The hammer struck metal with a dull clank, followed by a long, weary sigh.

Darin wiped the sweat off his brow and squinted at the horseshoe he had just finished forging. It was technically horse-shaped. If one were to squint. In the dark. From a very forgiving angle.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "at least this one doesn't look like a melted pretzel."

A voice called out from behind him. "Darin, tell me that's not for my horse."

Darin turned to see old man Harken, the village stable master, eyeing the misshapen shoe with the same expression one might reserve for a rotten fish.

"Oh, this?" Darin quickly hid the horseshoe behind his back. "No, no, of course not. This is…uh…modern art."

Harken raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That so?"

"Absolutely." Darin nodded solemnly.

"I call it 'Abstract Representation of Equine Footwear in a Post-Structuralist Society'."

Harken stared at him, unblinking. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighed. "Darin, I swear, if you weren't the only blacksmith in this village, I'd have my horse barefoot before using your work."

"Love you too, Harken."

The old man grumbled as he left, and Darin exhaled. One crisis averted. Now, if he could just survive another day of pretending to be competent, he might be able to save up enough coin to—

His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion outside.

Darin stepped out of his forge and squinted at the road leading into town. A lone traveler staggered forward, covered in dirt and clutching his side like he'd just lost a fight with a cartwheel. His dark cloak was tattered, his boots caked with mud, and he had the unmistakable air of a man who had seen some nonsense.

And nonsense, as Darin well knew, had a nasty habit of spreading.

The stranger made it a few more steps before dramatically collapsing face-first into the dirt.

The villagers, being the helpful sort, immediately crowded around.

"Heavens, is he dead?"

"No, he just moved. Maybe unconscious?"

"Poke him with a stick."

"I am poking him, Martha! He's just not reacting."

Darin sighed. He already knew what was coming.

Sure enough, within moments, a pair of hands shoved him forward.

"You're the closest thing we have to a healer, Darin!" someone insisted.

He groaned. "I'm a blacksmith, not a—"

"Just check if he's alive!"

Reluctantly, Darin crouched next to the man and nudged his shoulder. "Hey. You dead?"

Nothing.

He sighed and rolled the man onto his back, intending to check for injuries. That was when he noticed something odd, some kind of intricate marking, barely visible under the grime, stretched across the stranger's arm.

Darin frowned. "What the hell is this?"

The moment his fingers brushed against the mark, the stranger's eyes shot open.

Darin had exactly half a second to process this before the man grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and with the intensity of someone witnessing the second coming of an ancient deity, gasped—

"My lord… It's you."

Darin blinked. "Uh."

The crowd gasped.

Darin blinked again. "Wait, what?"

"…So," Darin said, voice tight. "You wanna…maybe…let go?"

The stranger did not let go. Instead, he tightened his grip.

"My lord," the man breathed. "After all these years…you've returned."

Darin let out a slow, measured sigh and turned his head slightly. "Hey. Someone want to tell me what this guy is going on about?"

Silence.

The gathered villagers exchanged looks, whispering among themselves.

"That mark…" one old woman muttered. "Isn't that—?"

"I heard rumors of an ancient symbol—"

"Wait, didn't the old records say something about a return—"

Darin waved a hand, cutting through their murmurs. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's all take a deep breath and not start jumping to conclusions."

He turned back to the traveler, prying at the man's fingers. "Listen, buddy. I don't know what you think is happening, but I promise you, I am not—"

"The Dark Lord has risen once more!"

"—whatever the hell you just said."

Too late. The crowd had already erupted.

"I knew the prophecy was real!"

"By the gods, we're all doomed!"

"No, you fool, this is wonderful! The chosen one has returned!"

Darin massaged his temples. "Why does it always have to be a prophecy?"

Find this chapter's source on MV-LEM-PYR.

The stranger, still firmly latched onto him, looked equal parts elated and delirious. "You bear the mark," he rasped. "Just as the scriptures foretold."

"What mark?" Darin snapped. "I don't have a—"

He froze.

The stranger's hand was gripping his wrist, and through the gap in his sleeve, Darin spotted something he had never noticed before, an odd, jagged marking, faint but undeniable, like an old scar he had never given much thought.

The crowd gasped as one.

Darin groaned. "Oh, come on."

Darin yanked his arm away and yanked his sleeve down over the so-called mark of destiny before anyone got any more ideas.

"Alright," he said slowly, rubbing his forehead. "Let's clear a few things up. One, I am not a 'dark lord.' Two, this is just a weird birthmark. And three"

He pointed at the stranger still sprawled on the ground. "—who are you, and why are you looking at me like I'm about to sprout horns and summon a demon army?"

