I Was Mistaken for the Reincarnated Evil Overlord-Chapter 100: Shadows of the Past, Champions of the Present

The air above the Ember Summit had turned to fire and thunder.

The mountain trembled with the clash of powers, old and new. The once-proud halls of stone and ember echoed not with counsel, but with the sharp ring of steel, the roar of arcane storms, and the cries of leaders, now warriors, defending the last wall between civilization and chaos.

But deeper than the battle, beneath every strike and every order… was history.

And now, that history had come alive.

*Sorceress POV*

Flames twisted through the air like dragons dancing in a hurricane.

The Sorceress landed hard atop a stone platform, her boots sparking against enchanted obsidian. She barely blocked the scything crescent of ice aimed at her heart. Across from her, hovering above broken battlements, was the one opponent she had never wanted to see again.

Her sister.

Once her closest ally. Once a healer. Once their laughter and hope.

Now…

Ashen hair.Armored. Gold-tattooed eyes that burned like broken suns. A warped cloak of cursed silk. Mana twisted by darkness, shaped by time and betrayal. She smiled through cracked lips, her voice too soft for the carnage it summoned.

"Still so serious, sister. Don't you miss the days before all this?" frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

The Sorceress didn't answer. Her staff ignited in her hand, silver flames licking the metal.

"I tried to save you," she whispered.

The corrupted woman's smile widened. "No. You tried to save yourself. And when he fell… you saved no one."

The memory slammed through her.

Darin's eyes, blue, then black, then empty.

Her hands trembling on the blade.

His final whisper: "I love you."

Her scream.

The death of an age.

She bared her teeth now. "You let the Overlord corrupt you. You let him twist your love into madness."

"I didn't fall," her sister said, voice echoing unnaturally. "I ascended. And now, I've returned to bring you home."

"I'm not going with you."

"Then you'll burn."

Their magic collided—light and shadow tearing through the battlefield sky.

*Grumble POV*

Grumble was a whisper in the dark, a flicker in the corner of a warrior's eye. The corrupted Gallikarn knight stumbled, slashing wildly, but every swing missed. Every strike came too late. Grumble was already behind him.

The knight snarled, throwing a plume of dark feathers and mana, trying to illuminate the shadows.

Grumble moved with purpose, tail curling as he leapt from shadow to shadow, silent. Always silent. His claws cut clean lines through armor, drawing blood with surgical cruelty. Not to kill.

Not yet.

Reeka, far behind, clutched her bow, but Grumble's gaze had frozen her in place.

A writhing tentacle of shadow lashed out, wrapping the knight's ankle and yanking him to the ground. He scrambled, furious, terrified, and cried out as another tendril gripped his sword arm.

Grumble's paws landed on his chest.

The knight choked.

"Y–you're just a beast—"

Claws entered his chest. Not deeply. Just enough.

Grumble leaned in, his eyes glowing like twin voids. The knight screamed.

And the screaming didn't stop.

*Darin POV*

Sparks sang across the sky.

Darin flew backward, feet scraping against a cliffside wall as Kael advanced, calm, unreadable, utterly dominant.

Dark energy coiled around Darin's frame, barely reinforcing his muscles. The Overlord in his head was doing everything he could.

"Step left, no, twist, now strike! Good. Too slow. Duck—Darin, if you're going to survive this, you need to stop relying on luck and start listening!"

"I am listening!"

"Not well enough."

Kael's glaive came down again in a brutal arc. Darin barely deflected it, but the shockwave from the blow still flung him through a crumbling tower.

He landed hard, coughing dust.

"Is this it?" Kael asked, stepping through the smoke. "The chosen vessel of the Overlord? The reborn shadow?" He lifted his blade with lazy grace. "You're disappointing."

Darin pulled himself up, blinking through the pain. His warhammer felt heavy. His arms ached. Even with the Overlord whispering guidance into his mind, Kael was faster.

Stronger.

Perfect.

"I've fought hundreds like you," Kael said. "Kings. Monsters. Even dragons. But none of them were as pathetic as the man pretending to be the Lord of Darkness."

"I'm not pretending," Darin said, panting. "I just don't care about titles."

"Good," Kael said. "Because you won't live long enough to earn one."

He lunged.

And for a moment, Darin thought he was done.

But then—

"Now!" the Overlord snapped.

Darin's body reacted before he could think. His knee pivoted, his shoulders dipped, and dark mana surged into his hammer just as he twisted around.

Kael laughed mid-air.

A blur of speed.

He caught the hammer with one hand.

"You're learning," he said.

Then he punched Darin in the chest hard enough to crack stone.

Across the battlefield, discipline and coordination erupted like wildfire.

