I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord-Chapter 19: The Overlord’s Unwanted Escort and Misguided Farewell

Darin was awake.

Unfortunately.

He had been staring at the ceiling of his forge for the past hour, willing himself to fall back asleep, but his mind refused to cooperate.

The dream still clung to him—or was it a memory?—echoing in flashes of fire and ruin, of a throne room crumbling around him, of a voice he didn't want to remember.

He pressed a hand against his chest. No wound. No sword. No her.

Just him.

Just Darin.

A blacksmith.

Who was absolutely not some reincarnated nightmare from a forgotten age.

A loud knock on the door shattered his thoughts.

Darin groaned. "No. Go away."

The knocking continued, louder this time.

"I said—"

The door swung open, and Lord Vincent of Ravenshire stepped inside with all the grace of a man who had decided Darin's opinions did not matter.

"Good," Vincent said, brushing dust off his coat. "You're already awake."

Darin sat up, rubbing his face. "I'm about to be asleep if you keep bothering me."

Vincent ignored that.

"I've returned from the capital," he said, as if this was somehow good news. "The king has made his decision."

Darin squinted at him. "What decision? And why are you soo fast? Did you even sleep!"

Vincent folded his arms. "You're coming with me to the capital."

Darin blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then let out a long, exhausted sigh and flopped back down onto his cot.

"Nope."

Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was hoping you wouldn't be difficult about this."

"That was your first mistake."

Vincent exhaled sharply. "Darin—"

"No."

"You don't have a choice."

"I should have a choice!" Darin sat up again, jabbing a finger at him. "Last time I checked, I didn't swear any oaths of loyalty to the king! I'm a blacksmith, not a noble, not a soldier, and definitely not some ancient terror reborn, no matter what your stupid magic test said!"

Vincent studied him for a long moment.

Then he took a step forward.

"Then prove it," he said.

Darin scowled. "What?"

Vincent held his gaze. "Come to the capital. Stand before the court. If you're truly just a blacksmith, then let them see for themselves."

Darin scoffed. "Right, because that'll work. You think they'll just go, 'Oh, sorry, our mistake, have a nice day' and let me leave?"

Vincent's lips twitched slightly. "No, I expect they'll argue about it for hours. Possibly days."

Darin groaned. "Oh, fantastic."

"But if you refuse to come at all," Vincent continued, "the king will take it as a sign of defiance. And if I don't bring you, he'll send someone else."

Darin frowned. "Like who?"

Vincent's expression darkened. "The Royal Mage. Or worse—the Inquisitors."

Darin went still.

He had never met an Inquisitor before, but he had heard stories.

Rumors of cold, pitiless enforcers who specialized in rooting out magical threats—real or imagined. People who wielded their authority like a blade, cutting down anything they deemed dangerous before it had the chance to prove otherwise.

Darin swallowed. "Okay. Yeah. Don't like the sound of that."

Vincent inclined his head. "Then you understand why coming with me is the better option."

Darin let out a slow, measured breath.

He hated that Vincent was right.

He hated that he even had to think about this.

He hated that no matter what he did, this whole mess kept spiraling further and further out of his control.

Finally, he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine. Fine! I'll go. But only because I don't want to deal with an Inquisitor."

Vincent smirked. "A wise decision."

Darin glared at him. "Don't make me regret it."

Vincent patted him on the shoulder. "Oh, I promise nothing."

Darin didn't own much.

A few changes of clothes. His tools. A handful of coins.

He stuffed what little he had into a bag, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease curling in his stomach.

He didn't want to go to the capital.

He didn't want to stand in front of a room full of powerful people and have them pick apart his every word, searching for proof that he was something he wasn't.

But he also didn't want to be dragged there in chains.

Steve, his ever-loyal bebe dragon, wagged his tail excitedly, as if this was the best day of his life. Grumble his shadowy cat, meanwhile, had perched on top of Darin's packed bag like some smug, furry warlord.

