Dozens of bells echoed in unison. An immediate ripple of movement followed. A hunting party armed with spears and axes sprinted toward the forest, half vanishing into the trees while the others circled for a pincer approach. Everything moved like clockwork. Disciplined. Coordinated.

The archer turned to alert his partner, only to find him on the floor, blood pooling beneath his neck. The corpse rolled off the tower and hit the logs below with a dull thud.

The orc spun, panic rising. He reached for an arrow, muscles tense.

Then stopped.

There, clinging to the outer frame of the tower like a shadow made flesh, was a human.

No. Something far worse.

Black kukri clenched in his teeth, another in hand, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Unblinking. Unhuman.

The orc loosed a choked growl and yanked his bowstring.

Too slow.

The blade left Luke's hand in a single, fluid motion, hissing through the air. It buried itself in the orc's throat before he even realized he'd been hit.

SQUELCH. The black metal embedded into the orc's hand. His fingers spasmed, the arrow slipping from his grip and clattering to the wooden floor.

He tried to scream, but the human was already there. Too fast. Too silent.

Cold steel punctured his chest. Again. Again. Again. Each strike was surgical, like the killer was carving something into his flesh.

His bow fell. His body jerked. He lashed out in desperation, but the human vanished like smoke.

Dizzy, breath ragged, the orc's eyes fluttered. Something sharp entered his skull. He tried to turn his head, instinct, confusion, desperation, but there was nothing left to see.

A kick sent his limp body flying backward. As he fell, vision dimming, the last thing he saw were those eyes.

Not hateful. Not angry. Just cold. Just final.

SWOOSH.

A second blade spun through the air. It shimmered, duplicated mid-flight, and the copy sank straight into his face.

BOOM.

The body crashed into a wooden shack below, obliterating it into splinters. The entire camp froze.

THUD.

Another corpse slammed into the ground nearby. Orc patrols turned as one, staring toward the source.

At the peak of the watchtower, silhouetted by the full moon, stood a lone human. Cloak fluttering in the wind. Arms bloodied. Eyes glowing like dying stars.

And when he raised his hand.

SWISH. SWISH. SWISH.

Twelve throwing knives launched from his fingers. Midair, they doubled.

Twenty-four blades descended like a storm of steel and death.

SQUELCH. SQUELCH. SQUELCH.

Screams erupted. Orcs clutched at their throats, their chests. Blood sprayed the snow.

"AAARGH!"

Panic.

They turned to charge the tower.

GRRRR!

But then a different growl split the air.

They spun around. And saw them.

Another human, sword drawn, stance ready. Beside him, something inhuman: a towering skeleton wielding a longblade. Its eye sockets glowed faintly, and blood still dripped from its bone-white hands. At their feet, two orc bodies lay still. Weapons trembled in dead hands.

The assassin on the tower was not alone.

The remaining orcs snarled, eyes darting between the rooftop and the ground. Their formation broke. Some roared in defiance, others in fear.

Up above, Luke watched them all. His breathing slowed. The black blood inside him pulsed like it could feel the moment.

No hesitation. No mercy. Just the kill.

And then...

The real battle began.