Chapter 95: Becoming the Darkness

Luke was alone in the tent, seated in front of the pale system light. The interface hovered before him, silent but heavy with meaning. Upon reaching level 20 in his class, five skill options had appeared. He could choose only one.

Each decision would shape not just his combat style, but possibly his fate.

The skills were:

[Corpsewalk Teleport], [Thorncut], [Blood Drain], [Reaper’s Eyes], and the final one.

And it was the last that made him hesitate the most.

[Wraith Form (Ultra-Rare)]: Your body dissolves into a floating black mist, transforming into a living darkness with no defined shape. In this state, physical attacks become useless against you, as your form becomes ethereal. You slide seamlessly through your surroundings, moving like an intelligent veil of darkness, passing through bars, cracks, and narrow openings. An elusive presence, impossible to trap. A silhouette without flesh, dancing between the edges of reality and the void.

Luke read the description more than once.

“I’d be like… some kind of damned dementor?” he muttered, pacing circles in the tent.

The space wasn’t large, but he and Allison had extended it a few days ago with extra fabric—enough room for restlessness.

Maybe not exactly a dementor… more like a sentient cloud of darkness.

It was a terrifying ability—and a powerful one.

To become a specter. Untouchable. Unpredictable. He could dodge attacks, pass through tight spaces, infiltrate the unreachable corners of the Wild Zone. Maybe even reach the fortress of the second mechanism without triggering any alarms.

The possibilities felt endless.

And that was exactly why he needed to think clearly.

Coldly.

It’s not complete invulnerability. If my mana runs out while I’m inside a tunnel, or worse, a pipe, I’ll turn back into a human and get crushed to death.

There were risks. Big ones.

Even so… paired with his Demonic Perception, he could become a creature of absolute darkness. He could move through cracks, pipelines, fissures in rock—and see clearly where anyone else would get lost and die.

Not to mention the stealth potential.

Luke leaned on the crate that served as his table, his eyes still locked on the interface. Each of the skills offered a different future.

[Corpsewalk Teleport] was perfect for an aggressive, relentless style. In a fight against multiple enemies, he could kill one and instantly teleport through their corpse, dancing between bodies like a shadow blade.

[Thorncut] would make him a living storm. Every strike would plant thorns that tore enemies from the inside out, punishing them simply for moving.

[Blood Drain] was almost a brutal evolution of Basic Blood Regeneration. He’d bite, feed, and heal. Savage. Too beastly—even for him.

[Reaper’s Eyes] gave tactical advantage. Seeing the life aura of enemies—knowing who was on the edge of death and who still had strength. Knowing when to pull back. When to kill.

And finally…

[Wraith Form].

It wasn’t a direct combat skill. It was the kind of power that elevated its user—if used right.

“If I want to walk with death,” he murmured, “this is like putting on the shroud myself.”

He exhaled slowly. The weight of the dilemma pressed on him more than he expected.

But the decision was drawing closer. And he knew that once it was done, there would be no turning back.

Teleportation was tempting. Incredibly tempting. But at that moment, Luke wasn’t thinking about offensive maneuvers or quick escapes. He was thinking about getting out of the tutorial.

Wraith Form might help him pass through the fortress alarms without setting them off, and that alone would be enough. But there was more. Something visceral inside him, his instinct. A demonic whisper deep within, telling him this was the right choice. He couldn’t explain how, but… there was an unsettling, unshakable certainty.

He didn’t hesitate any longer.

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[You have acquired the Class Skill: Wraith Form]

The moment it happened, his body reacted.

A wave of heat climbed up his spine and rushed into his skull. His mind was flooded with flashes, rapid, chaotic images he couldn’t follow: a darkness rising from the earth, smiling, dissolving into the night, slipping through walls, patrols, chains.

Then came the pain. Brief, sharp, as if a spike had been driven into his forehead.

And it passed.

Luke stumbled forward.

Something felt wrong.

His fingers swelled, as if the blood had been forced to the surface. His clothes puffed outward, then seemed to lose volume. His heartbeat—went silent. The air turned cold. And in the next instant, his body lost all form.

He simply dissolved.

It was like being outside himself—but still inside something. He saw inward and outward at the same time, aware in all directions. He was a dark mist, dense, floating inches above the ground. No eyes. No mouth. No skin. Only presence.

A living darkness.

Is this… me?

He moved. Instinctively, his spectral body glided like smoke through the tent, curling around furniture, slipping through the breeze that crept in through the seams of the fabric. He felt every current of air as if it were part of him.

He focused.

The dark mist began to take shape again. He molded it—arms, a head, a hooded silhouette with no face. A floating shadow.