Cold.
A sharp chill brushes against my skin like needles dipped in winter.
Bright.
Way too bright. As if someone shoved a flashlight directly into my soul.
I blink—at least, I think I blink—but my body barely responds.
I'm… being carried?
Something hard presses against my stomach. A back. Broad, solid.
Whoever this guy is, he's built like a damn fortress. No normal human carries eighty, ninety kilos around like nothing.
So why can he?
I try lifting my hands—A sharp sting shoots through my chest.
Great.
My fingers barely twitch. Everything feels numb… wrapped. Cloth? Bandages? Some rough fabric clings to my skin as if I've been rolled up like a burrito.
What the hell is happening?
I try to speak. Nothing. My lips move, but only a scratchy gasp comes out, too faint for even me to hear.
And this guy—
Why is he jumping around like a maniac?!Rock to rock, ledge to ledge, like gravity forgot to apply to him.
HEY! Slow down, you lunatic!
One more leap like that and my head's gonna introduce itself to a luring Rock.
I can't move, I'm wrapped like a postal package—and he's doing parkour up a mountain?!
What is this—
Okay, looks like he's finally stopping. Good. Good. VERY good.
He sets me down. Still wrapped tight.
And… why is he looking at me like that? What is that expression? Dude looks like he swallowed a clown and is trying not to laugh.
He lifts part of the cloth. Light spills in. Cold air grazes my skin.
I can wiggle again. Barely—but it's something.
My hands…
Why are my fingers so tiny? Round. Soft. Baby-sized.
Wait.
Am I—
…dead?
Yeah. I remember something. A moment. An ending.
And now—
I stare at my hands. My legs. My entire tiny, helpless body.
I'm a… baby. A fucking baby.
Wait—This might not actually be the worst thing ever.
Maybe.
But seriously, what is that guy doing now?
Is he shaping a rock with his bare hands?
Lightning—? Huh? Why are there black lightning sparks crawling across his palm?And why is the rock bending like clay?!
What kind of fever-dream novel world did I reincarnate into?
He's making… a bed? For me?
He lifts me gently—surprisingly gently for a guy who jumps mountains like a feral goat—and lays me inside.
Soft. Warm.
Honestly… I could fall asleep—
…
Hey. It's been about a month.
We took a little trip today. And yes—I was wrapped again.
I won't lie: it's actually kind of comfy. Like living inside a warm tortilla. I'm not complaining.
We went down to the foot of the mountain—hunting. Well, he hunted.I was… elite baby luggage.
Today I finally saw it clearly:
The scar.
A huge jagged line across his back, old but deep. A wound that should've killed him—but he's walking around like it was just an itchy mosquito bite.
What happened to this guy?
Was he a swordsman who broke some holy vow? A fallen hero?A criminal? Someone who's seen too much to ever talk about it again?
Maybe I'll figure it out someday.
Or maybe I'll just stay a swaddled burrito-baby forever and watch his absurd back muscles like I'm in a zoo.
…
Okay—I'm three months old now.
Still no clue what this guy is saying. But he talks. A LOT. Like he expects me to suddenly answer back.
I also have no idea where we are.Some mountain? Just me and him.
And honestly… I'm scared.
I'm a literal baby, and this dude sometimes leaves me alone on the mountaintop for hours. Just wind, cold, sky—and me lying there like an abandoned potato sack that can't even crawl.
He trains every day. Hard. Really hard.
Not gonna lie—I used to be pretty built myself.
Before I, uh…died.
How did that happen again?
Oh. Right.
Embarrassing. Very embarrassing.
I think I… suffocated because the bar slipped during bench press.
It fell. Straight down. Game over.
Amazing. I always imagined dying in some epic way—Truck. Explosion. Dragon attack. Something.
But no. I got murdered by my own gym equipment.
Bravo, old me. Really.
…
Yo. Reporting in—six months old now!
Today I learned my name.
He calls me Kore.
