A Villain’s Grand Entrance (That Wasn’t Meant to Happen)

Darin wanted to disappear.

Not in the cool, shadowy, mysterious overlord kind of way. No, he wanted to literally sink into the ground and never be seen again.

But unfortunately, fate—and his ever-growing crowd of unwanted followers, had other plans.

The villagers had been celebrating his "victory" over Sir Roland for the past two hours. There were torches. There was ale. Someone had started carving a statue out of a tree trunk.

It wasn't a good statue. It looked more like a potato with hair.

But it was there.

"Stop celebrating!" Darin groaned, rubbing his temples. "I didn't win anything!"

Greta took a slow sip of her tea. "You threw a chicken at a knight and scared him off."

"Yes, and somehow that means I conquered him?"

She nodded sagely. "Yes."

Darin sucked in a sharp breath. "Okay. I am going to go lie down, and when I wake up, we are all going to pretend none of this ever happened. No more cultists. No more prophecies. No more—"

A loud, rumbling boom shook the village.

Darin froze. The villagers froze.

Then someone shouted, "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"

Darin exhaled through his nose. "Of course we are."

*****

A plume of smoke rose from the village gates as a squad of armored figures on horseback rode in. They were clad in dark cloaks, their helmets shaped like snarling beasts. Their leader, a tall figure with a jagged scar across his cheek, dismounted and scanned the village with an expression that screamed I am here to ruin someone's day.

His gaze landed on Darin.

Darin immediately pointed to the stranger next to him. "It's him. He's the Dark Lord. Take him."

The stranger, unfazed, bowed deeply. "My lord, your humor is as sharp as ever."

Darin wanted to throw himself into a well.

The scarred man took a slow step forward. "So. The rumors were true."

"Oh great," Darin muttered. "More rumors. Love that."

"You do possess the mark." The man's eyes flicked to Darin's wrist, where the supposed "dark sigil" lay—aka his totally normal birthmark that had somehow become the world's most damning evidence.

Darin yanked his sleeve down. "It's not a mark of darkness! It's an unfortunate skin pattern!"

The scarred man ignored him. "We are the Black Fang Mercenaries, and we have been sent to test your strength."

Darin slowly turned to Greta. "Why do people keep testing me?"

She sipped her tea. "Because fate demands it."

Darin turned back. "Can fate demand that I be left alone?"

"No."

"Of course."

The mercenary drew his sword. "Defend yourself, Dark One!"

Darin held up both hands. "No thanks."

The mercenary hesitated. "What?"

"I refuse."

Silence. The other mercenaries exchanged confused glances.

"You…refuse?" the leader repeated.

Darin crossed his arms. "Yep. Not interested. Go home."

The mercenary squinted at him. "You must fight. It is your destiny."

Darin pointed at the villagers. "Didn't work on them. Not working on me."

The mercenary leader scowled. "If you will not fight willingly, then—"

At that moment, a chicken wandered between them, pecking at the dirt.

The entire mercenary squad stiffened.

"That's it," one whispered. "It's him."

Darin blinked. "What?"

"The dreaded chicken master," another mercenary muttered in horror.

Darin's brain stalled. "Wait, wait—what?"

The scarred leader took a slow step back. "You truly are a dangerous foe."

Darin turned to Greta, begging for an explanation. "What is happening?!"

She shrugged. "Rumors travel fast."

Darin groaned. "No. There is no way that news of me throwing a chicken reached a mercenary squad this quickly."

But the mercenaries were already murmuring amongst themselves.

"That fool, Roland, barely escaped with his life."

"They say he was humiliated."

"That means this man—no, this Overlord is even stronger than Roland himself."

Darin inhaled deeply. "Okay. I get it now. The world is just determined to ruin my life."

Darin was done.

He was beyond done.

He had been shoved into a prophecy, worshipped by lunatics, hunted by heroes, and now mercenaries feared him because of poultry.

So, with the last shred of patience he had left, he bent down, gently picked up the chicken, and held it aloft like a weapon.

The mercenaries paled.

Scarred Leader took a full step back.

"You wouldn't dare," he whispered.

Darin raised the chicken higher. "Test me."

The villagers gasped.

The mercenaries shook.

The chicken just blinked, vaguely annoyed.

Scarred Leader clenched his jaw. "Tch. We will return."

Then, as one, the entire mercenary squad turned and fled the village.

Darin stood there, holding the chicken, utterly broken inside.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

"All hail the Dark Lord!"

Darin dropped the chicken and buried his face in his hands.

"I hate it here."

*****

Later that night, Darin sat in his forge, head on the table, staring at nothing.

The stranger sat beside him, as devoted as ever.

"That was truly magnificent, my lord."

Darin let out a muffled groan. "Go away."

"Using only the power of poultry, you routed an entire mercenary squad."

Darin lifted his head. "Do you hear yourself when you talk?"

The stranger nodded solemnly. "Yes. And every word you speak is a lesson in strategy."

Darin groaned. "How. How did this happen? I wanted a simple life. Maybe own a nice shop. Get a cat. But no. I have a cult. And enemies. And a mercenary squad afraid of chickens."

The stranger patted his shoulder. "The path of the overlord is never easy."

Darin turned his head to glare at him. "I am not an overlord."

The stranger met his gaze, eyes filled with absolute certainty.

"Yes," he whispered. "You are."

Darin screamed internally.