I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord-Chapter 17: The Overlord’s Reluctant Run

Darin hadn't slept.

Not after the festival. Not after the emissary. And certainly not after that dream.

He sat hunched over on the edge of his bed, gripping his forehead like he could squeeze the memory out of his skull. The battlefield. The smoke-choked air. The knight—his hands slick with blood. The Overlord's dying smirk.

"You will be my vessel."

Darin shuddered.

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

But the magic had been real.

The power had leaked out of him at the festival, turning lantern flames violet, making the air itself hum. And now, the emissary was riding to the king, spreading the news that the "Dark Lord" had returned.

Which meant Darin had two choices.

Stay and wait for the king's men to arrive, dragging him to a throne he didn't want.

It wasn't much of a choice.

He moved quickly, pulling on his worn cloak and stuffing a few supplies into a satchel, a hammer, a loaf of bread, a waterskin, and whatever dignity he had left. He strapped a dagger to his belt, took one last look at the forge, his old life, and slipped out the back door into the cold, dark morning.

He was free.

For about five seconds.

Then—

A twig snapped.

Darin froze.

Then—

"THE OVERLORD STRIDES FORTH!"

He turned slowly.

At the edge of the forge stood the stranger. Behind him, half-awake villagers blinked blearily, clutching their cloaks against the cold.

Torches flared to life.

Steve, looking far too excited, bounded out of the shadows and immediately smashed into a fence, sending it crashing down.

Darin's jaw clenched. "You have got to be kidding me."

The stranger's eyes shone with reverence. "He seeks the wilderness! A trial! A grand journey to reclaim his lost dominion!"

Darin opened his mouth to argue—

Steve, thrilled by the noise, sneezed.

A fireball rocketed past Darin's head, singeing his cloak.

A villager gasped. "A holy sign!"

Darin frantically slapped out the sparks, whirling on Steve. "You are the worst escape partner!"

Steve, utterly unfazed, wagged his tail.

The crowd swelled.

Darin bolted.

Darin sprinted toward the tree line, weaving between huts, dodging sleepy villagers and overenthusiastic cultists. His only hope was outrunning their insanity.

Unfortunately, he had two major problems.

Who, despite his stubby wings, could run very fast when excited. The cultists. Who misinterpreted everything.

"The Overlord moves with divine purpose!"

Darin, wheezing "No, the Overlord is running for his life!"

Steve, delighted, barreled after him.

The villagers?

They followed.

Halfway through the clearing, Steve changed.

One second, he was dog-sized. The next, his wings flared, his body stretched—just a little, just enough to be noticeable.

Then—he launched himself forward.

And landed right on Darin's back.

Darin collapsed face-first into the mud.

Steve chirped victoriously.

Darin, voice muffled by dirt: "I hate everything."

The villagers, now fully awake, cheered.

"The sacred beast chooses to burden him!"

"The Overlord's strength is tested!"

Darin groaned into the mud.

Steve, still perched on him, tried to eat his hair.

Eventually, Darin gave up trying to run.

He collapsed into a clearing, covered in dirt, frustration, and dragon drool. Steve curled up beside him, pleased with himself.

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The villagers had calmed—well, as much as they ever did. They whispered excitedly a few yards away.

But it was the sorceress who approached.

She wasn't watching the others.

She was watching him.

Darin wiped mud off his face and groaned. "Let me guess. You think this was another divine test?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she crouched down beside him, tilting her head slightly, her golden eyes searching his.

Then she spoke.

"You dreamed of him, didn't you?"

Darin's blood ran cold.

His breath caught in his throat. He fought the urge to take a step back.

Because the way she said it—it wasn't a guess.

It was a statement.

Darin forced a laugh. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She didn't blink. Didn't smirk. Didn't indulge his deflection like she usually did.

Instead, she raised her hand.

And shadows curled between her fingers.

Not the usual flickering, flame-like shadows of dark magic.

These moved unnaturally. Like ink in water, twisting and shifting with a life of their own.

A shape formed—a silhouette of a knight, sword raised. And across from him, a shadowed figure cloaked in darkness.

It was his dream.

The battlefield. The throne room. The Overlord dying.

Darin's throat was dry. "How do you know that?"