Darin sighed. "You both want to come, don't you?"

Steve chirped.

Grumble flicked his tail.

Darin glanced at Vincent. "Can I at least leave these two behind?"

Vincent gave the cat a wary look. "I wouldn't risk it."

Darin groaned. "Why?"

Vincent crossed his arms. "Because that thing," he pointed at Grumble, "is definitely not just a cat. And if you leave him here, I have a feeling he'll just show up at the capital on his own."

Darin opened his mouth to argue—then paused.

Because, now that he thought about it...

Yeah. That did sound like something Grumble would do.

Darin sighed in defeat. "Fine. They're coming."

Steve barked happily.

Grumble purred like he had already won.

Vincent smirked. "Smart choice."

Darin scowled. "Stop saying that."

*****

Darin had been hoping for a quiet departure.

What he got was the entire village gathered in the square, packed shoulder to shoulder, their faces full of excitement.

A long wooden table had been dragged into the center, covered with freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and at least three different kinds of pie. Someone had even brought out barrels of ale.

It wasn't just a farewell.

It was a celebration.

Darin stood at the edge of the crowd, his travel bag slung over his shoulder, eyes twitching as he took it all in.

"What," he said slowly, "is this?"

Greta, leaning heavily on her cane, smiled up at him. "Why, a send-off, of course!"

Darin took a deep breath. "For what?"

Greta chuckled. "For you, dear."

Darin turned to Vincent, hoping—praying—that the noble would talk some sense into them.

Vincent simply crossed his arms, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

Darin exhaled through his nose. "You people do realize I'm not marching off to war, right?"

"Not yet!" someone shouted from the crowd.

Another voice chimed in, "But when you return, the world will bow before you!"

Darin let his head drop into his hands.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let's address this before it gets worse—"

Greta ignored him completely, raising her arms to the crowd. "Bring forth the banner!"

Darin felt Vincent smirking before he even turned his head.

And there it was.

A massive banner, easily twice the size of a man, painted with what could only be described as a tragic attempt at his likeness. The artist had clearly meant well, but the eyes were lopsided, the nose was too big, and for some reason, his hair was drawn in wild, shadowy spikes, as if he was constantly surrounded by a dark aura.

Below it, in bold red letters, were the words:

"LONG LIVE THE OVERLORD!"

Darin very, very slowly turned to Greta.

"...Why."

Greta beamed. "We had it commissioned this morning!"

Darin turned to Vincent again.

Vincent, very unhelpfully, just took a slow sip from a cup of wine that he had somehow acquired in the past two minutes.

Please don't be the second greta, Vincent.

Darin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "None of this is necessary!"

"But it is!" Greta said. "This is a historic day!"

"No, it isn't!"

Before he could argue further, a familiar figure pushed through the crowd—Mason, the town's carpenter, carrying something large and heavy under one arm.

"Darin!" Mason called. "Wait, before you go, we have something for you."

Darin narrowed his eyes. "If it's another sack of gold, I'm not taking it."

Mason shook his head and set the object down with a thud.

Darin stared at it.

It was a wooden staff. Nearly six feet tall, polished and carved with swirling, intricate patterns—despite the fact that Mason's specialty was, in fact, furniture.

Mason stepped back, looking proud. "Your war staff."

Darin did not respond immediately.

Because he was too busy trying to process the phrase your war staff.

Finally, he managed, "...Why do I need a war staff?"

Mason looked vaguely offended. "For when you rally your armies, of course!"

"I don't have any armies!"

"Not yet!" someone yelled from the back.

Darin actually considered walking into the forest and never returning.

Before he could act on that very reasonable instinct, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"This is ridiculous."

Darin stiffened.

Because he knew that voice.

The crowd parted as the sorceress stepped forward, her cloak shifting as she walked, her golden eyes full of irritation.

But she wasn't just appearing for the first time.

She had been there the whole time, watching the nonsense unfold, arms crossed, looking increasingly unimpressed.

