I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord

The warhorns faded, but their echo hung like a curse across the Ember Summit.

Darin stared across the field of fire and steel, his warhammer shaking slightly in his hands. Below the fractured ridges, the armies of the Scarred Flame spilled across the far horizon like an endless tide. A thousand banners. Siege constructs. And somewhere, deeper still, the Rift pulsing behind it all.

And yet—

None of it moved.

Not yet.

Not as the champions clashed.

Not as the air itself stilled.

The duels is still ongoing.

[The Sorceress]

They had stopped mid-air, suspended in a stillness that hurt.

Not for lack of power.

But memory.

"You don't have to do this," the Sorceress said, her voice quieter now, barely audible above the floating stones and swirling energy.

Her sister's corrupted form flickered slightly. "Don't I? You think this is a choice? This is purpose. The world needs an end. Not more hope."

"There's still time."

"You're a fool," her sister whispered. "And I used to love that about you."

They crashed into each other again.

Light met shadow, fury met regret.

*****

The wind shifted.

Grull gritted his teeth, his club shaking from the last blow. Across from him, the massive armored Cyclops exhaled a breath like a furnace.

"You're still weak," the grulls brother growled. "You kneel to a false king."

"I kneel to no one," Grull spat.

"Then you die alone."

The cyclop charged, molten axe raised.

Grull roared back, and the stone beneath them cracked from the sheer force of their clash.

*****

The Oni laughed as fire licked up his blade.

"You're clever," he said, deflecting another blow with a single hand. "You adapt. But adaptation without purpose is just fear in disguise."

"I have purpose," Alvin snarled, switching his weapon to a chain-scythe mid-spin. "It's cutting you in half."

Their weapons sang in the mountain wind.

Below them, dwarves began chanting.

Up above, elven archers marked coordinates on gliding crystals.

Discipline. Unity.

It was working.

For now.

******

Vincent dove beneath another spinning dagger, felt it sing past his ear like a whisper of death, and rolled over scorched stone. He came up low, sword glinting in the filtered light of the Summit, and lashed out in a counter-slash.

Steel met nothing but cold air and drifting smoke.

Again.

He exhaled hard, dragging his breath in past ragged lungs. His ribs hurt. His shoulder stung. The cut across his left thigh was still bleeding, but manageable. Just another scratch. Just another moment. Just a few more seconds.

"You're fast," he gasped, staggering to the side, boots skidding over the debris-strewn ridge. His eyes locked on the shadowed form that hovered just beyond the mist. Always just out of reach.

"But I don't need to hit you."

He grinned.

That crooked, stupid, arrogant grin that made people want to punch him or trust him with a kingdom. Sometimes both.

"I just need to stall."

His voice dropped to a whisper—meant for himself, meant for the enchanters half-concealed behind a half-fallen pillar, bent over glowing sigils as they etched the final lines of a multi-layered barrier ward.

He needed ten more seconds.

Just ten.

The assassin still didn't speak.

They never did.

No witty retort. No declaration. No threats. Just stillness, like a blade that waited to fall.

They raised a hand.

All the daggers that circled them in lazy orbit snapped into line with a twitch of their wrist. Dozens of crimson points shimmered. A ring of death around them.

All of them lit red.

Vincent's smirk faltered.

His fingers tightened on his blade, feet bracing.

Then—

A shift in the air.

Not from the assassin.

From behind.

Light footsteps.

No aura. No magic. Just leather boots on stone and a voice that rasped like someone who'd forgotten how to talk and remembered too late.

"Gotta say…" came the voice. "You've made quite the mess."

Vincent turned so fast he almost stabbed by accident.

Half-ducked, sword ready, a retort half-formed in his throat.

Then he blinked.

"…You."

The fedora-wearing scout stood just a few paces away. Coat bloodstained down the left side. A thick gash stretched under his ribs, dried and crusted. One sleeve was gone entirely. His scarf—formerly a signature piece of arrogant fashion—was half-scorched and barely clinging to his shoulder. His beard was dusted with ash. His eyes were red-rimmed, but sharp.

And alive.

Vincent stared. "Where the hell have you been?!"

