Becoming the Dark Lord [LitRPG]

The lizard meat sizzled slowly over the fire. Luke stared at the flames, but his thoughts were fixed on the system screen:

Name: Luke
Level: 2
Rank: F
Class: Assassin (lvl 5)
Race: Human
Profession: –
Titles: –
Health Points (HP): 190/190
Mana Points (MP): 35/110
Stamina: 65/90

Stats:
Strength: 15
Agility: 23
Endurance: 9
Vitality: 19 -> 20
Perception: 16
Intelligence: 11
Free Points: 1 -> 0

His only free point went straight into Vitality. Just a small edge. Maybe meaningless, maybe the difference between life and death. He went back to eating. The meat had no flavor. Tough, chewy, dry. But that wasn't what bothered him. Even after days without a proper meal, he didn't feel hunger, not in his stomach but in his mind. Tension curled like a knot in his throat, the quiet dread before a mission.

And then, his thoughts drifted. Clara, her firm, relentless hugs every time he left the house. Martin, his long-winded lectures, then awkward apologies for pushing too hard. Noah, the older brother trying to be understanding, trying to get through his silence. And Lillian, that little girl who saw him as a hero, who always asked to ride on his back from school to home, even when she could walk just fine.

Luke swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I really am. I've been selfish."

He had lived with them for years, but he'd never let them in. He was afraid, afraid that if he opened his heart, he'd forget his mother. Afraid that accepting a new family meant betraying the one he lost. But now, he understood just how much he loved them, how deeply he missed them.

You probably think I hated you. But I didn't. I just... didn't know how to let go.

He drew a deep breath, eyes locked on the flickering fire. "We really only learn to value something once we've lost it."

But this wasn't goodbye. He wasn't using the pain to retreat. He would use it to advance—to survive. To win. He stood. There was no room left for hesitation. He would steal that damn key. Ascend through the dungeon. Make it to the tutorial. And then, go back home and apologize for not being the son they deserved. He steadied his feet, eyes clear, steps sure.

"I'll finish this challenge."

***

Hours passed, maybe a day. Luke had already lost track of time. He'd waited until his mana fully recovered, then sat motionless before the bridge, letting his stamina refill to its limit. Nothing could be left to chance now. When he finally stood, he drew a slow breath and stepped forward. Then stopped.

His gaze drifted downward. The abyss was worse than he remembered—deeper than darkness, heavier than death. It wasn't just a void. It was a presence. Staring into it felt like confronting space itself: endless, starless, soundless. No return.

Luke closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he locked his gaze ahead. The bridge stretched far into the darkness, angling upward like a stone ramp suspended over nothing. One wrong step, one slip, and that was it.

Barefoot, he placed one foot forward. Then the other. Like a predator. Like an assassin. Spine straight, chin level, eyes fixed on the goal. Mind emptied. The world fell away. Each step was light, silent, measured. Wind rose from the abyss and kissed his skin like a warning whisper.

Then... the bridge shook. Luke swallowed but didn't react. Didn't brace. Didn't panic. He let his body move with it, shifting weight like water in a swaying boat. Then kept going. Each step became a small victory. Sweat trickled down his face, but his focus never wavered. The abyss gnawed at his thoughts. The wind grew stronger. The bridge trembled again—harder this time. Luke faltered. His balance wobbled, his breath caught.

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He adjusted. Don't fight the bridge. Flow with it.

But the path ahead changed. It felt longer now, farther, as if the goal kept stretching away with every step. Panic flared. He dropped to his knees. The bridge went wild. It bucked and swayed like a rope in a hurricane. Stone shouldn't move like that. Reality shouldn't bend like that.

"No..." he whispered, fingers clawing at the surface.

The abyss reached up like it wanted to swallow him whole. The bridge wasn't stable. It was alive, like the sea, like instinct. Luke forced himself to stand, unsteady, strained. The moment he got up... the bridge calmed. He exhaled slowly.

It's a test.

Everything in this dungeon was. Wait too long and the bridge punished you. Step correctly and it flowed beneath you—like a beast tamed by the rhythm of its predator. He closed his eyes. Envisioned it again. A panther. Still. Silent. Lethal. When his eyes opened, they locked onto the far end of the bridge. The chest. The throne. The temple. He moved. One foot after the other. Pure instinct. Weightless. Like a breath in the dark. Then...

