I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord

The smell of scorched soil still clung to the air. But the battlefield had quieted.

The ants were dead or scattered, the Queen slain, the swarm broken.

What remained was the aftermath.

The wounded stretched in lines like fallen dominoes—dozens upon dozens of them. Some groaning. Some silent. Some barely hanging on.

And Darin walked among them.

He didn't wear armor. He didn't ride a warhorse or shout orders like a conquering general. But as he passed, people sat up. Heads turned. Eyes followed.

Each time he knelt, placed his hand upon a broken limb or scorched chest, a warm pulse of power spilled from his touch, subtle but undeniable. Torn skin mended. Burned flesh cooled. Bones realigned. Pain ebbed.

It was slow. It was exhausting. But it worked.

And the people saw.

The cultists, of course, were first.

A bald one sobbed openly, clutching at his half-healed ribs as Darin stood up from his side.

"He is the Overlord!" the man wailed, his tears dripping into the dirt. "He is! Look upon him and know it! We are blessed, blessed to walk beside his shadow!"

From the next row, another cultist gripped Darin's ankle, then immediately recoiled, afraid he had overstepped.

But Darin just nodded once, silent, and moved on.

Behind him, the man collapsed onto his knees, weeping into the earth. "His mercy is real! His hand brings life! He gives and he guides!"

The whisper spread like a breeze across a field.

He healed with his hand.

He healed with his presence.

The Overlord walks again.

Darin's hand hovered over another man's chest.

This one was a mercenary, mid-thirties, scarred face, a sword arm that looked like it had been crushed in a vice. Blood matted his clothes, and his breath rattled in and out like a wheezing bellows.

"Easy," Darin said quietly, laying a palm gently on the man's shoulder.

The man flinched, and then—

A pulse.

Soft. Warm. Almost invisible.

The injured man's eyes widened. His shattered ribs shifted—snapping back into place. His blood slowed, wounds closing, bones knitting together with faint golden light that bled from Darin's fingers.

The man let out a shaky breath.

Then he wept.

He whispered, almost in disbelief, "I… I didn't believe it. I didn't. I just wanted my pay. Just wanted a story to tell at taverns."

He tried to sit up, reaching for Darin's hand with trembling fingers. "… I only joined for gold," he rasped. "Land. Glory. I thought—hell, I knew the stories about you were exaggerated. I thought 'Overlord' was just a title. But this, this is…"

He couldn't finish.

His eyes brimmed over.

"You saved me," he whispered.

Darin blinked, unsure how to respond. "I… yeah. I guess I did."

The floodgates were open.

Cultists whispered prayers beneath their breath.

Soldiers bowed their heads.

A few of the tougher mercs just sat there blinking, like they'd been hit in the face with a wine barrel full of guilt and divine revelation.

Behind it all, the Stranger stood with folded hands and a triumphant smile that said, "I told you so," without uttering a word.

Darin sighed and crouched beside a young woman missing a chunk of her shoulder. She flinched when his hand neared her.

But as soon as he touched her skin—

Her breathing eased.

And she cried too.

Behind him, another voice cracked, this one higher pitched.

A cultist, barely out of his teens, knelt beside one of the dead. He wasn't weeping for the fallen.

He was crying because he wasn't dead.

"My Lord… my Overlord," the cultist sobbed, pressing his forehead into the dirt. "You are merciful! Merciful even to the faithless! You walk among us as flame, and yet we do not burn! You shine, and yet we are not blinded!"

"Oh gods," Darin muttered under his breath.

Another cultist nearby screamed, "He heals the fallen! He touches the dying and they RISE AGAIN!"

"I'm not resurrecting anyone!" Darin shouted defensively, waving a hand. "Stop screaming like I'm doing necromancy!"

A nearby retired soldier watched the cultists chant with wild eyes. Then he looked at Darin, looked him in the eye.

And slowly, he went down to one knee.

"I fought kings," the man said, voice raw. "I've walked battlefields soaked in blood. I joined this journey because I figured if I survived, I'd live like a lord. But now… now I see the truth."

He removed his helmet with both hands.

"You aren't just a warlord," he whispered. "You're a blessing. Or a curse. I don't care which. I saw what you did. That… that was a miracle."

Darin stepped back, slightly overwhelmed.

"Okay. Uh. Cool. No need to—wait, no, don't kneel!"

Dozens of others joined.

Cultists, mercenaries, knights, mages.

Kneeling. Bowing. Whispering.

Some of them reached toward him.

One woman cried openly. "We don't deserve this…"

Another, whispering, said, "We followed for power. We expected blood. We never expected… you."