The scout reached into his coat with the casual grace of a man who had no business still standing, and pulled out a dented flask. He unscrewed it with his teeth, tilted his head back, and drank.

Then exhaled like it was the first clean breath he'd had in days.

"Sending a signal," he said.

Vincent's sword lowered slightly as he parried a dagger that whistled past him and exploded against a nearby wall.

"…What?"

The scout capped the flask. "When we saw the Rift open, I didn't hesitate. Took my best twenty and ran. Couldn't risk portal magic—they were tracking aura signatures. So we went old-school."

Another dagger came flying. Vincent ducked under it, rolled once, and came up with a twirl of his blade to knock a second one off course mid-air.

"Define old-school."

"Hand-signals. Mirror codes. Summit fire-anchors." He gave a weak smile. "We found a ridgeline that had visibility to Blackthorn's upper spire. Lit the old signal tower. Burned through every flare we had."

"And?"

The scout shrugged. "Blackthorn knows."

Vincent blinked. "You mean—?"

"The Duchess is coming," the scout said. "With everything she's got."

Vincent's breath caught in his throat.

Then he laughed, short and sharp. "That's… that's actually incredible. That's—wait. Where are the others?"

The scout didn't answer.

Not right away.

His smile dropped.

The lines on his face, once easy to miss under that tired charm, deepened. His fingers, shaking just slightly, tightened around the flask. He looked out at the horizon.

"They tried to buy me time."

A gust of wind passed between them.

The battlefield noise behind them dimmed for a second.

Vincent stood still. His smile faded.

"…You're the only one who made it?"

The scout nodded. Slow.

Then, quietly, he took another drink. This time not out of habit. Not for effect.

Just because the silence afterward would be harder than the pain.

"Poor boys," he murmured. "But they died like scouts should. Silent, useful, and right when it mattered."

Vincent stared.

The wind shifted again, carrying smoke and steel and mana.

"How the hell are you so casual about it?"

The scout looked at him then, really looked. His gaze was steady. Not cold. Not dismissive.

Just real.

"Because I trained them for that. And because we don't have the time to mourn the dead while the living are still bleeding."

He turned, raising a hand, and pointed.

Across the battlefield, across the haze, the Rift pulsed.

Not just pulsed—convulsed.

Veins of sickly purple-black light now spiderwebbed through the sky around it. Chunks of corrupted stone fell like meteors. The air around it began to ripple as if space itself were peeling. And within it, something moved.

Something big.

Several somethings.

Vincent's eyes widened. "That's new."

"Not just new," the scout said. "Worse."

He squinted. "I saw it just before I ran. That Rift isn't just summoning. It's stabilizing. They've anchored it."

Vincent swallowed. "So that wasn't the invasion."

The scout shook his head. "That was the warm-up."

His finger lowered.

He turned to the assassin, who still hadn't moved.

"I think the duels were a test," the scout said quietly. "Kael's way of measuring our best. But now?"

He nodded toward the Rift.

"Now they're bringing their best."

Vincent turned back toward the floating assassin.

The blades had stopped circling.

They were still now. Frozen. Pointed inward.

The figure raised one hand.

Then lowered their hood.

Their face was… blank. Not scarred. Not monstrous. Not corrupted.

Just… nothing.

Like someone had hollowed out a person and left only silence behind.

Red eyes burned.

And then the blades moved again—faster than before. The air screamed.

Vincent didn't flinch.

He stepped forward, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth.

"Right," he muttered. "Guess it's time I stop playing dumb."

He twirled his sword, drew it to his side, and let his own mana bloom outward, not dark, not divine.

Just sharp and refined.

"You can throw everything you've got," Vincent said.

His voice rang like steel in the chaos.

"I've been waiting to show off anyway."

Then he charged.

And the assassin did the same.

From the Command Ridge, Darin stood like a sentinel above the storm.

Below, the battlefield was a tapestry of chaos and brilliance, six separate duels raging like fated storms, each one critical, each one delicately balanced on a knife's edge. Magic shimmered. Steel screamed. Roars echoed off the cliffs. And not one fight had ended.

Not yet.

Not one champion had fallen.

