I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord

The wind was cool on the ridge.

A peaceful evening, by all appearances. The fires burned steady, the Reaper Forest lay behind them, and Fort Blackthorn's high towers gleamed faintly in the distance.

Darin sat near the edge of camp, away from the others, staring down at the core in his hand.

It wasn't just any core.

Not one of the ant mages, or a worker drone.

No, this one pulsed with something wrong.

It was the eldritch abomination's core—the tentacle creature they'd fought back in the forest's. Its essence swirled inside a glassy orb of black and green, warped light twisting inside it like smoke in water.

"I should put this away," Darin muttered.

But he didn't move.

He was curious. Nervous. Something about it called to him.

He shifted in place, fingers brushing against the mark hidden under his sleeve.

It tingled.

His breath caught.

No.

The tingling turned to a sudden burn.

Then—

"What are you doing." The Overlord's voice snapped into his head like a slap.

"I didn't mean to—"

"You're absorbing it already?! That's an eldritch-tier core!"

"I'm not doing anything, I swear—!"

The mark flared to life.

A line of jagged, golden light seared across Darin's arm, forming a sigil that pulsed once, then sucked the core toward his skin like it had a magnetic pull.

The moment the orb touched his palm, it shattered.

And all hell broke loose.

Darin's scream cut through the ridge.

Every muscle locked, his spine arched, and his vision split. A tidal wave of raw mana surged through his veins like molten lead, boiling, searing, tearing through every nerve and tendon like it was remaking him from the inside out.

"AH—!"

His scream echoed through the camp.

Vincent, lounging near a campfire with a roasted leg of something (he wasn't sure what, but it was delicious), immediately bolted upright.

"What the—Darin?!"

He dropped the leg mid-bite and sprinted.

Alvin, who had been quietly counting monster cores, sighed, stood, and followed at a much calmer pace.

Vincent, however, got there first, and immediately slammed to a halt.

"...OH SWEET SAINTS, HE'S VIBRATING!"

Darin was hovering slightly above the ground, twitching violently, his eyes unfocused, his veins lit with faint golden patterns. Mana radiated from him in waves—distorting the air like heat off a forge. His hammer lay nearby, untouched.

Steve, curled up nearby, jolted awake.

The teen dragon lifted his head, blinked, sniffed—then began walking toward Darin.

He got within five feet before stopping abruptly, wings flaring slightly.

The mana was dense. Heavy. Alien.

Steve let out a low, uncertain growl and backed off, tail twitching.

"Okay," Vincent said, eyes wide. "Okay, he's glowing. That's… not normal. Is this puberty? Is this what magical puberty looks like?!"

Alvin stepped beside him. "You're an idiot."

"I'm SORRY I didn't do a minor in 'how to handle possessed warlords having magical seizures!'"

"Focus, Darin!" the Overlord's voice boomed in his skull, cutting through the pain like a blade. "This isn't a core. This is a manifested soul imprint. You're not absorbing mana, you're surviving a memory of existence."

"THAT EXPLAINS NOTHING," Darin screamed in his head.

"Guide it! Channel it through the mark, then your core! Split the flow—don't let it settle in one place or it'll burst you like a melon!"

"HOW DO I DO THAT?!"

"IMAGINE A DAMNED TEAPOT!"

"What?!"

"Teapot! You pour the mana out like it's boiling water and your core is the cup, just do it before your intestines become soup!"

Darin screamed again, this time more of a rage shriek than pain.

He closed his eyes, trying to visualize it.

Teapot. Core. Cup. Don't melt. Don't die.

His hands shook violently as more energy flowed from the shattered core into the spiraling mark on his arm. The jagged symbol shifted, flickered, then absorbed the light with a violent pulse.

His skin steamed.

His lungs were on fire.

His muscles felt like they were being rewritten.

Mana poured through him like a dam had burst—and he fought to hold it back.

To shape it.

To survive it.

The camp watched in stunned silence.

Even the cultists, normally unshakable in their chaotic faith, had gone completely still.

One whispered reverently, "He burns with holy madness…"

Another wept. "He's becoming more."

Vincent leaned toward Alvin. "If he explodes, I get his boots."

"He's not going to explode," Alvin muttered, watching with arms crossed.

"I'm just saying. We're the same size. Mostly."

The glow finally dimmed.

The air settled.

Darin collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving, arms trembling.

His shirt was soaked with sweat, the mark now faded but still warm.

The shattered remains of the core turned to ash on the wind.

He fell back, staring up at the stars, vision swimming.

His body hurt.

But something was different.

Something had changed.

He felt…

More.

He reached inward, searching.

Where once there had been a flicker, a candle's worth of mana, it now burned like a bonfire.

His mana had doubled.

And not just in volume.

It flowed easier. Smoother. Stronger. Like channels had opened within him that were meant to carry power.

He groaned, still sprawled on the dirt.

Vincent walked up, crouched beside him, and offered a half-eaten roasted leg.

"Snack?"

Darin gave him the weakest glare in history.

"Suit yourself," Vincent said cheerfully, biting into it.

Alvin crouched nearby, peering down with narrowed eyes.

"You look like you aged three years and then got hit by a horse."

"Feels like it," Darin croaked.

Steve cautiously padded up and nudged Darin's boot with his snout.

Grumble, having been missing the entire time, popped up silently on Darin's chest with a low mrrrp, curled up, and began purring.

Darin didn't even question how he got there.

The Overlord chuckled.

"Well done, Darin. You didn't explode. I'm proud."

"Thanks," Darin mumbled. "Glad to hear that as I lie here dying."

"You're not dying. You're evolving. Slowly. Painfully. But surely."

Darin's eyes drifted closed, just for a moment.

Then popped back open as Vincent poked his forehead.

"Still alive?"

"Yes."

"Damn. I mean—great!"