The Overlord’s Unwanted Spotlight

Darin slumped against the forge's doorframe, staring blankly at the chaos unfolding in the village square.

The festival preparations had spiraled completely out of control.

Colorful banners hung between buildings, each one embroidered with wildly inaccurate depictions of his "mighty deeds." One showed him soaring through the sky like a god. Another had him taming a storm with a single glance.

Worst of all, a trio of enthusiastic musicians were practicing a ballad about his glorious flight.

Darin buried his face in his hands. "I'm living in a nightmare."

Greta, who had somehow appeared beside him with her ever-present cup of tea, chuckled softly. "Oh, dear, you're being dramatic. It's just a festival."

Darin gestured wildly at the square. "They think I flew! I didn't fly—I floated because I messed up a spell, and Steve turned it into a circus!"

Greta took a serene sip. "And yet, here we are."

Darin shot her a pleading look. "Can't you do something? Tell them to stop?"

She smiled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Why would I do that? It's good for morale."

He groaned. "You're no help at all."

Before Greta could respond—

CRASH.

Darin's head snapped up just in time to see Steve—now the size of a large dog and growing alarmingly fast—barreling through a stack of crates.

The dragon's clumsy attempt at flight ended in disaster, scattering wood and supplies everywhere.

Villagers scrambled to clean up the mess, but instead of being annoyed, their faces glowed with awe.

"Behold!" one gasped. "The sacred beast tests our devotion!"

"The overlord's companion brings trials to strengthen us!" another said gravely.

Darin pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not a trial. It's a dragon with the coordination of a drunk toddler."

But, of course, nobody listened.

Later that afternoon, Darin found himself back in the secluded field with the sorceress.

She had insisted on another training session, claiming his accidental successes were proof of his untapped potential.

Darin, still desperate to prove he wasn't the overlord, had reluctantly agreed— hoping a spectacular failure might finally convince her otherwise.

Today's lesson: Summoning shadows.

The sorceress stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "Focus your mind, my lord. Imagine the shadows bending to your will."

Darin squinted at the patch of shade beneath a nearby tree. "Right. Because that's a totally normal thing to do."

She ignored his sarcasm. "Concentrate."

He sighed, raised his hands, and closed his eyes.

Nothing happened.

Darin cracked one eye open. "See? Nothing. Can we stop now?"

The sorceress's gaze sharpened. "You're not trying."

"I am!" Darin protested. "I'm just bad at it."

She stepped closer, her voice low and intense. "You are the overlord. The power is within you. You must embrace it."

Darin's frustration boiled over. "I don't want to embrace it! I want to be left alone!"

As if in response, a tingling sensation surged through his hands.

The shadows beneath the tree twitched—then stretched unnaturally toward him, forming a dark, writhing mass.

Darin yelped and stumbled back. "What the—?!"

The shadows coalesced into a shape—a small, grumpy-looking creature with glowing eyes and a tail that flicked irritably.

It hissed, then curled up at Darin's feet like a disgruntled cat.

The sorceress blinked, momentarily speechless.

Darin stared at the shadow creature. "Did I… did I just make that?"

She nodded slowly. "It seems you've summoned a shadow familiar."

The creature gave a low growl—then promptly began chewing on Darin's boot.

"Ow! Hey, stop that!" Darin shook his foot, but the shadow clung stubbornly.

The sorceress's lips twitched, as if she were holding back a smile. "It's bonded to you. A sign of your growing power."

Darin glared at the creature. "I didn't ask for a moody shadow pet."

The shadow hissed again and skittered off to sulk under a bush.

By evening, the festival was in full swing.

Lanterns hung from every available surface, casting a warm glow over the square. Tables groaned under the weight of food—most of it dubbed "Overlord's finest Chicken dish."

Darin sat on his rickety throne, trying to ignore the way it wobbled every time he shifted.

Steve lounged at his feet.

The shadow creature—whom Darin had privately named Grumble— lurked nearby, glaring at everyone.

The stranger stood before the crowd, raising his arms dramatically. "And now, my friends, we shall pledge our eternal loyalty to the overlord!"

The villagers dropped to their knees.

Darin sank lower in his throne. "Please don't."

But before he could suffer further—

A distant horn sounded.

The crowd fell silent.

Darin straightened. "What was that?"

Greta, standing nearby, frowned. "It sounds like the king's emissary."

"The king?"

A procession entered the village.

