I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord

The horns blared again as the caravan crested the ridge.

Dozens of mounted riders streamed into view, wearing House Jade colors, green and silver with a thorn-wrapped lance symbol proudly displayed on every tabard and flag. Supply wagons followed, flanked by rows of infantry. At least three small artillery carts rolled behind them, guarded by heavy knights with crossbows and tower shields.

It was an impressive display.

Tidy. Disciplined. Noble.

And then the yelling began.

A broad-chested man at the front of the cavalry line, riding a warhorse with barding polished to a blinding shine, pointed down at the chaotic remnants of Darin's camp and bellowed with enough force to rattle birds from the trees:

"WHO'S IN CHARGE DOWN THERE?! WHOEVER'S LEADING THIS MESS—GET YOUR ASS UP HERE AND EXPLAIN YOURSELF!"

Darin, still chewing on a strip of crispy fried pork the Sorceress handed him, paused.

He looked over at her and sighed.

"I'll finish this with you later," he muttered, mouth still full.

She arched a brow. "Romantic."

He grinned. "Only the best for my executioner."

And with that, he handed Steve the rest of the food, who promptly swallowed it whole, and walked up the ridge with the confidence of someone far too tired to be anxious anymore.

The noble captain leaned in his saddle as Darin approached, his expression smug and vaguely annoyed, like a teacher forced to deal with a classroom that had set itself on fire.

The moment Darin stepped into range, the captain squinted. "You?"

"Me," Darin replied casually, stopping just short of the horse.

"And who exactly are you?"

"I'm Darin," he said. "Sent by the king himself to take a lovely vacation in the North."

"Vacation? With that many men?" he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively toward the sprawling camp behind Darin. "You're leading a damn army."

Darin shrugged. "Stuff happens."

That got a few snorts of amusement from some of his own people nearby, Vincent especially, up the mountain who gave a dramatic nod like Darin had said something profound.

But the captain wasn't amused.

"You're Darin, huh?" he sneered. "The one rumored to replace our Duchess as the new 'Guardian of the North'? You don't look like much."

Darin blinked. "Neither do you, and yet here we are."

A few quiet chuckles rippled from behind Darin.

The men flanking the captain didn't appreciate it. They grumbled low, puffed their chests a bit.

The captain ignored the jab and pushed on.

"I've heard all sorts of stories from the capital. Most of them sound like drunk bard tales. But now? giant monsters. Death cults. Subterranean war ants?"

He snorted.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You expect me to believe something that ridiculous?"

Darin didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

The captain leaned forward with a mocking smirk. "You just wanted an escort, didn't you? Marching your people up here like a bunch of scared children begging for a ride to safety."

The noble riders around him chuckled.

Then the captain leaned over in his saddle… and spat.

Right. At. Darin's. Feet.

A wet glob of disdain smacked the dirt.

Everything stopped.

There was a flicker of movement.

Just the smallest shift.

But it rippled through Darin's army like a lightning bolt hitting a pond.

A dozen mercenaries behind him tensed.

Several cultists, hoods low, eyes cold, turned ever so slightly toward the insult.

Even the old scout with the fedora raised his head from polishing his blade, giving the armored commander a slow, disappointed look.

From the Blackthorn troops, however, came snickers.

Some laughed outright.

One even slapped his knee and muttered, "Vacation boy's got a fan club!"

Silence fell.

Even the wind paused to see what would happen next.

Behind Darin, swords whispered from sheaths.

Dozens of them.

hundreds.

Then thousands.

Every mercenary, every ex-soldier, every cultist that had survived the hellish march through the Reaper Forest, every last one of them, rose to their feet or turned from their tasks and stared at the disrespect with quiet fury.

And then—

The Blackthorn soldiers stopped laughing.

The commander froze.

Because now he saw them.

From the high slopes above the camp, where the supply carts had been parked—

They began to descend.

Men and women who hadn't been in the captain's line of sight.

First came the Stranger, robes drifting behind him, his eyes lit with eerie reverence.

Then Alvin and Vincent, side by side, both chewing on skewers of charred meat like they had no plans to stop eating during a war.

Then the Sorceress, her cloak fluttering, her face calm and unreadable.

The Sect Master followed, silent as a shadow, trailed by the Five Elders, each of them adorned in robes of varying color and pattern.