The sorceress closed her fingers, snuffing the image out like a dying ember.

"Because I saw it too."

Darin stared.

Saw it too?

She couldn't mean—

"You read my mind?" he demanded.

The sorceress shook her head. "No. Not like that." She studied him carefully. "Your dream was not just a dream. It was a memory. And memories, true memories—leave traces."

Darin swallowed hard. "Traces."

She nodded. "The stronger the soul, the deeper the echoes it leaves behind. And your soul—" Her voice lowered. "—is tangled with something that does not wish to be forgotten."

A chill crept up his spine.

She had seen the dream because it was real.

Because it wasn't his alone.

And she had been there when it happened.

Darin forced himself to breathe. "Then tell me," he said, voice quieter now. "What happened?"

The sorceress exhaled, her gaze flickering, just for a moment—with something that almost looked like hesitation.

Then she said, "I executed him."

A pause.

"But death is not always the end."

Something about the way she said it made Darin's stomach twist.

"He clings to life in strange ways."

Darin swallowed hard. "You think—"

"I think you should stop running."

Darin clenched his fists.

He didn't want to hear this.

But he couldn't deny it anymore.

Not when the proof was staring him in the face.

A long silence stretched between them.

And then—because his thoughts were spiraling, because he needed something, anything, to break the weight of what she'd just said—he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"...How old are you?"

The sorceress blinked.

For the first time since meeting her, she looked genuinely caught off guard.

A slow smirk curled across her lips. "Older than you."

Darin groaned. "Not helpful."

She tilted her head slightly. "And yet, completely accurate."

Darin rubbed his face. "No, seriously. If you saw him die, if you were there at the Overlord's fall, then—" He hesitated. "Just how long have you been alive?"

The smirk faded.

For a second, just a second, something flickered behind her eyes. Something old. Something tired.

"...Long enough," she said softly.

Darin didn't know why that answer unsettled him more than a number would have.

But it did.

Because she wasn't lying.

She had seen the end of an era.

And now, she was here. Watching him. Waiting for something.

Darin let out a slow breath. "You've been looking for me, haven't you?"

The sorceress studied him.

Then, just as the silence grew unbearable, she said—

"Not you."

She turned.

And, as she walked away, she murmured, "Not yet."

Darin's stomach twisted.

Not yet.

Like he was becoming something.

And he had no idea what.

*****

Darin sat in the clearing for a long time after the sorceress left.

The night stretched around him, quiet and endless, but his mind was anything but.

You dreamed of him, didn't you?

Her words wouldn't leave him alone.

Because I saw it too.

The memory, because that's what she claimed it was—clawed at the edge of his thoughts. The Overlord's final moments. The battlefield. The way the darkness poured into him, seeping into his skin like ink.

But the part that unsettled him the most?

It wasn't just the Overlord's death.

It was the way she had looked at him when he told her.

Not with fear.

Not with shock.

But with recognition.

Like she had been waiting for him to remember.

Darin let out a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair.

No. He couldn't sit here all night, drowning in this. He needed a distraction.

So, with one last glance at the empty clearing, he got up and trudged back to the village.

By the time he reached the square, the embers of the festival bonfires had dimmed to a soft glow, and the villagers who hadn't already passed out from drinking were sweeping up the aftermath.

Darin rubbed his temples. The headache brewing behind his eyes was getting worse. Maybe he'd just—

A trumpet blast shattered the peace.

Darin flinched. "Oh, come on."

Heads turned. People stumbled out of their homes, blinking blearily toward the village entrance. Even Steve lifted his head from where he'd been gnawing on a piece of wood.

And then, through the dim light of dawn, they arrived.

A nobleman, dressed in fine but practical travel clothes, rode into the square on a sleek black horse. His expression was one of bored disdain, like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Darin's stomach sank.

The king's men. Already?

The noble dismounted, stretching his shoulders as if the ride had been an inconvenience. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he approached Darin.

And gave him the kind of look one reserves for a particularly disappointing loaf of bread.

"So," the noble drawled, voice dripping with skepticism, "this is the mighty Overlord?"

Darin's entire mood shifted.

Because for once—finally, someone wasn't immediately falling to their knees in blind devotion.

A skeptic.

Perfect.