But every one of them was fading.

The pressure mounted. He felt it, not just emotionally, but physically, through the mana bracer fastened to his forearm. A network of relay signals, tracking mana surges, aura dips, life spikes and strain metrics.

He felt Alvin's pulse spike in time with a weapon clash. Felt the moment Vincent's evasion dipped, his breathing rapid and wild. The Sorceress was fighting with clean precision, but her mana graph fluctuated like a flickering heart.

Even Grull, that walking earthquake of brute force, was beginning to slow.

Darin gripped the bracer tighter.

The summit was holding.

But barely.

Mana reserves were running thin. Aerial teams were rotating too slowly. Formation fatigue reports were starting to show in the margins. Dozens of support calls flickered across the glyph-screen. Not enough healers. Not enough ranged cover. The command staff were working miracles with fewer and fewer tools.

And overhead—the true army of the Scarred Flame had not yet moved.

Not their main phalanx. Not their second wave. Not their beasts. Not their siege platforms.

They were watching.

"Damn it," Darin muttered. "They're testing us."

His voice was quiet, but Kael heard it all the same.

The enemy commander stood across the ridge, not even ten meters away. Casual. Balanced. A warrior made of stillness, his massive glaive now resting on his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He could have been mistaken for relaxed, if not for the gleam of interest in his eye, like a swordsman reading his opponent before a finishing strike.

"You've lost momentum," Kael said, his voice smooth as steel drawn through silk. "Your champions are isolated. Your army's coordinated… but stretched. Fragile."

Darin didn't answer at first. He just raised his warhammer slowly and settled into a ready stance. There was still blood at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were clear now.

"So are yours."

Kael smiled.

That grin. All sharpness, all certainty.

"We have thousands still in reserve," Kael said.

He gestured behind him, toward the army beyond the ridge, like a storm on the horizon. Banners lined the peaks. Red flares marked their spell towers. Huge shadows moved behind them, massive beasts with siege-carved limbs, chained abominations, sky-born horrors that hadn't yet entered the fray.

Darin's gut twisted.

Kael was right. The Scarred Flame was waiting. Because they could afford to.

They weren't here to win the fight.

They were here to watch him lose it.

He breathed out.

So did the Overlord.

"You have one chance left, Darin."

His voice was quieter than usual in Darin's mind. No sarcasm. No snide wit. Just the tone of someone watching the edge of a blade fall toward a throat.

Darin didn't hesitate. "What is it?"

"Break the pattern. This isn't a battle—it's a test chamber. A ritual. Kael's design is surgical. He's waiting for one of your champions to fall. The second they do, the real wave begins."

"So what do I do?"

"You interrupt it. You act out of step. Unplanned. Reckless."

Darin clenched his jaw. "That's not exactly a plan."

"No," the Overlord admitted. "But that's what makes it perfect. Because the old me never did it. Not once. I calculated. I optimized. I conquered like a machine. And Kael knows that. He thinks you're still following that same rhythm."

Darin blinked.

He looked down at the battlefield again, at Alvin locked in a dance of fire and steel, at Vincent grinning through pain, at the Sorceress burning brighter than anything else on the field.

He looked at Reeka, sheltering Grumble.

At Murgan's warband, circling like hawks.

He looked at the mountain.

The summit.

Everything that would fall if they did.

"So what do I do?" he whispered again.

The Overlord's answer came in a low, fond murmur.

"You put yourself in harm's way… for someone else."

There was a pause.

Darin's heart beat louder.

"Make the move I never did. Show them something new. You're not just my echo, Darin. You're something… else."

The Overlord chuckled.

"And that, my boy, will make you unpredictable."

Darin raised his head.

The weight of generations sat on his shoulders—but it wasn't crushing him anymore.

He adjusted the grip on his warhammer, eyes burning.

Kael tilted his head. "You're going to try something, aren't you?"

Darin took a step forward.

"I'm going to break your script."

Kael's smile vanished.

And far below them, the tempo of battle quickened again.

The second wave had not arrived.

But something had changed.

And everyone, foe and ally alike, felt it.

A heartbeat skipped.

And the mountain waited for Darin's next move.