Page 19 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

“So this is basically the tutorial version of the guy who wants to stab me. Fantastic.”

The first construct lunged at me, and something extraordinary happened.

As it attacked, images flashed through my mind—not my memories of dying in a call center while fantasizing about tacos, but Lucien’s.

I suddenly knew this training exercise, had performed it hundreds of times over centuries.

My body remembered the optimal response pattern, the most efficient way to dispatch these particular constructs.

At the same time, I recognized the scenario from the game—a mid-level training quest called “The Circle of Shadows” that I’d run countless times to farm XP when I should have been studying for finals.

My fingers twitched, muscle memory from years of gaming trying to press buttons that didn’t exist in this reality.

“Right trigger, X, X, left bumper, special move,” my brain helpfully suggested as my body executed a perfect counterattack that would have made the game developers weep with joy.

“Combo breaker!” I shouted as I dispatched the first construct, then immediately winced at the gaming reference.

Azrael’s brow furrowed. “Combo… breaker? Is that a new battle cry, my lord?”

“Ancient battle cry,” I improvised wildly. “From the, uh, northern demon clans. Very traditional. They yell it when breaking an enemy’s attack sequence. Fearsome warriors, those northern demons. Big fans of shouting nonsense in combat.”

“I see,” Azrael replied in a tone that suggested he absolutely did not see but was too polite to call his lord a terrible liar to his face. “Your knowledge of obscure battle traditions is… impressive.”

The result was like having a professional driver take the wheel while backseat me kept shouting unnecessary directions. My body moved with Lucien’s practiced skill while my mind processed the familiar patterns from hours of gameplay.

I parried the first construct’s attack and spun to face the second, my blade leaving trails of shadow in its wake like the world’s most deadly sparkler.

Without conscious thought, I channeled power into the sword, extending its reach with a blade of pure darkness that sliced through two constructs simultaneously.

“Excellent form, my lord,” Azrael commented as I flowed between opponents with increasing confidence. “Your technique against multiple opponents has always been exemplary.”

“Thanks! I’ve been practicing in my dreams!” I quipped, narrowly avoiding a shadow axe to the face. “Nothing says ‘restful sleep’ like imaginary decapitation!”

The sensation was nothing like pressing X to not die.

The weight of the sword, the resistance as it connected with targets, the way shadow energy responded to my emotions—it was like comparing a driving simulator to actually doing donuts in a parking lot.

One was pressing buttons to make pretty pictures move; the other was a full-body, holy-crap-this-is-actually-happening experience.

I shadow-stepped behind a construct, feeling the cool rush of darkness envelop me like diving into a pool of midnight before I reformed, my blade already swinging to remove its head.

Another lunged from my left, and I instinctively created a shadow shield that absorbed its attack before I countered.

“Parry this, you filthy casual!” I shouted, decapitating the construct with perhaps more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.

Azrael’s eyebrow raised fractionally. “Filthy… casual?”

“Another northern battle cry,” I said quickly. “They’re very… creative with their insults. Psychological warfare. Very effective.”

“Indeed,” Azrael murmured. “The northern clans seem to have developed a most… unique combat vocabulary during your slumber.”

Within minutes, I’d dispatched all twelve constructs, ending in a defensive stance with my shadow-enhanced blade at the ready. My breathing was slightly elevated, but not from exertion—from the pure, unadulterated glee of discovering I was basically a walking weapon of mass destruction.

“Holy mother of gaming gods.” I laughed, dismissing the shadow extension from my sword. “That was better than unlocking a legendary achievement while simultaneously being told the pizza guy got the order wrong and threw in free breadsticks!”

Azrael’s head tilted slightly, like a confused puppy encountering a new sound. “Pizza… guy?”

I froze. Shit. “Uh, that’s northern demon slang for ‘enemy supply courier.’ You know, because they… deliver… things. And sometimes they get the order wrong and you get extra… supplies. It’s a very specific metaphor.”

“I see,” Azrael replied in a tone that suggested he was mentally compiling a list titled “Strange Things My Lord Has Said Since Awakening.” “Your knowledge of regional dialectics is most impressive.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “So, how’d I do? Pass the ‘not going to get immediately murdered by heroes’ test?”

