Darin had reached a breaking point.

It wasn't the kneeling cultists. It wasn't the villagers worshipping him. It wasn't even the fact that an entire mercenary squad had fled in terror because of a chicken.

No, the moment that truly shattered him was when Greta, the village elder, waltzed into his forge the next morning and dumped a sack of gold coins onto his workbench.

"There you go," she said, dusting off her hands. "Your first round of tribute."

Darin, who had been attempting (and failing) to repair a horseshoe, stared at the coins in horror. "I'm sorry, my what?"

"Your tribute, my lord."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "No. No, no, no. See, when normal people get paid, it's because they did something. I didn't do anything."

Greta smiled. "You exist."

Darin opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then groaned into his hands.

The stranger—who, inexplicably, had become his permanent shadow, nodded in approval. "Yes, of course. A ruler must be compensated for his rule."

"I don't rule!" Darin snapped.

Greta ignored him completely. "We took up a small collection from the village. Of course, once your empire expands, I imagine the wealth will increase exponentially."

Darin's eye twitched. "Expand? No. I am not expanding. I am one person. I own one terrible forge. I have one broken stool, one leaky roof, and exactly zero armies."

The stranger gestured dramatically. "And yet the people gather beneath your banner."

"There is no banner!" Darin turned back to Greta, practically pleading. "Please, just take the gold back."

Greta shook her head. "Oh, no, dear, that wouldn't be proper. Tribute is non-refundable."

Darin's forehead hit the table with a thud.

"Fine," he muttered. "Then I'll just give it back to the villagers."

Greta gasped as if he had suggested eating a baby. "Oh, you can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because if you redistribute wealth, they'll start calling it Overlord's Generosity and assume it's part of your ruling policy."

Darin's soul attempted to leave his body.

He grabbed a coin from the pile and held it up. "So, just to be clear, if I keep the money, I'm a tyrant, but if I give it away, I'm a benevolent tyrant?"

Greta nodded cheerfully. "Yes, exactly."

Darin let the coin drop from his fingers and stared at the ceiling. "I am going to die."

*****

Darin sat on his forge's front step, head in his hands. The sack of gold still sat beside him, taunting him with its mere existence.

"I hate money," he muttered.

The stranger—who still hadn't left, tilted his head. "But my lord, wealth is power."

Darin shot him a look. "No, money is money. Power is the ability to make people stop calling me the Dark Lord."

The stranger ignored this completely. "Shall we begin planning the next stage of our financial conquest?"

Darin nearly choked. "What financial conquest?!"

The stranger gestured toward the village. "Your influence is already reshaping the economy. Merchants now seek to curry your favor. Smiths, tailors, and farmers whisper your name, eager to be part of your growing empire."

Darin dragged a hand down his face. "Oh no. Oh no."

And, as if the universe wanted to make things worse, a merchant's cart came rolling into town at that exact moment.

The man—a plump, well-dressed fellow with a mustache thick enough to qualify as a separate lifeform, immediately made a beeline for Darin.

"Ah! Lord Overlord!" he called out.

Darin physically recoiled. "Nope. We are not making that a title."

The merchant ignored him. "A pleasure! Truly an honor! I have heard of your growing dominion, and I come bearing gifts."

Darin frowned. "Gifts?"

"Yes! Fabrics of the finest quality! Spices from across the land! Exotic goods, for one such as yourself!"

The man reached into his cart and pulled out a very expensive-looking robe, embroidered with dark crimson thread and an absurd amount of gold trim.

Darin took a slow breath. "Let me guess. This is, what, my 'evil overlord cloak'?"

The merchant beamed. "I knew you'd love it!"

Darin grabbed the fabric and threw it onto the ground. "I don't love it! I don't want it! I don't want any of this!"

The merchant's face fell. "Oh. I see. You are testing me."

Darin twitched. "What?"

"Of course, of course," the merchant murmured. "A true ruler does not accept gifts so easily. He must make his followers prove their loyalty first."

Darin let out a strangled sound.

The merchant turned to his cart. "Then let me show you something even greater."

Darin turned to the stranger beside him. "If he pulls out a throne, I am going to scream."

The merchant pulled out a throne.

Darin screamed.

....

The throne was massive, absurdly ornate, and had a very concerning number of ominous-looking skull motifs.

It was also, apparently, non-refundable.

"Burn it," Darin said flatly.

The merchant gasped in horror. "But my lord—"

"Burn. It."

The stranger nodded. "A wise decision. A ruler as mighty as yourself does not need a throne forged by others. No—only one worthy of your presence shall suffice."

Darin whirled on him. "No. No, no, no. I refuse to sit on any throne."

The stranger nodded again, completely ignoring him. "Then we shall build you a greater one."

Darin grabbed his own face. "THAT IS THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT I SAID."

***** C+o#n%t$en!t s^our+c+e#d f%r-o+m MV4LE@MP-YR@ – My V@ir$t-u$a$l* Li%br+ar%y& Empir.e.!

By midday, Darin had gathered every single merchant, craftsman, and lunatic who had somehow decided his "kingdom" was real.

"I am not ruling anything," he announced.

The villagers nodded solemnly.

"I do not want tribute."

They murmured in awe.

"There will be no expansions. No armies. No thrones."

Gasps of admiration.

Darin clenched his fists. "Stop treating me like a messiah!"

The stranger put a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, my lord. Humility is a trait of the truly powerful."

Darin turned and grabbed the nearest barrel of ale.

"I am drinking myself into unconsciousness," he muttered.

Greta patted his back. "That's the spirit, dear."

Darin wanted to cry.