The Great Villain! Wants to Start a Cult...?

"You heard me right, you Gubbo!" Lucian declared, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed in absolute confidence.

"You're going to be the first general of the Dark Lord's ever-growing army! Consider it an honor." He smirked, his tone dripping with arrogance and flamboyance.

The goblin shaman blinked. Then, slowly, he raised a hand.

Lucian cracked open one eye, peering at the goblin with mild irritation. "What?"

"But… me already goblin leader?" the shaman stated bluntly.

Lucian froze.

Oh.

Wait. No. That wasn't a mistake. It was a strategic power move. Yes. That's exactly what it was. Obviously

For a brief moment, his mind scrambled for an elegant way out—some masterful display of rhetoric to turn this blunder into a stroke of genius. Instead, he coughed into his fist.

"Ahem… Yes. I obviously knew that. But!" He straightened, puffing out his chest. "You'll see in time, my new second-in-command."

A terrible response.

Lucian braced himself for ridicule. Yet, to his surprise, the goblins didn't question it. In fact, they beamed with excitement, as if their old leader's 'promotion' was a cause for celebration.

The goblin shaman, on the other hand, squinted at Lucian with an expression teetering between skepticism and resignation.

"...Okay?" he muttered, clearly less convinced than the others, but still bowing to the sheer power difference between them.

"Good!" Lucian clapped his hands together. "For your first task as my glorified second-in-command, I need you to point me toward the nearest human settlement." He rubbed his hands together, violet eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Before the shaman could respond, another goblin—perhaps a little too eager to impress—simply lifted a gnarled green finger and pointed north.

Lucian grinned. "Excellent. Since even the common rabble knows the way, that makes things easier." He turned on his heel, pacing back and forth like a villain delivering a grand monologue.

"Block the roads. Rob the caravans! Strip the merchants of their wares!" He paused, then cleared his throat. "Ahem… of course, ignore anyone too armored. That's a given."

"Anyway, see you later, my dear followers!" Lucian waved a dramatic salute as he strode toward the goblin hut's exit. The goblins stared in renewed confusion, while the shaman remained frozen in pure flabbergast—still reeling from the sudden weight of responsibility.

"Arrivederci!" Lucian called over his shoulder before slamming the gate shut behind him. He turned in the direction the goblin had vaguely pointed earlier, setting off with a confident stride.

"Monster army? Check." He mentally ticked off his ever-growing list of villainous necessities. "Next order of business?" He tapped a gloved finger against his lips, contemplating.

Then, a sudden spark of realization.

"Aha!" He clapped his hands together, his expression lighting up—not with the sinister glee of a Dark Lord, but with the pure, unrestrained excitement of a child struck by a brilliant idea. "A cult!"

Time passed, and Lucian's initial enthusiasm gradually gave way to frustration. His tattered cape snagged on low branches, his armor weighed him down, and without goblins to guide him, he found himself wandering aimlessly through the dense forest. More than once, he tripped over a root, cursed, dusted himself off, and stubbornly pressed forward.

"Man… I really did rely too much on that random demon navigator I subjugated," he muttered, shaking his head.

Finally, with a huff of exasperation, he came to a halt.

"Enough of this nonsense." With a dramatic flourish, he unbuckled his armor and let the heavy plates clatter to the ground. His tattered cape followed, discarded without a second thought.

Now, clad only in a crisp white button-up shirt with a high collar, a dark ribbon tied elegantly at the neck, sleek gloves, and fitted black trousers secured with a polished belt, Lucian straightened with a satisfied smirk. Even in the middle of the wilderness, his aristocratic air remained unshaken.

He adjusted his ribbon with practiced finesse, then ran a hand through his hair as if he were in the middle of a high-stakes modeling competition.

"Much better," he mused, admiring his own reflection in a nearby puddle. "Dashing as always."

With renewed confidence—and significantly less unnecessary weight—he set off once more, his mind already spinning with ideas for his grand new cult.

An hour passes before Lucian finally emerges from the dense thicket, brushing stray leaves from his shirt.

"Well, that was far easier than expected," he mutters, straightening his posture.

Ahead, a massive walled city looms on the horizon, its stone fortifications standing tall against the evening sky. A smirk tugs at Lucian's lips.