Don't know if it means anything in this world. Honestly?
I don't care.
And this guy…I'm pretty sure he's my father.
Which is weird, because I've never seen a mother. Not even a hint of another human.
Yet he brings milk every day.
No idea how. Maybe there are magic cows here. Or maybe he milks rocks. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised at this point.
And about his magic—Yeah, I'm calling it magic.
But those sparks…They're black.
Not dark. Not purple. Not edgy anime black.
I mean void-black lightning, crawling over his skin like living shadows.
He lifts his hand—the air vibrates. Heavy. Dangerous.
The lightning snaps and hisses, like angry spirits trying to break free.
What IS that?
A spell? A skill? Can he just yell at reality until it listens?
And when he hunts…
Bro.
Animals just fall over if he LOOKS at them. No punch. No throw. No roar.
Just eye contact.
Creepy.
If he can do that to a deer…What does he do to humans?
But also—Kinda badass.
I want that too.
If I'm really his kid, I must've inherited SOMETHING cool, right? Some kind of lightning gene. The "make wildlife faint by looking at them"-ability.
Imagine that.
I'm gonna be OP. A legend. Women will line up for me.
Something I definitely did NOT experience in my old life.
I wasn't ugly. I was built. And still:
Zero. Success. Rate.
…
Time jump again.
I'm now officially one year old.
We even "celebrated."
And by celebrate, I mean:
He tied me to a giant deer, slapped its ass, and chased it through the forest.
WHILE. I. WAS. ATTACHED.
Is this man NORMAL?!
"COME ON, KORE! TAME IT!"
Tame…? Bro, I am ONE YEAR OLD. I can't even tame my own breathing.
Father—Stranger—Lightning Muscle Beast—whatever you are—
I AM ONE YEAR OLD!!!
…
Anyway.
I will get my revenge eventually.
But there's good news:
We no longer live alone on that cursed mountain.
My "father" — yeah, let's use that term loosely — found a new woman.
And she…takes care of me.
She washes me. Feeds me. Puts me in real beds that aren't made of stone or improvised bark.
She speaks a language I'm slowly picking up.
And bro…she can COOK.
Also—She's absolutely gorgeous. Like "I briefly forget I'm a baby" gorgeous.
But yes. She's my stepmother.
Tragic.
What am I even saying…?
Anyway—
Our new house is actually nice. Too nice.
Are we rich?
Then why the hell did "Father" keep us living in the wild like mountain goblins?
Is it training? Tradition? Or is he simply insane?
Also—
We have books.
Not many, but enough.
Maybe I can learn magic this time. Actually learn it.
Maybe.
I can walk now. Slow. Wobbly. But it counts.
I finally get to move myself without waiting to be carried or left somewhere like a forgotten coat.
New life. Second chance.
Time to stop screwing things up.
If my father is some lightning-wrapped monster, then surely I inherited something.
Right?
RIGHT?!
I am NOT going to be some magicless side character. No shot.
This life? I'm going full OP.
Where are the magic books? The training? The secrets?
I toddle toward the bookshelf. It is—obviously—way too tall for me. But my brain refuses to accept defeat.
"How hard can pulling down one book be?" I thought.
I grab it.
The book decides gravity is an optional suggestion.
WHAM.
Right on my head.
"Ow!!"I topple down, clutching my skull.
Perfect. First death: bench press.Second death: encyclopedia.
I look at the cover.
Author: Julia Vaynhouse
…Huh?
Isn't that—the hot la—my mother. MY STEPmother. That's what I meant. Obviously.
I turn around and grab another one.
Same name.
A third.
Same.
Julia. Julia. Julia.
Hold on.
My stepmother…wrote ALL of these?
Where the hell am I living?
A shadow-wrapped superhuman father…A scholarly mage mother who writes entire libraries…
If this isn't the best starter kit for a second life, I don't know what is.
Sure, I messed up my first run.
But this time?
Oh, this time is going to be legendary.