“Impressive,” Azrael said, something like pride gleaming in his eyes. “You dispatched them three point seven seconds faster than your previous record.”

I blinked. “I have a record? Do I get a trophy? Maybe a little shadow plaque that says ‘Best Dummy Slayer, Third Century Running’?”

“You established several training benchmarks before your… absence,” Azrael explained, diplomatically avoiding terms like “mysterious disappearance” or “possible personality transplant.” “This particular exercise was one of your favorites.”

That explained why it had felt so familiar—both from the game and from Lucien’s muscle memory.

The convergence of those two sets of knowledge had created something new, a fighting style that combined Lucien’s centuries of experience with my understanding of game mechanics and inappropriately timed pop-culture references.

“It feels different than I remember,” I said carefully, testing how much I could admit without raising suspicion. “More… immediate. Less like watching myself fight and more like actually, you know, stabbing things.”

“After such an extended period of magical slumber, some sensory adjustments are to be expected,” Azrael replied, buying my explanation with suspicious ease. “Your connection to your physical form will strengthen with practice.”

He approached, adjusting my grip on the sword slightly. “You favor your right side more than you once did,” he said. “And your shadow extensions manifest differently—more fluid, less structured.”

His hand lingered on mine for a moment longer than necessary, cool fingers against my skin sending an unexpected jolt up my arm that had nothing to do with shadow magic and everything to do with the fact that my demon butler was, objectively speaking, hot enough to melt tungsten.

This had been happening more frequently over the past days—casual touches that lasted just a beat too long, lingering glances when he thought I wasn’t looking.

During our morning routine, his hands would brush against mine while helping me dress, or his fingers would trail along my shoulders while adjusting my collar.

Small moments of contact that seemed calculated to drive me slowly insane.

When our eyes met, I caught a flicker of something in those crimson depths—a heat that had nothing to do with combat training.

Well, well, well. Isn’t that interesting?

“Different how?” I asked, not stepping away from his proximity because I’m not an idiot. “Like, ‘you’re doing it wrong’ different or ‘ooh, that’s a spicy new technique’ different?”

Azrael seemed to realize he was still touching me and withdrew his hand with practiced composure that couldn’t quite hide the reluctance behind it. “Previously, your shadow constructs were precise, architectural—perfect replicas of physical weapons. Now they appear more… organic. Adaptive.”

“Is that bad? Because if I’m doing shadow magic wrong, that’s kind of on-brand for me. I’ve never been great with instruction manuals.”

“Merely different,” he replied. “Perhaps even more effective. Adaptability in combat is a significant advantage.”

He gestured to the training floor, where more shadow constructs formed like the world’s most lethal flash mob. “Shall we continue? I believe you were experimenting with combining Shadow Step with Dark Armory before your… rest.”

The way he hesitated over explanations for my three-hundred-year absence made me wonder exactly what Azrael thought had happened to his master.

Did he suspect I wasn’t the same Lucien he’d served?

Or did he simply attribute the changes to whatever magical coma I’d supposedly been in?

Either way, his diplomatic avoidance of the topic was Olympic-level verbal gymnastics.

“Let’s try something different,” I suggested, banishing those worries for later examination, preferably with alcohol. “You and me. Sparring match.”

Azrael’s eyebrows rose fractionally, the demon equivalent of a shocked gasp. “My lord?”

“You’re the only one who can give me a real challenge,” I pointed out. “The constructs are predictable. I need to test myself against someone who can think and adapt. You know, someone who won’t fall for the ‘look behind you’ trick three times in a row.”

A gleam of something like anticipation flashed in his eyes before his butler mask slipped back into place faster than a politician backpedaling after a hot mic incident. “If that is your wish, my lord. Though I should note that my abilities, while considerable, are not equal to your own.”

“Then you’ll just have to get creative.” I grinned, dropping into a fighting stance. “Don’t hold back. Think of it as a performance review with swords.”

“As you command,” he replied, his formal tone belied by the predatory grace with which he drew his own practice blade. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was actually looking forward to this.