Darin groaned. "Oh, great. You too?"

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously."

Vincent, who had already met her many times during their travels, let out a long sigh. "Oh, wonderful. You're here."

The sorceress smirked. "Nice to see you too, noble."

Darin turned on her. "Okay, what exactly are you doing here?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I live here, idiot. Or did you forget that part after weeks of training with me?"

Darin hesitated. "...Okay, fair point."

She huffed, flicking a hand toward the villagers. "And I would have stopped this nonsense earlier, but you know how they get. Once Greta's involved, logic is dead."

"Thank you," Darin said, finally feeling slightly vindicated.

But then she turned on him.

"That being said," she continued, voice dangerously smooth, "you also failed to tell me that you were planning on running off to the capital without me."

Darin blinked. "Wait. You want to come?"

The sorceress crossed her arms. "Of course I do. Do you honestly think I trust you to handle this alone?"

Darin opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

"...That is a very valid concern," Vincent muttered.

Darin shot him a look. "You're not helping."

Vincent shrugged.

The sorceress ignored both of them. "I trained you for weeks, Darin. You barely survived half of it. The idea of you facing the king and his court on your own is frankly terrifying."

"Okay, rude—"

"But accurate."

Darin groaned. "Look, it's not like I had a choice!" He gestured toward Vincent. "Mr. Nobility here said if I don't go, the king will send someone worse. Like an Inquisitor."

The sorceress's face darkened slightly.

"Ah," she said. "That explains it."

Darin blinked. "Wait. You already knew?"

She gave him a very unimpressed look. "Of course I knew. Do you think I don't keep track of royal affairs?"

Darin threw his hands up. "Then why are you acting like I'm some kind of idiot?"

The sorceress smirked. "Because you are an idiot."

Darin groaned.

Vincent exhaled sharply. "So, what exactly is your plan, then? You're just going to invite yourself on this trip?"

The sorceress smirked. "Yes."

Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fantastic."

Greta, who had been listening very intently, clapped her hands. "Well, this is wonderful! Now our dear Overlord will have his most trusted sorceress at his side!"

Darin buried his face in his hands. "Please stop calling me that."

"NEVER!"

Vincent turned to the sorceress. "Are you sure you want to come with us?"

She gave him a pointed look. "You want to explain magic to the king?"

Vincent hesitated.

Then sighed. "Fine. You're coming."

The sorceress smirked, clearly pleased with herself.

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Darin, meanwhile, was deeply regretting everything.

"I'm leaving now," Darin announced.

The villagers cheered.

Darin groaned and swung himself onto the saddle. Steve, his baby dragon, let out an excited chirp and flapped onto his back, his tail curling around Darin's arm. Grumble, smug as ever, leapt onto the saddle behind him and made himself comfortable, as if this were his journey and Darin was just the chauffeur.

The sorceress pulled herself up onto her own horse with ease, her dark cloak shifting with the wind. She shot Darin a look. "Try not to fall off."

Vincent mounted his horse with practiced grace, adjusting his reins. He glanced at Darin. "Ready?"

Darin exhaled. "No."

"Too bad."

Vincent spurred his horse forward, and Darin followed, stomach churning.

As they rode out of the village, Darin cast one last glance over his shoulder.

The villagers were still celebrating.

Greta was waving enthusiastically, like a proud grandmother sending off her favorite grandson to war.

Mason was polishing his stupid war staff.

Some of the younger villagers were already making bets on how many kingdoms Darin would conquer before he came back.

Greta raised her cane one last time.

"Let us all give one final cheer!"

Darin's eyes widened in panic. "Don't you dare—"

"LONG LIVE THE OVERLORD!"

Darin kicked his horse into motion.

The villagers erupted into cheers.

Vincent actually laughed.

The sorceress smirked.

Steve let out a little triumphant roar.

And Darin, miserable beyond belief, rode toward the capital, now officially stuck in the worst possible version of his life.