"Time for the next phase of my grand plan!"

With confident strides, he follows the dirt road leading toward the city. But before he can bask in his own magnificence for too long, the rumbling of hooves interrupts his thoughts.

A carriage barrels down the path beside him, its wheels kicking up dust.

"Out of the way, you damned fool!" the coachman shouts—a grizzled old dwarf with a face as craggy as the mountains.

Lucian, however, does not move. He keeps walking in a straight line, deliberately blocking the carriage's path.

"I am far more important than you. Be patient—I arrived first," he declares, chin held high.

The coachman's thick brows shoot up in sheer irritation.

"And just who in the blazes do you think you are?" he snaps, fully expecting Lucian to be some self-important peasant who doesn't know his place.

Lucian spins around dramatically, crossing his arms while extending one in a grand flourish.

"Feast your eyes! I am Lucian!" he announces, expecting awe—perhaps even fear—at the revelation of his identity.

Instead, the coachman's eyes gleam with something entirely different. Not fear. Not respect.

Greed.

"O-Oh! A noble, are you?" The dwarf quickly hops down from his perch, bowing slightly—his gaze lingering on Lucian's expensive (albeit slightly worn) attire. And now that he takes a proper look, Lucian's chiseled features scream "wealthy aristocrat" to someone like him.

Lucian beams at the belated recognition.

"About time you realized. I am a noble of the highest caliber!" He puffs out his chest, basking in the perceived admiration.

"My lord! Such an oversight on my part!" The coachman's voice turns honeyed, and with a deep, exaggerated bow, he gestures toward his carriage. "Surely, feet as noble as yours should not be subjected to the hardships of walking like us commoners! Please, allow me to offer you a ride in my humble carriage."

Lucian taps a finger against his chin, as if giving the proposal deep consideration.

"Hmm… Very well," he finally concedes, exuding pure, unshakable pride. "I shall forgive you for failing to recognize me sooner."

The coachman opens the carriage door with the grace of a seasoned butler, and Lucian steps inside with the air of a king reclaiming his throne.

As the door shuts behind him, the coachman rubs his hands together, a knowing grin spreading across his face.

"What a catch. Helping a noble like him could pay off nicely in the long run," he mutters under his breath before climbing back to the driver's seat, blissfully unaware of just who he has invited into his carriage.

After a few minutes, the carriage finally rolled past the city gates, Lucian gazing out at the bustling streets lined with houses and shops. How long had it been since he last walked through a city like this? Back when he was still the Dark Lord, settlements like these were mere dots on his conquest map—places to be razed or ruled. But now…

The carriage slowed to a stop. The coachman swiftly dismounted and strode to the door, pulling it open with a practiced bow.

"We've arrived, my lord."

Lucian stepped out with effortless grace, taking in the cityscape once more. The energy, the life—it was almost nostalgic.

"You've done well," he said, clapping the coachman's back.

The coachman blinked, then hesitated. He rubbed his fingers together expectantly. "So, uh… about the payment?"

Lucian tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"The fare? For the ride? Obviously?" The coachman's confusion deepened. A noble like this should have money—shouldn't he?

Lucian met his gaze with utter nonchalance. "I don't have any money."

A vein twitched on the coachman's forehead. "You—what?" He took a breath. "Okay, okay, fine. Surely you have something of value?"

Lucian considered the request, then smiled. "Ah, I see! You desire a reward. Fret not, for I shall bestow upon you something far greater than mere coin!"

With a dramatic flourish, he conjured his Dominion Codex.

The coachman's eyes widened in shock. A book that thick—no, that massive—could only belong to someone of terrifying power. Archmage-level. Maybe even hero-tier.

Lucian smirked, reveling in the reaction. "As you have aided me, I grant you my protection! No harm shall befall you so long as you stand under my shadow."

The coachman gulped, uncertain whether he'd just been blessed or cursed.

Right on cue, the Dominion Codex shimmered, its pages flipping on their own before settling on a new inscription beneath the Dominion of Villainy:

"A Dwarf's Horror (Partial)."

Lucian's smirk deepened as he scanned the words. Another one for the list.