At its head was a sharply dressed man on horseback, his cloak bearing the royal crest.

He dismounted with a flourish, his gaze sweeping over the festival with thinly veiled disdain.

The emissary's eyes locked onto Darin.

"So, this is the so-called overlord I've heard about."

Darin stood. "Look, there's been a misunderstanding. I'm not—"

The emissary cut him off. "The king has taken an interest in these rumors. He demands proof of your powers."

Darin felt a flicker of hope.

This was his chance.

If he could convince the emissary he was just an ordinary blacksmith, maybe—just maybe—this whole mess would finally end.

"Actually, I'm not the overlord. I don't have any powers. It's all a mistake."

The emissary raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Darin nodded eagerly. "Yes! I'm just a guy. No magic, no destiny, nothing."

Then—

Steve, who had been dozing, suddenly perked up.

The dragon's eyes gleamed as he spotted the emissary's shiny cloak clasp.

With a delighted chirp, Steve lunged.

Chaos erupted.

And, because the universe hated Darin, his magic surged.

A gust of wind swept through the square, extinguishing the lanterns.

Then one by one—the lanterns flickered back to life.

Now, they burned with an eerie, purple glow.

The villagers gasped.

The emissary paled.

Darin stared at his hands. "I didn't mean to do that."

But the emissary was already mounting his horse. "We shall return, overlord. The king will want to meet you."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Darin stepped forward, panic clawing at his chest. "Wait, no! You don't understand—"

But the procession was already moving.

The emissary didn't look back.

Darin watched helplessly as the royal retinue disappeared down the road, their banners fading into the distance.

Silence settled over the village square.

Then—

"ALL HAIL THE OVERLORD!"

The crowd erupted into cheers.

Darin sank back onto his throne, numb.

He was doomed.

That night, Darin lay awake in his small bed above the forge, staring at the ceiling.

No matter how many times he turned over, no matter how tightly he shut his eyes—he couldn't silence the thoughts.

The festival. The emissary. The magic.

The way the air had crackled around him.

The way the emissary had looked at him—not as a fraud, but as something dangerous.

The way a part of him, deep down, had started to believe it too.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the creeping sense of inevitability.

But at some point—he drifted off.

And that was when the dream came.

He was not Darin.

Not here. Not in this place.

He was a knight, clad in silver armor, the royal crest gleaming on his chest. His sword was heavy in his grip, slick with blood. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stood in the heart of a ruined throne room.

Flames roared. Smoke choked the air. The castle trembled with its final breaths.

And at his feet—

The Overlord lay dying.

A man wreathed in darkness, his cloak pooling around him like a living shadow. His form flickered, barely holding together, as if his body could no longer contain the power raging inside him.

Darin—no, the knight—lifted his sword, ready to finish it.

The war was over.

The world had won.

But then—

The Overlord laughed.

A weak, broken sound, but there was something terrifyingly triumphant in it.

"You think… this is victory?" the Overlord rasped, voice thick with amusement.

Darin—the knight—didn't answer.

He drove his sword forward.

Steel met flesh.

The Overlord shuddered.

And smiled.

"Fool."

A pulse of black energy erupted from his body, knocking the knight back. The world seemed to warp, the flames twisting, the air itself trembling.

Darin struggled to move, but his limbs wouldn't obey.

The Overlord lifted a trembling hand.

Shadows curled around his fingers.

And then—he reached toward him.

The knight tried to resist.

He tried to move, tried to fight, but—

The darkness poured into him.

Into his skin.

Into his veins.

It burned, ice-cold and suffocating, like drowning in ink.

The Overlord's voice echoed in his mind, a whisper and a command all at once.

"My reign is not over."

The black energy seeped deeper.

Darin's vision blurred.

And in the last flickering moments before the world vanished, the Overlord's final words reached him—

"You will be my vessel."

Darin jerked awake, gasping.

His heart slammed against his ribs. His skin was ice cold, yet slick with sweat.

His hands were shaking.

He clenched them into fists.

The dream was already fading, slipping from his grasp like mist in the morning light.

But he still felt it.

The black energy.

The Overlord's voice.

And the terrible, creeping thought—

What happened after that?

Darin swung his legs over the bed, gripping his arms as if he could squeeze the unease out of himself.

"This isn't real," he whispered to the empty room.

But as he stared at his hands, at the fingers that had snuffed out fire, summoned shadows, and sent the festival into chaos—

He wasn't sure he believed that anymore.