The man clutched his chest like he'd just been struck by divine revelation. "You…you truly do not remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

A single tear slipped dramatically down the stranger's cheek. "The burden of reincarnation must have wiped away your past life's memories…"

Darin turned to the villagers, waving his hands. "See? This is why we don't take in random cloaked men who collapse in the middle of town! They start talking nonsense, and suddenly, I'm the reincarnation of some apocalyptic nightmare."

The villagers, to his growing horror, were not on his side.

"I mean, it is an odd mark," someone muttered.

"And that prophecy did say—"

"Oh, for the love of—" Darin turned back to the stranger. "Listen. I am a blacksmith. The scariest thing I have ever done is overcook a chicken. There is no way—"

The man suddenly dropped to one knee.

Darin paused. "…Why are you kneeling?"

"My lord," the man said, voice trembling with devotion. "You may not remember, but your power remains. Allow me to prove it."

He reached into his tattered cloak and pulled out a small dagger.

Darin's soul briefly left his body. "Whoa! WHOA! What are you doing with that?!"

Before anyone could react, the man slashed his own palm. Blood welled up instantly. Gasps rang out.

Darin nearly fainted. "WHAT. THE. HELL."

The stranger ignored him. He held out his bleeding hand, voice shaking with reverence. "Heal me, my lord."

Darin stared. "What."

"With your dark power."

"…I'm sorry?"

The stranger's eyes gleamed. "Your cursed touch. The dark magic that runs through your veins. One graze of your unholy hand, and my wound shall be mended."

Darin turned slowly to the crowd. "Do none of you see how insane this is?"

The villagers, wide-eyed, leaned in expectantly.

He turned back. "You want me to what?"

"Simply place your hand upon the wound," the man whispered, trembling. "Show us your power, my lord."

Darin exhaled. Hard.

Fine. If it got this lunatic to calm down, he'd play along. Then he could go back to being a perfectly normal nobody.

Muttering under his breath, he grabbed the man's wrist and clamped his palm over the wound. "There. Happy? Feel the dark, ominous—"

His words died in his throat.

Because, before his eyes, the wound began to seal shut.

Darin stared. The stranger stared. The villagers really stared.

The entire town square fell into stunned silence.

Darin, very slowly, pulled his hand back.

"…What the hell just happened."

The stranger dropped into a full bow. "ALL HAIL THE DARK LORD'S RETURN!"

The villagers lost their minds.

Darin stared at the man's now completely healed hand. He blinked once. Twice. Then rubbed his eyes just to make sure he hadn't imagined it.

Nope. Still there. Still healed.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay. Let's not freak out."

The stranger, still on his knees, looked up with pure, unfiltered awe. "My lord… your power has not diminished in the slightest."

Darin immediately began freaking out. "WHAT POWER?! I HAVE NO POWER!"

The villagers, of course, completely ignored this.

"That was dark sorcery if I've ever seen it."

"His touch alone can heal wounds!"

"No, no, no, this is bad—"

"It's a sign! The overlord has returned!"

Darin clutched his head. "OH MY GODS, I AM A BLACKSMITH."

The stranger, eyes shining, gripped his own chest. "My lord, it is as I feared. Your reincarnation has stripped you of your memories, but worry not. I shall serve as your guide."

"Guide to what?!"

"To reclaim your throne, of course."

Darin let out a strangled noise. "What throne?! I don't have a throne! I have debts! I have a leaky roof! I have a grumpy old stable master who hates my horseshoes—"

The man clasped his hands together. "Yes, yes, this modesty is truly befitting of your cunning nature, my lord."

Darin inhaled deeply. "I feel like you're not listening."

"I hear your every word, O Dark One."

"See, that's exactly the problem."

Darin turned to the villagers, desperate. "Come on, you guys know me. I've lived here my whole life! Do I look like an all-powerful overlord?!"

The village elder, an ancient woman named Greta, squinted at him. "Well… you are the only person in town with black hair."

Darin threw up his hands. "WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!"

The villagers muttered among themselves.

"You know, come to think of it, he's always been a bit different."

"Yeah! He never joined the festival competitions."

"Never drank with us at the tavern either."

Darin's eye twitched. "Because I have social anxiety, Gregor!"

Greta hummed in thought. "Well, I suppose there's only one way to be sure…"

Darin immediately took a step back. "No. Nope. Absolutely not."

She raised a single gnarled finger. "The prophecy states that the reincarnated overlord will show his true nature when he faces the Trial of Shadows."

The stranger gasped. "Of course! The Trial!"

Darin groaned. "That's not a real thing. You just made that up."

"On the contrary," Greta said, voice grave, "it is an ancient ritual."

"Ancient? You're seventy-three, Greta. You were there when the town was built."

She ignored him. "We shall conduct the Trial of Shadows at sundown."

The villagers cheered.

Darin felt his soul try to escape his body.