A voice behind him. Exactly like his own. "You're going to fall."

Luke froze. Every muscle locked. He wanted to look back, but something held him. He knew—if he turned, the bridge would react again.

The voice returned. "I told you… you're going to fall."

Luke closed his eyes for a second. Then opened them. And walked. Without looking back.

"Look down. Look into the abyss. It's watching you. It's calling you." The voice was low, whispering, but it was his own. His voice.

Luke didn't respond. He kept moving. The wind picked up, stronger now, pushing against his chest like the abyss itself wanted him gone.

"One wrong step… and death awaits. Fool."

"Shut up," he muttered, eyes forward.

The voice chuckled—dry, close, and mocking. "You feel it, don't you? Your feet are sweating. This bridge is slick. You know what's coming… Taking off your shoes was a mistake."

Luke's breath hitched—but he didn't stop. That line. He had thought that line before stepping onto the bridge. That exact doubt, that flash of fear. Maybe this was his mind trying to sabotage him. Or maybe it wasn't. He didn't care. He walked like he'd trained to. Like a predator.

He imagined panthers in the jungle—silent, sweating, tense, stalking prey for hours without a sound. Never blinking. Never giving in. Their bodies weren't just muscle. They were weapons. Living precision. Assassins by birth.

Luke mirrored them. His mind became a still lake. No wind. No ripples. A jaguar bending to drink, its eyes always sharp. The world faded. The wind vanished. The bridge ceased to exist. Only the goal remained. The chest. The throne.

The voice kept whispering from behind—more insults, more doubt—but Luke tuned it out like dry leaves rustling in a dead forest. And then… he felt it. Solid stone beneath both feet. The end of the bridge. A weight lifted from his chest. Relief flooded through him like warm rain.

[Congratulations! You have completed the first challenge: The Path of Balance]

Luke gasped. Only now did he realize, he hadn't breathed since halfway across. He had entered a perfect state of concentration.

I did it.

He looked back. The bridge was calm, straight, still. No wind. No trembling. No voice. As if everything had been a test. And he had passed. Ahead lay the floating island. A small forest. A stone path winding through it. And beyond, the temple.

Luke walked, light and silent. No weapon in hand. His holster still stored away in his inventory. Along the path, kobolds stood like statues, eyes open, unmoving. Trapped in some kind of trance, asleep while standing. They didn't react. He passed them without a sound. The temple loomed ahead, vast, forgotten, heavy with age.

The entrance gaped like the mouth of some old god. Inside, the air hung thick. Statues lined the walls, their stone eyes watching. And at the end of the corridor… the throne. The boss. A massive figure of black. Curved horns. A straight posture. Seated. Motionless. Silent as death. At the base of that throne... a chest.

Luke stopped. Didn't breathe. Didn't think. Just looked. This next step… was the hardest of all. He felt fear crawl up his spine like a predator brushing against his back. But he stood his ground. And he fought it.

There it is. The key. My one chance to get out of here.

Luke stepped forward. Then...

Metal slammed behind him. He turned. His heart froze. A barred gate had dropped, sealing the entrance to the temple. The only way out… was gone. A notification blinked in front of his eyes, cold as the air pressing in around him:

[Welcome to the second challenge: The King's Game]

The ground shook. Lines lit up beneath Luke's feet, forming a massive board—squares dividing into rows and columns, stretching out into the temple. At the far end stood the chest. But Luke wasn't looking at it. His eyes were locked on the throne. On the boss.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The horned figure of black sat motionless, like a forgotten statue in a time-worn tomb. Dead… or pretending. He couldn't tell. Then the voices came. Soft. Whispered. Dissonant. "Challenger."

Luke turned. The statues lining the walls had opened their mouths. They were speaking.

"The objective is simple: reach the end of the board and win the King's Game."

"But be warned… a single mistake will cost you your life."

Tiles near his feet shifted—trapdoors. They snapped open and revealed a glimpse of pure darkness below. Not just depth, but void. The same devouring abyss he had crossed to reach this place. A second later, the tiles shut. Quiet. Unassuming. As if they had never moved.

And in that instant, he understood: I can't make a single mistake. One wrong step… and I fall.

"Good luck, challenger," the voices whispered. "Death awaits."