Becoming the Dark Lord [LitRPG]

Luke frowned. It was the first time the system had ever given him a choice. Not random, not automatic—deliberate. A chill ran down his spine. Too many coincidences. He had reached level five exactly with the last monster on this floor, as if the entire place had been built to give him just enough experience. He chose not to dwell on it. Took a deep breath. The screen shifted. Five skills appeared in a clean vertical list. He began reading.

[Silent Step (Common)]: Drastically reduces the sound of your footsteps for one minute, allowing for undetected approach.

Luke raised an eyebrow. It was excellent. It aligned perfectly with the kind of mission he was about to undertake. Not offensive, but he didn't need offensive right now. His only job was to enter… and leave. Without being seen. Still, it was easy to see how the skill reflected the core of what it meant to be an assassin: to approach in silence, to strike from the dark, to vanish.

[Sharp Eye (Common)]: The Assassin hones an acute sense of perception, able to identify vulnerable points on an enemy's body. With brief focus, detects small weaknesses, like poor guard placement or muscular tension.

Very good. Useful in battle. No doubt.

Knowing an enemy's weak points could mean survival in a real fight. But Luke doubted he'd ever get the chance to wound the boss. If that creature woke up… there'd be no fight. Just death. He set the second one aside. The first was still leading.

[Perfect Throw (Common)]: The Assassin channels focus before throwing a blade, adjusting angle and strength to maximize penetration. The blade flies with surgical precision, dealing bonus damage when striking vital areas.

Offensive. Clearly. The third skill was built for one thing: impact. Luke studied the first three and instinctively categorized them: Stealth, Analysis and Power.

He even theorized they might each scale with different stats: agility for the first, perception for the second, strength for the third. But he let those thoughts go. Time to read the fourth.

[Basic Chameleon Skin (Uncommon)]: Grants light camouflage while moving slowly or remaining still in shadows. Enemies will have difficulty detecting you.

Luke's eyes widened. A camouflage skill?

He almost picked it immediately but as Luke reread the description something clicked. It wasn't invisibility. It was a temporary light camouflage. He didn't know exactly how it would work when activated, whether it would mask his clothes or just his skin. It sounded useful. Definitely. Especially for stealing the key. But the boss was asleep. If its eyes were closed then camouflage might not matter at all.

Analyzing the situation Luke realized that stealth wasn't enough. He needed a contingency. If the demon woke up he had no doubt the camo would be worthless. That made him reconsider everything.

Even Silent Step. It had seemed like the safest choice but now with his assassin instincts sharpened and his body trained like a panther he could already move in near silence. Barefoot. Controlled. He didn't need a skill to walk like a ghost anymore.

So he dismissed the first ability and then discarded the camo as well. Neither could help him if the creature opened its eyes. Which meant everything now depended on the final option. He hovered over it and read the description.

[Assassin's Dash (Uncommon)]: The Assassin launches forward in a lightning-quick burst, covering a short distance in an instant. Can be used to close in on a target for a swift, lethal strike or to escape imminent danger.

Luke's mind sharpened like a blade. This wasn't just instinct—it was calculation.

If the boss wakes up, this is my escape.

He imagined it: smoke bomb, key in hand, dash, gone. He could even use it to reach the chest if the demon stirred. It would be a single window, a sliver of time. The other skills no longer mattered. This one could save his life—now and again in the future. His instincts agreed. His logic did too. He chose.

[You have acquired the Class Skill: Assassin's Dash]

***

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A sound cut through the silence. A knife spun at high speed and buried itself in a tree. Below it, a series of other blades already formed a near-straight line along the trunk—an improvised target, marked with silent precision.

Luke didn't stop. He ran in a zigzag across the clearing. Threw another blade. Leapt. Rolled. Spun left, then right. And with each transition, a knife flew from his fingers. Each tree was a marker. Each movement, a variable. His body demanded balance, strength, and focus while his arms calculated angle, rotation, momentum. He wasn't training to look lethal. He trained to make lethality feel natural. Throwing knives while standing still? Easy. But in a real fight, the ground was uneven. Enemies moved. Blood ran. And fear chewed at your insides.