The dwarves had locked down the east slope, reinforced by molten barriers and anti-beast formations. Rune-cannons blasted waves of goblins to shreds while hammer-wielders closed ranks in unison.

The elves formed a tri-circle of sky-callers, their high magic bending starlight into focused lances of energy. Ancient chants wove barriers around the northern ledges, stalling ogres and hex-fiends from overwhelming the central gate.

Beastkin warbands hunted between gaps, striking from blind angles, dragging enemy commanders into traps pre-laid in the mountain hollows.

Dragonkin guards swept the skies, burning abominations mid-air while barked orders from aether-helms kept aerial formation tight.

Even the veiled wraithfolk stood in unison, their floating blades and ghostwalkers disrupting void summoners before they could manifest rifts.

At the war table command node, relay captains screamed updates across spirit mirrors.

"Sector Seven is holding! Dwarves are reinforcing!"

"West ridge breached, Elven archers rotating!"

"Dragonkin are on their second wing rotation, signal accepted!"

No one panicked.

The Ember Summit had prepared.

And now, united, they fought not as strangers, but as a war council forged by fire.

Alvin's blade shifted again mid-swing—morphing from a heavy spear into a dual-ended glaive, catching his towering opponent's strike just in time.

The oni before him towered like a burning statue of wrath, wreathed in blue-black fire. His cloak trailed embers with every movement, and his blade, longer than most men were tall, glowed faintly with ruinous runes.

Alvin gritted his teeth as their weapons locked. Sparks flew. Wind howled between them, whipped into a storm by the Oni's killing intent.

"I know you," the Oni rumbled, eyes glowing with cold mirth. "Alvin Ravenshire. The weapon-child."

Alvin didn't respond. His blade melted into a broad longsword, matching his opponent's stance as he slid sideways across the stone.

"You were the one with potential. I wanted to see what your family bloodline really hides."

Alvin growled, slashing hard, only for his blow to be caught by a single hand—bare, burning with cursed fire.

"Not enough," the Oni whispered, twisting.

Alvin flipped backward just in time, his sword shifting into a jagged axe.

"Try me again."

Meanwhile—

Vincent was bleeding.

A lot.

But he was laughing.

"What was your name again?" he called out, ducking just under a flurry of flying daggers that sliced the tips of his hair. "Something sharp and menacing, I hope? You look like a walking trauma response."

His enemy didn't answer.

They didn't speak at all.

Short. Slender. Hooded. The air around them twisted unnaturally as if the world recoiled from their presence. They didn't walk—they floated, limbs loose, body swaying. Dozens of daggers orbited them in a lazy circle, like a living constellation of death.

Vincent spun mid-dodge, blood flicking from his cheek as one dagger grazed his ribs.

"Ow. That one stung," he muttered, catching a breath. "You throw those things like they insulted your mother."

A blur.

Suddenly, the figure was in front of him, inches away, their face obscured, breathing silent.

Vincent's sword came up.

Too slow.

A knife pressed against his throat—then vanished just before it cut.

Vincent exhaled sharply, twisting his blade into a rising arc that met nothing but air.

"Oh, we're doing the creepy silent type," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Okay. I can play that game."

The figure tilted their head once, and all of the daggers lit with cursed flame.

Vincent's smile faltered for half a second.

Then returned twice as wide.

"…Heh. Alright. Let's see how many knives it takes to make me shut up."

The clearing became a storm of steel and shadows.

Above them all, fire and ice clashed with memory.

The Sorceress screamed as her sister's corrupted magic detonated mid-air. She countered with an arcane shockwave, hurling her back.

Her sister laughed as she caught herself on floating stone.

"You've grown colder," she said. "Did darins past death break your heart so badly?"

"You have no right to speak his name!"

"I loved him, too!" she cried, eyes wide. "I loved him more than you ever did!"

"You betrayed us," the Sorceress whispered.

"No," she snarled. "You did."

They hurled toward each other, mirror images of fury—arcane storms warping the clouds around them.

Darin barely rolled to his feet, blood running down his chin.

Kael stood over him now, blade ready.

"You're not ready," he said.

"I'm not dead," Darin replied, coughing.

"Close enough."

Then it happened.

The sky.

Darkened.

Not by clouds.

But by banners.

Dozens of them.

Spiked iron crests. Woven flames. The sigil of the Scarred Flame, etched into fabric that seemed to leak shadow.

An army appeared at the horizon.

Not just orcs.

Not just gnolls.

But Reavers.

Twisted giants.

Sky-riders.

Siege beasts stitched together by void mana and chained demons.

The sound of warhorns shook the mountain.

Kael looked up, expression finally changing.

Darin followed his gaze, and the blood left his face.

The real army had arrived.