When I first awoke in this new life, I had two goals.One: regain control of my body.Two: make sense of the strange noises my new "parents" kept making at me.
Simple, right?Wrong.
Being a baby is… humbling.
I couldn't lift my head without my neck flopping like an overcooked noodle. My hands — once capable of shaping stars — now flailed around like I was swatting invisible flies. Worst of all, every few hours, an uncontrollable hunger gnawed at me.
Gods don't eat. Gods create food.Now I had to cry for it. Loudly. Pathetically.
The first time I tried to endure it, thinking I could "transcend" mortal needs, I lasted about thirty seconds before instinct took over and I started wailing like a banshee. My mother, bless her mortal heart, came running immediately.
"Aw, my little Auren, you're hungry again, aren't you?"
Her voice was soft, melodic — the kind of sound that could make even eternity seem warm. I didn't understand the words, but I understood the love in them. She held me close, and I felt her heartbeat again. That rhythm… it was becoming familiar. Safe.
I, the eternal god of creation, had officially become addicted to human affection.
Father wasn't much different. He was loud, good-natured, and had the kind of laugh that shook the walls. When he lifted me up, I felt as if I were flying. The man seemed incapable of subtlety — everything he did, he did with the enthusiasm of someone who believed life was meant to be lived loudly.
"Look at you, little champ!" he'd say, grinning wide enough to split his face. "Already holding your head up for half a second! A knight in the making!"
Yes, congratulations, mortal. Your son has managed the monumental feat of not drooling on himself for five entire seconds. Truly, the legacy of a god.
Still… I liked him. His laugh was infectious, and when he smiled, the room seemed brighter.
Our home, as far as I could tell, was small but cozy — timber walls, stone floor, the scent of bread and woodsmoke always lingering. Outside, I could sometimes hear faint chatter, the clip-clop of hooves, and the rush of wind through trees. So — a village, most likely. A quiet one.
I'd occasionally feel threads of mana in the air, shimmering faintly like a breeze of warmth brushing against my senses. The world had magic — I could feel it. Raw, untamed, and beautifully imperfect. Not divine power, but the same melody in a simpler key.
I wanted to touch it. Shape it. Bend it like I used to.
So naturally, I tried.
One afternoon, as my mother hummed softly beside me, I reached out — not with hands, but with thought. A tiny flicker of light bloomed above my palm. My heart soared. Yes! I still have it!
Then the light fizzled, popped, and scorched my blanket.
"Eeeek!" Mother yelped, quickly patting out the smoke. "By the gods, what was that?!"
I stared at the faint burn mark, stunned.In my past life, I could birth suns.Now I'd just invented… the world's smallest campfire.
She sighed, brushing her hair back. "Oh, Auren… you startled me."
I cooed innocently.Yes. That's right. Totally normal baby behavior. Nothing suspicious here.
She kissed my forehead, smiling again. "You're a lively one."
That warmth returned — not the divine kind, but something infinitely more fragile and comforting. Humans were strange creatures. They could smile after being terrified. They could love something they didn't understand.
I think I was starting to admire them.
Days passed — or weeks; time's fuzzy when you nap every two hours. I discovered that mortals spend an astonishing amount of effort teaching babies to roll over. My mother would cheer every time I managed it, clapping like I'd just solved interdimensional calculus.
"Good job, Auren! Such a strong boy!"
Strong boy.If only she knew.
And yet… her pride warmed me more than any divine praise ever had.
I began to see why mortals fought so fiercely to live — every small victory, every shared laugh, every heartbeat was something precious because it ended. Eternity dulled everything; mortality sharpened it.
Still, the lack of control was maddening. Imagine being all-powerful for eons, then suddenly being unable to control your own bladder.
I've faced cosmic horrors, but nothing — nothing — compares to the humiliation of soiling yourself while maintaining eye contact with your father, who proudly announces, "That's my boy!"
Fate, it seems, has a wicked sense of humor.
But slowly, I adapted. My new world was simple, rhythmic, full of smells, colors, and warmth I'd never noticed before. The wind that slipped through the shutters. The golden flicker of the hearthlight. The distant laughter of children outside.
Once, as I drifted off to sleep in my mother's arms, I thought:So this is life… fragile, fleeting, beautiful.
For the first time since creation began, I didn't envy mortals. I was one of them.
And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't a curse after all.