Luke was preparing for all of it. Even if it wasn't essential for the mission, he wanted to go in at the peak of his current potential. He remembered the insight he'd gained—that brief moment of alignment before taking down the last kobolds. A flash of stillness. A glimpse of something deeper, something rooted in instinct. Now, he was trying to return to that state. Trying to pull the same clarity into every motion.

And then… the shift happened. From chaos to control. Luke walked barefoot now. Complete silence. Each footfall touched the earth with such care, it barely stirred dust—like walking a tightrope strung through air. One foot ahead of the other. Spine straight. Weight perfectly balanced.

Every step was intentional. Every movement, predatory. His mind wasn't just focused on his steps. It flowed through his body. Down his spine. Across his shoulders. He was repeating something he hadn't learned from books, but from instinct. From beasts. Felines. Silent by nature. Assassins long before blades or systems ever existed. They walked with a "sequential gait." The back paw always stepped exactly where the front had. Minimizing noise. Maximizing control. Erasing risk.

Luke was replicating it. Adapting it to a human body, to a mind built for killing. And deep down, he understood. This was the class's true purpose, not just passive bonuses, not just flashy skills. It was a lens, a way of seeing the world. And he was learning how to see. Luke was using the assassin's mindset to re-enter that insight, to summon that buried understanding hiding inside his class.

He didn't just want to feel it once. He wanted to control it, to call it, to awaken more of it. Whatever truths lay buried inside that class, he was ready to uncover them. After hours of walking on the balls of his feet, taking short, quiet, disciplined steps, Luke began training something harder: falling silently. He threw himself sideways, rolled across damp grass, adjusted his body midair to reduce impact, sound, and exposure.

It was an exercise in total control. One bad fall could reveal his position. One slip could get him killed. The secret wasn't in soft landings but in using every muscle at once, spreading weight, shaping his body to the surface like water rolling downhill. He remembered something he'd read years ago, on a trivia site, of all places: "Cats always land on their feet. It's called the righting reflex."

They twist midair, extend their limbs, absorb the impact, and never drop their guard. Predator's instinct. Luke didn't want to copy it intellectually. He wanted to teach his body to do it. He wanted to fall like a cat and rise ready to kill. More hours passed. He didn't eat or drink. His focus was elsewhere.

He submerged himself in the freezing water beneath the waterfall, let the cold bite him, let it remind him that the body lives—but only those who control it survive. He surfaced, breathed deeply, then sank again. Held his breath. Let the world dissolve. He trained his breathing, trained his heartbeat, trained his inner silence.

Luke wasn't chasing skill anymore. He was chasing something deeper. He wanted the stillness of a true assassin. He wanted to be the kind of presence that could walk right up to a sleeping monster and leave it asleep. He didn't want the creature to ignore him—he wanted its instincts to ignore him.

At the bottom of the lake, eyes closed, Luke understood. The trick wasn't just silence, or control of breath or motion. It was the absence of intent. Complete immersion in the environment. He had to become like the water surrounding him. Calm. Cold. Untouchable. He had to be invisible, even while visible. Present, yet imperceptible. That was how a true assassin moved.

***

Luke balanced on one foot, the other hovering just above the ground, completely still. It wasn't just physical training; it was a study. He wanted to feel the weight of his own body, to understand where imbalance began, to map every micro-adjustment his muscles made to keep him upright.

When he finished, he lowered his foot with quiet precision and returned to his blade drills. Two knives in hand, arms moving in a constant flow, slashing the air in rapid, measured strikes. To an ordinary observer, it might have looked pointless. After all, stats dictated speed, power, accuracy. But Luke knew something else. The mind of an assassin whispered another truth: he could be faster, more flexible, more precise if he learned to extract everything his numbers allowed.

The body was the weapon, but the mind was the trigger. And right now, he was attempting something new: to awaken the insight voluntarily, to enter the assassin's mindset by will, not instinct, to flip that switch like a trained reflex, not a reaction to danger, but a choice.

The movements continued: faster, sharper, smoother. Each strike carried less waste, each spin had more intent, each gesture grew quieter—until finally… he stopped. His eyes opened slowly. A silent smile touched his lips. He'd felt it. That perfect calm. The absence of doubt. The total unity of body and will. As if he'd become one with his purpose. And in that instant, Luke understood:

"I've taken everything this stage had to give me."

Now… it was time to face death.