Darin took another step back.

His breathing felt tight.

And then—

"I see you're finally getting the reception I deserve," the Overlord said in his mind, smug as ever.

"Oh no," Darin groaned internally. "Don't bother me right now."

"Why not? This is a good moment. Very dramatic. Bit weepy for my taste, but you humans love crying during major revelations. I've learned to live with it."

"You're not helping the situation."

"I am helping," the Overlord said smoothly. "I'm about to tell you something very important."

Darin rolled his eyes, outwardly this time. The worshipping crowd didn't notice.

"Do you remember the mark?" the Overlord asked. "The one the lunatic cultist, the Stranger, the first recognized in your little village?"

Darin froze slightly.

His hand instinctively went to his upper arm, beneath the coat.

He'd always known it was there. An odd, jagged mark that looked almost like a clawed spiral. It had been faint, almost like a birthmark, but something about it always felt… off. Like it pulsed beneath the skin sometimes.

He'd never understood it.

"Yes," Darin thought. "What about it?"

"Well," the Overlord said, "now that you're not a complete wimp anymore, I suppose you're ready to know what it does."

Darin blinked.

"Wait. It does something?"

"You thought I carved eldritch symbols into my hosts for fun?"

"Yes!"

"…Okay, fair," the Overlord admitted. "But this one is special."

Darin frowned. "I'm listening."

"That mark," the Overlord said, "is a passive core-sync interface. Fancy term for: It lets you absorb monster cores."

Darin nearly stumbled over a kneeling knight.

"Wait, wait, wait. Absorb them? Like… power?"

"Power, skills, resistance, depends on the core. It's how I got strong enough to conquer the world last time. You think I was born shooting shadow lightning out of my eyes?"

"Yes! …Kind of!"

The Overlord sighed. "You're adorable."

"So that's how I grew," the Overlord said. "That's how I conquered. I didn't just fight monsters, I fed on them. Took their strength. Broke their will. Made it mine."

"So what you're saying I can eat monster cores now?"

"Not with your mouth, you fool. With your mark. Hold one. Focus. Let your will overpower it. Let it sink into the mark."

Darin felt the weight of the pouch at his belt, the core of that eldritch tentacle monster and the ones Alvin had dropped next to him earlier. Inside were one advance and three or four minor cores. Nothing major. But…

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"Because if you'd tried before now, your body would've melted from the inside out."

"...That's comforting."

The Overlord shrugged mentally. "You're strong enough now. Strong-willed enough. Emotionally unstable in a way that somehow works. You could handle a mid-tier core—maybe even a warrior ant's."

His eyes narrowed.

"I guess I'll try it later."

"Good," the Overlord said. "Just don't start with a queen ant core. You'll explode. Probably. Haven't tested."

"Wonderful."

The voice faded.

A familiar presence approached.

The Stranger had returned, bowing once with reverence.

"My lord," he said quietly. "I've arranged the final healing lines. If you will… bless them."

Darin followed.

The crowd had swelled again. Not just cultists now, but soldiers, mercs, scouts, even a few witches and wizards. All watching him with reverence that bordered on fear.

He stepped forward and raised his hand.

Just like before, his power flowed.

But this time…

He felt it.

Not just as warmth. But as pull.

A faint drain, like steam venting from a boiler. A transfer of force, invisible but potent. The mark on his arm pulsed slightly hotter. More rhythmic. Like it approved.

When the last wounded was healed, Darin exhaled, swaying slightly.

He was tired. But not broken.

Around him, the people cheered.

"Overlord!" someone roared.

Others joined in.

"Overlord! Overlord! Overlord!"

He held up a hand, quieting them.

Darin slowly exhaled and turned back to the mass of people.

Still kneeling.

He realized then. They didn't see him as a symbol.

They saw him as the symbol.

The fire that had walked through the Reaper Forest and lived with them.

The hand that healed them.

The hammer that led them.

And gods help him… he wasn't entirely sure they were wrong.

Later That Night...…

The fires crackled as the company rested on the last ridge before Fort Blackthorn. Just over the next hill, lights from the stone fortresses glittered faintly.

The Sorceress was sleeping again, her strength slowly returning.

Vincent lay on his back nearby, groaning dramatically.

"Do you think they'll give us medals after they saw what we've accomplished?" he muttered. "Statues. I want a statue. Something with abs."

"Make it out of cheese," Alvin grunted, flopped beside him. "So I can eat it every time you open your mouth."

Darin, nearby, leaned back on a log, turning the tentacle monsters core over in his hands.

His fingers brushed the mark beneath his sleeve.

It tingled.