I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord

The Icefang Cliffs loomed in the distance.

Sharp and jagged like broken teeth biting into the horizon, they jutted from the frozen ground in cruel angles, rising higher with each step forward. Cold winds swept down from the mountains, brushing frost through the trees and sending a low, eerie whistle across the land.

The cold was biting, but the sight brought something else—purpose.

They were getting close.

Darin exhaled a puff of white breath, watching it drift away. "So that's the Icefang Cliffs."

"Charming, aren't they?" the Sorceress muttered, returning from the prisoner tents, snow clinging to the hem of her cloak. Her tone was dry. Her expression sharper than the wind.

Darin turned to her. "Did you get anything from the Onis?"

"I did." She flicked her hand, conjuring a brief burst of flame to melt the snow from her sleeves. "Everything."

By midday, the camp had gathered.

A large fire blazed at the center, surrounded by fur-draped benches and rough-carved logs. Every division had sent representatives: soldiers, mercenaries, witches, knights, and even a few cautious Gallikarn warriors. The scouts stood silently, weapons resting near their seats but never too far.

The cyclops sat on a boulder at the edge of the gathering, massive arms folded. He didn't speak unless prompted—but his singular eye watched everything.

Darin stood near the center, arms crossed, waiting for the Sorceress to speak.

She stepped forward, cloak trailing behind her, her voice carrying with practiced calm.

"The Onis were agents. Not scouts. Assassins," she said simply. "They were sent by a warlord claiming dominion over the northern mountains. One who claims direct descent from the past Overlord's generals."

Murmurs rippled through the council.

"Do we have a name?" Alvin asked, arms folded tightly.

"No," the Sorceress said. "They never spoke it. The Onis said his name was forbidden. But they called him The Scarred Flame."

Vincent whistled low. "Dramatic."

"Warlords usually are," Darin muttered.

"He's been uniting the fragmented remnants of the old beast clans," she continued. "Trolls. Cyclopes. Fomorians. Gnolls. Hobgoblins. Raiders and nomadic tribes who once served the ancient Overlord's banner."

At that, all eyes drifted toward Darin.

He shifted awkwardly.

The Overlord in his head chuckled. "Ah. That brings back memories. The Scarred Flame, hmm? That was one of our ceremonial titles. It seems my legacy lives on… poorly."

Darin cleared his throat and tried not to visibly cringe. "Right. So… basically, bad news."

"They're raiding northern territories," the Sorceress continued. "Burning outposts. Destroying sacred sites of the beastfolk. That's why the Gallikarn were being pushed south. They weren't running. They were fleeing."

The elder Gallikarn at the meeting lowered his head solemnly. "Our people have been hunted. We crossed frozen rivers, climbed broken cliffs, and buried our dead in shallow snow."

"And still you managed to survive," the Sorceress said, her voice steady. "You have my respect."

Suddenly—

"EXCUSE ME!"

Everyone turned.

Grumble padded into the center of the circle… followed by the Gallikarn maiden from the day before. The same one who'd fainted in his presence.

She bowed deeply, her voice graceful and strong despite her flushed cheeks.

"I apologize for my interruption. I am Reeka of the Wind-Feather Tribe. Nineteen winters of age. First daughter of the high warrior's line."

Everyone blinked.

Darin raised a hand. "Uh… what are you doing here?"

She smiled brightly. "It is an honor to be recognized as the Shadow Beast's chosen. As his wife, I vow to dedicate myself fully to his well-being. I shall offer council, food, protection, and devotion as is tradition. I shall—"

"—He's a cat!" Darin said, pointing frantically. "A shadow cat!"

Reeka bowed again. "Yes. And I will serve him until death."

Grumble promptly climbed into her lap, curled up, and fell asleep.

Reeka fainted again, a blissful smile frozen on her face.

The camp exploded into murmurs.

Vincent leaned in to whisper to Darin, trying very hard not to laugh. "You know, now that I really think about it… Gallikarn women just look like humans with bird legs and a few feathers on their neck and arms."

"Yeah?" Darin muttered, still stunned.

"But Gallikarn men look like walking rotisserie chickens with armor."

Darin sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm too tired to argue with that."

"Do we get to keep her now?" Vincent whispered. "Or is she part of the logistics division?"

"Stop."

"Grumble's building a harem faster than you are."

"Please stop."

Order slowly returned, and the council resumed. Murgan, the Gallikarn elder, stepped forward once more, his large frame silhouetted against the firelight.

He bowed his head solemnly. "Before our tribe was scattered, we received word from the northern himas. The entire Northern Alliance was in the early stages of mobilizing an army to face the rising threat. Every race and species of the region, the dwarves of the Deep Forges, the elves of Sylvantir, the beastkin clans, even some of the lesser dragonkin, had begun gathering troops."

The camp quieted, all attention on him now.

"But…" Murgan's voice turned bitter, "as always, hesitation festers in the cracks between old enemies. Past grudges, clashing interests, border disputes… many leaders were reluctant to commit. Debates over resources and command delayed coordination. That's all we knew—until our tribe was overrun."

Darin frowned. "So the alliance might be—"

"Disbanded?" Murgan shook his head. "No. Not disbanded. But fractured. Its status now is unknown. Messengers stopped coming. Outposts went silent. We do not know who still stands."

The Sorceress narrowed her eyes. "But the High Clans?"

"They are likely still intact," Murgan confirmed. "Each High Clan is ruled by a Stage Five. The northern tribes are proud—and powerful. It would take more than raiding beasts to bring them down."

Vincent let out a long breath. "Stage Five rulers… sounds like we're dealing with serious power players."

Murgan turned his gaze to Darin. "If the alliance is still holding, you must reach them quickly. If not… then the north is already lost."

Darin exhaled slowly, the weight of the words pressing into his shoulders.

And then, of course—

"They believe the return of the Overlord is the reason these monsters are rising," Murgan added.

Darin winced. "Of course they do."

"And they believe you are that Overlord."

Every head turned to Darin again.

The fire crackled. Someone coughed. Steve sneezed.

The Overlord in Darin's head chuckled. "Well. At least they're not wrong. Though it's nice they still remember me. Feels a bit like fame."

Darin resisted the urge to groan aloud. "Can I go one week without being treated like a walking apocalypse warning?"

"No," the Sorceress said plainly, reading his expression like an open book.

After the council broke apart and strategy maps were rolled up, Darin sat on a crate near the fire, cradling a hot drink between his hands. His warhammer rested against his leg. The weight of plans, expectations, and oncoming war sat heavier than steel.

Alvin appeared next, dragging a stool over and dropping into it with a long sigh. "The northern summit might be our only shot at preventing an open war. If they think you're behind this…"

"…they'll fight us instead of the real enemy," Darin finished grimly.

"We'll deal with it," Vincent said with a shrug. "You've got a battle-forged army, a magic cat with a wife, a dragon with food hoarding issues, and an unreasonably powerful sorceress. How can we possibly lose?"

Grumble sneezed once and curled tighter into Reeka's lap—she was still blissfully unconscious from the overwhelming honor of being chosen.

Darin took a long sip from his mug, staring into the flames.

"…I really miss being a blacksmith."