And behind them—

A wave of power.

Hundreds of Stage 3 aura knights, no longer hiding their strength, stepped into view.

Their presence slammed into the field like a thunderclap.

Aura bloomed across the camp.

Like wildfire.

Glowing colors flared across armor and weapons. The very air warped as magical pressure thickened. The sky seemed dimmer under the collective presence of those warriors. Some bore old scars and mismatched gear, others moved with the silent deadliness of veteran killers, but they all had one thing in common:

They had survived the Reaper Forest.

And they were Darin's.

The noble captain's horse whinnied nervously beneath him.

He looked around, eyes darting.

His riders stopped laughing.

Then one mumbled, "Uh… captain…?"

Darin didn't say a word at first.

He just stepped forward once more, lifted his Warhammer, and casually let its massive head thud against the earth. Idly planting the base of his warhammer into the dirt beside the commander's spit.

The sound echoed like a dropped boulder.

"That was rude," he said, voice quiet.

The commander took a step back.

But Darin wasn't angry.

He wasn't raising his voice.

He was just... tired.

He tilted his head slightly.

"Do I still 'not look like much'?" Darin asked, voice quiet, calm, and slightly amused.

The captain's lips tightened.

Darin clapped his hands once. "Good. Because next time someone spits near me, I won't stop my people from flattening half this mountain."

He turned around.

Paused.

Then looked back over his shoulder.

"You see all these people?" Darin gestured vaguely at the sea of death around him. "They've walked through hell. Survived Reaper Forest. Fought ant warriors the size of wagons. Watched their friends melt from acid, dug out tunnels while fighting monsters, buried the dead in silence."

He stepped closer.

"Now they're tired. Hungry. Dirty. And done being laughed at."

The commander opened his mouth, but Darin wasn't done.

"I didn't ask for this army. I didn't ask for these people. But they followed me. And they fought. And they lived. And you?" He raised an eyebrow. "You spit in front of them."

There was a beat of silence.

Then the Overlord in Darin's head spoke, dry and amused.

"Huh. Would you look at that. You almost sound like a proper leader. It's adorable."

Darin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Out loud, he simply said:

"I suggest you start listening. Because whether you believe in war ants or not… you're not the scariest people on this road anymore."

The commander glanced behind Darin one more time.

He paled.

One of his lieutenants whispered, "Sir… I think that's the Sorceress of the South, the one that is rumored to be the overlord executioner and the one that ended an era."

Another pointed to Vincent. "And that one's Vincent Ravenshire—he dueled close to a thousand men and never lost."

"Wait," a third soldier muttered. "Is that the Grand Shadow Beast?!"

They all took a step back.

Steve, who had chosen this moment to emerge from behind a supply cart with a stolen flag in his mouth—gave a low, echoing growl that rattled the Blackthorn horses.

The commander stared at Darin again.

Finally, he muttered, "I'll… I'll go report your arrival to the Duchess."

Darin smiled. "Thank you."

The commander turned and practically sprinted back to his line.

Once the Blackthorn men began pulling back toward their caravan, Vincent leaned over to Darin.

"That guy's gonna need new pants."

Alvin snorted. "I liked the part where we scared them all without saying a word."

The Sorceress simply murmured, "Pathetic."

Behind them, the Stranger slowly turned to his cult brethren.

"He spoke with mercy," he whispered. "Even in power… he showed restraint. Truly divine."

The Sect Master nodded solemnly. "Let it be recorded: He could have annihilated them, but chose not to."

Darin exhaled.

Then muttered: "I really need that vacation."

The noble caravan parted as Darin's army moved.

Silent.

Awestruck.

None of the northern guards spoke a word.

Some didn't even breathe.

Even the captain sat frozen as wave after wave of veterans, aura knights, battle-worn cultists, and fierce-eyed commanders passed.

A red-scaled dragon the size of a horse lazily strolled by, dragging a stolen cloak like a child with a blanket.

A cat-sized shadow creature with a far too smug expression perched atop one of the wagons, licking its paw while sitting on a bag labeled "Explosives (Definitely Not Grumble's Fault)."

The captain's eye twitched.

And somewhere deep in the back of the column, someone was loudly telling the story of "The Holy Chicken Incident."

The captain slowly dismounted and muttered, "I think we pissed off the wrong people…"