Chapter 158: Rise of the Dark Lord (End of Volume 1)

Pain consumed him. Paul felt it in every nerve, every bone. His head throbbed, ears rang, vision swam in cold, disorienting darkness. Water filled his lungs. He choked, convulsed, arms flailing helplessly, until something yanked him out, hard. He broke the surface coughing, gagging for air. A wooden bucket clattered nearby, the source of his sudden revival.

“Took you long enough,” Luke said. His voice was calm. Too calm. Hollowed out by hatred.

Paul glanced down. His hands were gone. All that remained were scorched stumps, seared and blackened. His right leg bent at a sickening angle. A sharp breath hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes wide with shock and rage.

He reached for his mana. The instant the thought formed, Luke was already there. Steel pressed against the roof of Paul’s mouth, the blade ice-cold and final. Luke hadn’t walked. He’d simply appeared, a blur too fast to track.

“Try anything,” he said, low and certain, “and I’ll bury this in your skull.”

Paul froze. Above them, moonlight spilled over the ruins in pale streaks, washing everything in silver. Wind cut through the broken stone with a predator’s whistle. They stood on the roof of a half-collapsed building at the edge of the Wild Zone.

“I brought you here,” Luke said simply. Then he shoved him.

Paul plummeted, the ground rushing to meet him. A scream tore from his throat, but instinct kicked in—mana surged, and spectral arms snapped into place, catching him in a jerking, bone-rattling descent. He hit hard but survived, the arms lifting him shakily to his feet.

High above, Luke was already aiming. A bow rested in his hands. His posture was steady. Unbothered.

“I’ll give you one chance,” Luke called down. “I’m terrible with bows. Only good with knives. And with this wind, I doubt I’ll hit you first try.” He nocked an arrow, his aim unwavering. “You can charge me and try to kill me while I aim… or you can run.”

Paul gave a harsh, broken laugh and spat blood into the dirt. “Let me guess. That bow belonged to Angelica. And she asked you to avenge her?”

Luke didn’t hesitate. “Yes. But not for her. For Bryan—her brother.”

He drew the string tighter. “She could’ve killed me. Could’ve leveled up her race. But she didn’t. She chose to save me. Chose to die with dignity.” A pause. “So I’ll fulfill her last request. I’ll kill you with her bow.”

Paul’s eyes flicked toward the nearest alley—a narrow path between the rubble. His mana arms buzzed faintly in anticipation.

“You won’t get the chance,” Paul muttered. “Even if I have to murder every last bastard in the Haven to level up, I’ll make sure you’re the one who dies. Maybe not today. But it’ll happen.”

Luke loosed the arrow. It sliced through the night, off target, but not by much. It grazed Paul’s shoulder before burying itself in the dirt behind him.

Paul didn’t wait. Mana arms surged upward, snatching debris from the ground. Shards of broken stone hurtled through the air, slamming into Luke’s chest and shoulder. He staggered under the impact but didn’t fall. His next arrow was already in hand, drawn and ready, eyes never leaving his target.

More rubble tore through the air as Paul retreated, his mana arms propelling him low along the fractured street like a shadow in flight. Behind him, others hurled stone after stone in a furious barrage, turning debris into a weaponized storm.

Ahead, Luke remained still. The bow never wavered.

Just a little farther, Paul thought. The edge of the Safe Zone shimmered faintly in the distance. He had marked the ring with his skill the moment Luke tossed it. If he could reach it, just reach it, he could heal. Regroup. Return with allies. And then… he’d make Luke beg for death.

The arrow cut through the air behind him. He didn’t look back. Mana arms shielded his retreat, interlocking into a shifting barrier. All that mattered was momentum. Distance. Escape.

Then came the sound. A bell. Sharp. Clear. Piercing the night like a blade through silk. Paul’s body seized. He knew that sound.

“You know…” Luke’s voice slid through the darkness, smooth and quiet and merciless, “guess what shows up on this street at exactly midnight?”

Paul didn’t answer. He just ran faster, pulse hammering in his throat. He turned a corner and froze. Red eyes gleamed in the alley ahead. A figure stepped into the open. Towering. Silent.

A Midnight Warden.

His breath caught. Every part of him locked up.

“If you’d come at me,” Luke called from behind, “you might’ve stood a chance.”

The creature’s roar tore the night open. The street trembled beneath its weight. Paul turned and hurled himself away, panic overriding reason. Mana arms exploded from his back, some forming a barrier, others launching him skyward toward the nearest rooftop. But the spear was already flying.

It tore through the sky like judgment. The arms shattered on impact, and the building erupted where the weapon struck. Paul hit the ground hard, tumbling through broken stone and ash. He tried to crawl, bleeding, gasping, half-blind from the fall.

Then heavy footsteps landed in front of him. He looked up. The red eyes were there, watching.

“I’m giving Angelica an even better gift,” Luke said quietly, voice steady as stone. “You’re going to feel what her brother felt. The helplessness. The fear. You’ll die knowing no one’s coming to save you.”

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The creature roared. Paul screamed, summoning mana arms beneath him like makeshift legs, desperate for any form of escape. But the Midnight Warden was already there. It lunged forward, and its fist, massive, solid, inescapable, slammed into his chest. Paul was hurled through the air like a ragdoll, hitting the ground hard and rolling to a stop in a heap of broken limbs and blood.

Then came the stomp. The Warden’s boot came down on his leg, snapping bone like brittle sticks beneath its weight. Paul shrieked. Tears streamed from his face as mana arms lashed out in a frenzied flurry, slamming against the monster’s armor with no effect. His voice cracked with panic as he cried out again and again, throat raw, each word collapsing into pleading.

“Please! Help me! Somebody!”

The answer was silence. Then a hand wrapped around his torso and lifted him like nothing more than a sack of meat. A violent wrench tore his shoulder from the socket; his arm came free in a burst of blood.

Paul screamed again, a sound twisted with agony and terror. His voice broke completely, reduced to hoarse, guttural gasps as he was dragged across the shattered street, sobbing, bleeding, powerless. Above him, the moon glared down with indifference. Luke watched it all from the rooftop, unmoving, eyes unreadable.

The Midnight Warden dropped Paul, planted a heavy foot on his waist, and pressed down. The snap of breaking bone echoed down the empty street. Paul’s cry was short and jagged, his body already slipping toward unconsciousness. Then the shadow fell over his face. The Warden raised its boot.

An arrow pierced the night. It struck Paul cleanly in the side of the head, slicing through the temple, snapping bone. His body went still before it even hit the ground.

[You have slain a Human – Lvl 26 (Spectral Thief – Lvl 39)]

[You have gained +1 Soul Fragment]

**[You have reached Level 15! Half-Demon (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)**

Paul was dead. The Midnight Warden brought its boot down one final time, crushing what remained of his skull into the stone. It didn’t stop. Blow after blow reduced the corpse to pulp, a red stain in the moonlight. When the creature finally looked toward the rooftop, Luke was gone. He had already vanished into the dark.