Page 10 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)
Lucien/Beau
“ T hese should be suitable, my lord,” Azrael said, presenting me with an ensemble that struck a reasonable balance between “fearsome dark lord” and “won’t chafe in uncomfortable places.
” Black pants and a midnight-blue shirt with minimal skull motifs—practically business casual for the aspiring world dominator.
As I dressed, the fabric darkened beneath my fingers like a mood ring having an existential crisis.
“Did the cloth just… move?” I asked, staring at my sleeve like it might bite me. Just what I needed—sentient clothing. Because regular laundry wasn’t complicated enough.
“Your garments are woven with shadow essence, my lord,” Azrael explained with the patience of someone talking to a toddler discovering their own reflection. “They respond to your power, even unconsciously.”
Fantastic. I was one emotional breakdown away from turning my underwear into a black hole. Talk about a wardrobe malfunction.
Azrael guided me through a series of descending corridors, each one darker and more ominous than the last. The castle’s interior decorator had clearly been going through a “dungeon chic” phase.
The temperature dropped with every step, like walking into a freezer section where they stored evil instead of frozen pizzas.
Finally, we reached a set of massive doors carved with intricate runes that pulsed with eerie blue light. They screamed “something terrible happens in here” louder than a horror movie basement.
“The Training Sanctum,” Azrael announced with all the dramatic flair of a game show host revealing the grand prize.
Inside was what could only be described as a magical panic room on steroids—a massive underground space that made my old gym look like a broom closet.
Training dummies stood in various positions, all looking suspiciously like they were plotting revenge for past abuse.
Weapon racks lined one wall, half-empty, as if the previous occupants had left in a hurry. Or died horribly.
“The barriers can withstand even your most destructive abilities,” Azrael explained, gesturing to the glowing runes that covered the walls like mystical graffiti. “Though I would recommend avoiding the Void Collapse technique. The eastern wing took three months to rebuild after your last attempt.”
No pressure or anything. Just don’t accidentally delete part of the castle while figuring out powers I didn’t know I had. Piece of cake. About as easy as defusing a nuclear bomb while wearing oven mitts.
“I require absolute privacy for this… recalibration of my powers,” I said, hoping I sounded mysterious rather than constipated. My customer service voice was finally proving useful for something other than apologizing for shipping delays.
Azrael bowed with fluid grace. “Of course, my lord. I shall ensure you are not disturbed.” He backed toward the doors. “The communication crystal by the entrance will summon me should you require assistance. I shall begin preparations for your meeting with the generals afterward.”
The moment those doors closed, I did a little victory dance that would have instantly destroyed any respect my demonic subjects might have had for me. It fell somewhere between “drunk uncle at a wedding” and “person who just found out they won a free burrito.”
“Okay, Beau,” I muttered to myself, “time to see if you’ve got the goods or if you’re just wearing the magical equivalent of stuffed socks in your metaphorical bra.”
In the game, Lucien Noir had been a Void Sovereign—basically the edgelord supreme of character classes.
Level ninety-nine with all the top-tier shadow abilities unlocked through hundreds of hours of gameplay, raid completions, and more microtransactions than my bank account wants to remember.
I’d been the digital equivalent of a trust fund baby, throwing real money at virtual problems.
I closed my eyes, trying to remember how I’d activated abilities in the game. In Enolyn, you’d select skills from a hotbar or use keyboard shortcuts. Obviously, I couldn’t press F5 in real life unless I wanted to look like I was checking myself for ticks.
“Status window,” I commanded. Nothing happened.
“Skills list?” Still nothing.
“Character sheet? Player menu? Help?”
After several more increasingly desperate attempts that made me sound like I was having a conversation with an uncooperative call assistant, I flopped down on the stone floor with a groan. My butt immediately regretted this decision—apparently, magical training rooms didn’t prioritize ergonomics.
“Great. I get transported to a fantasy world but the user interface doesn’t come with me. Typical.”
I stared up at the distant ceiling, which looked about as inviting as the underside of my college roommate’s bed. Lucien’s signature move had been Shadow Step—a short-range teleport that had saved my digital bacon more times than I could count.
