I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord

Darin sneezed.

Loudly.

"AH—choo!"

He jolted so hard in the saddle that Steve besides him, currently in his full, proud war-beast mode—turned his head mid-stride and gave darin a long, slow blink.

"…Bless me," Darin muttered, rubbing his nose.

Vincent, riding ahead and perched on Grull's massive shoulder like a traveling philosopher-king, called back with a grin. "Is the mighty Overlord finally succumbing to mortal weaknesses? Shall we dig a hole and prepare a eulogy?"

"Shut up," Darin sniffed. "It's just the altitude."

"Or fate," the Sorceress murmured beside him, cloaked in her ever-present aura of knowing-too-much. "Your men are probably crying somewhere. The universe punishes leaders with sympathy sneezes."

Darin frowned. "That's not how magic works."

"You've met your cult. Are you sure?"

Fair point.

If Darin had any idea of what was actually happening back in Fort Blackthorn, the relentless drills, the gravity pits, the emotionally scarred cultists muttering mantras like 'I am the darkness, I am the cardio'—he might have cried for them.

Instead, he merely adjusted his cloak and sighed as the wind picked up. They were higher now, well into the northern ridgelines, past the worst of the Icefang Cliffs. The trails had narrowed, but the cold had eased slightly.

Ahead of them, the land dipped, revealing scattered pines and red-soiled rock.

And in the distance… warm, glowing light on the horizon.

The Ember Summit.

They were almost there.

But for now, the caravan was… calm.

Remarkably so.

Perhaps it was the altitude. Or maybe everyone just knew they were walking into a meeting that could either end a war, or start a much bigger one. Either way, the tension had faded slightly, leaving a strange sense of tranquility.

Even the camp dynamics had mellowed.

Grumble, the terrifying divine shadow-beast, was currently curled in Reeka's lap as she rode a modest horse near the rear of the column. The Gallikarn maiden had adapted to travel well. She wore her battle-feathers with pride now, and her spear never left her back. But whenever Grumble yawned or stretched, she paused everything to cradle him like a sacred relic.

"He's so warm," she whispered at one point, pressing her cheek to his side.

Grumble, who had just woken from his fifteenth nap, blinked once and returned to sleep.

The surrounding Gallikarn women watched with awe. One muttered, "She has been blessed with the sacred loaf posture."

Alvin, meanwhile, had gone full cavalry.

And by cavalry, it meant he had finally given in to Steve's incessant shoulder-nudging and accepted him as a steed.

The oversized adolescent dragon was now galloping at a steady pace with Alvin perched on his back like an unamused knight being escorted by the world's fluffiest, steak-scented war engine.

Steve snorted proudly every time someone looked at them.

Vincent, of course, was above such trivial matters. Literally.

He was sitting cross-legged on Grull's massive shoulder, one hand extended lazily as if conjuring ancient wisdom from thin air. His cloak fluttered dramatically in the wind, and he looked very pleased with himself.

"Do you know what separates a sage from a lunatic?" he asked nobody in particular.

Alvin replied instantly. "You being quiet."

But the real chaos was happening behind them.

The Stranger, who had mysteriously gone missing during their last campaign (and was later discovered giving speeches atop flaming barricades inside the very town they were rescuing), was currently deep in conversation with Murgan, the Gallikarn elder.

The two walked side by side, robes fluttering, beards waving (only one of them had one, but it still waved heroically).

"I must say," Murgan was saying thoughtfully, "your Lord Darin's wisdom runs deep."

"Oh, unfathomably deep," the Stranger beamed. "It is said he once decided the fate of an entire village using only a hammer and a single eyebrow raise."

"Truly?" Murgan asked, wide-eyed.

The Stranger nodded solemnly. "He called it the Great horseshoe Ultimatum."

Murgan blinked. "And… it worked?"

"Of course it worked. The hammer was made of elderwood. And the eyebrow had been cursed by a minor deity."

Murgan placed a hand to his chest. "His legends grow stranger by the day."

"They grow truer," the Stranger corrected. "Just yesterday, he absorbed the dark essence of four wendigos. Didn't even flinch. Just took a sip of tea, looked to the north, and said—"

He dropped his voice.

"'Guess I'll eat that, too.'"

Murgan gasped. "A truly bottomless hunger."

"Not metaphorical. He's still chewing on jerky right now."

Behind them, Darin muttered to himself, trying to unwrap a stubborn food pouch.

As for the actual romance everyone had definitely noticed but was too polite, or too scared—to mention…

It was slow. Quiet. But very real.

The Sorceress rode slightly ahead of the group, as always, her staff resting diagonally across her back, her cloak trimmed in black and ember-orange. But now, when Darin caught up to her, she didn't walk faster.

She slowed down.

"You slept poorly again," she said once, her voice low. "The mark on your arm was glowing last night."

Darin nodded. "It… pulses, sometimes. When the cores move through me."

"The dark energy is adapting to you," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Or you to it."

He gave her a weak smile. "Is that good?"

She studied him.

"You haven't gone mad yet," she said finally.

"High praise."

"And you've only threatened to destroy reality twice. That's restraint."

"…Okay, now I know you're teasing."

"I am," she admitted. Then she glanced away. "But your aura had gotten stronger, and the posture? admirable."

"You mean since I became a walking abomination magnet and occasional overlord?"

She looked back, her violet eyes softening. "No. Since you started caring what happened after."

Darin blinked.

She turned ahead again. "That's when people become dangerous. When they stop surviving and start planning."

He smiled faintly, then nudged his horse slightly closer, so their arms almost brushed. Just close enough.

"Thanks," he said. "For… being here."

She didn't look at him directly, but she smiled.

"You're a very stupid man," she said.

"I know."

"…But I like stupid things."

The group reached the edge of a ridgeline around midafternoon.

The wind shifted.

And there it was.

The Ember Summit.

They had made it.

It rose in layers from the rocky slope below, built on ancient basalt foundations that glowed faintly with geothermal veins. Wide red steps carved into the earth led to spires of obsidian and heat-hardened stone, where banners from nearly twenty different races and tribes flapped in the cold wind.

Smoke coiled from the summit's highest halls—ceremonial flames and signaling fires.

It was alive.

It was active.

And, most notably, it was guarded.

Armored figures lined the lower gate. Some beastkin. Some elves. Others harder to place, hulking giants with silver-scarred armor, half-dragons with crystal-forged halberds, and mages with eyes glowing like embers.

One of the scouts, leaning against a tree nearby, let out a low breath. "That's more power in one building than half the kingdoms put together."

Vincent, still doing dramatic hand gestures from Grull's shoulder, nodded slowly. "Well, this is it."

Alvin grunted. "No more jokes."

"I can't promise that."

Reeka, still quietly cuddling Grumble in her lap, whispered, "Do we kneel when we reach the gate?"

"No," Darin said quietly, rising in his saddle. "We don't kneel."

He looked down at the mark on his arm. It pulsed once, warm.

Then he looked ahead.

"We walk in like we belong. Because we do."

The Sorceress gave him a sidelong look.

"Now that," she said, "sounded like an Overlord."

Grull snorted. "Are we hitting something or not?"

"Soon," Darin said, exhaling slowly.

Then, quietly—half to himself, half to the voice that had never left him, he whispered:

"You ready?"

The Overlord in his mind purred.

"Oh, I've been ready for centuries. Let's see if the world still remembers why they feared me."