“Maybe I’m overthinking this,” I muttered, climbing back to my feet with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. “Maybe it’s like trying to remember the name of that actor—the harder you think about it, the more it eludes you, but the second you start talking about something else, bam!”
I focused on a shadowy corner across the room, trying to imagine myself stepping into the darkness here and emerging there. I visualized the game animation—Lucien dissolving into shadow particles and reforming, like a very dramatic way to avoid walking.
Nothing happened, except for a slight twitch in my left eyelid.
“Come on,” I growled, trying again with more concentration. Still nothing. This was going about as well as my attempt to learn Spanish through osmosis by sleeping.
After five more failed attempts, frustration got the better of me. “Why won’t you WORK?” I shouted, stomping my foot like a toddler denied a second helping of ice cream.
And that’s when it happened—not because of any technique or visualization, but because of pure emotional response.
The shadows around my feet suddenly surged up my legs like living ink.
There was a sensation of movement without moving, like being underwater but without the pressure, and suddenly I was across the room.
“Holy shit!” I yelped, stumbling as I materialized. The feeling was nothing like clicking a button in a game—it was disorienting, exhilarating, and slightly nauseating all at once. Like riding a roller coaster with your eyes closed while someone unexpectedly tickles you.
I steadied myself against the wall, heart pounding faster than a caffeinated hamster on a wheel. “Okay, that was… intense. Zero stars, would not recommend as a hangover cure.”
So it wasn’t about commands or visualizing game mechanics—it was about intention and emotion. The power responded to what I wanted, not how I tried to activate it. Less like typing console commands and more like throwing a temper tantrum until the universe gave in.
Let’s try something else. In the game, Dark Armory had been one of my favorite abilities—creating weapons from shadow itself. I’d spent an embarrassing amount of real money on cosmetic skins for my shadow blades.
Instead of trying to “select” the ability, I simply focused on the concept of a sword, extending my hand and willing the darkness to form a blade.
The shadows around me stirred reluctantly, swirling toward my palm in wispy tendrils, but dissipating before forming anything solid—like smoke trying to remember it had once been a forest fire.
“Almost,” I muttered. “Come on, I know you’re in there.”
I closed my eyes, remembering how it felt to use this ability in the game—the satisfaction of a perfectly timed weapon summons, the rush of executing a flawless combo. I reached for that feeling, that confidence that had been so easy when it was just pixels on a screen.
The air around my hand suddenly grew cold enough to make a freezer jealous.
When I opened my eyes, I was holding… well, sort of holding…
a sword made of shifting darkness. Unlike the clean, defined edges of the game weapon, this one pulsed and rippled like it was only barely maintaining its shape, edges constantly dissolving and reforming.
It looked like someone had tried to make a sword out of television static.
“Now we’re talking.” I grinned, giving it an experimental swing that nearly sent me pirouetting across the room like a very deadly ballerina.
In the game, shadow weapons had been weightless, but this felt substantial—not heavy exactly but possessing a presence that required actual physical effort to control.
I swung at a nearby training dummy, expecting the clean, precise damage animation I was used to.
Instead, the blade passed through with a sound like tearing silk, leaving a jagged gash that leaked shadows instead of blood.
The cut edges smoldered with dark energy, gradually disintegrating rather than making a clean separation.
Less like a clean sword cut and more like I’d introduced the dummy to a very angry paper shredder.
“Whoa,” I breathed. “Definitely not just a reskin of a regular sword. More like a delete button with a handle.”
The weapon dissipated as my concentration wavered, darkness scattering like smoke in wind or my savings account after a sale.
Creating it again was easier the second time, my body remembering the feeling.
With each attempt, the blade became more defined, more stable, less like it was suffering from an existential crisis.
I moved on to another ability—Abyssal Flames. In the game, this had been a straightforward area of effect attack that dealt shadow damage over time, perfect for taking down groups of enemies or making s’mores if you were into the whole “void-flavored marshmallow” thing.
I focused on the concept of dark fire, extending my hand toward another dummy with all the confidence of a pyromaniac at a fireworks factory.