A woman is breastfeeding me.
Yeah. Let that image simmer in your brain like soup gone wrong.
I am a baby now. A full-on bald-headed, no-teeth-havin', shit-in-my-pants toddler. And she must be my mother.
She looks Human... no green skin, no horns, no tentacles. Damn, no Sophia Leone cheat code, huh? But at least I'm not back on Earth. That shithole had taxes.
Now, some logical, Reddit-lurking, anime-profile-picture-wearing four-eyed demon would say, "Uhmm... How does he know he's in another world just by seeing his mom is Human? He could still be on Earth, right? This MC is dumb."
To that I say, with all the love in my soul:
Go gargle a cactus.
I've read enough reincarnation novels to know that if you wake up thinking full-ass English sentences inside a gooey baby skull, you're the main character now. Welcome to Isekai land.
But wait... where's my father?
Please don't be dead, old man. I'm not trying to start life with trauma speedrun%.
And please don't let mom have cancer this time. One emotional backstory is enough.
Also... stop with the milk. Woman, that's not love, that's waterboarding.
I pulled back from her chest like a soldier diving from a grenade.
"You done already? I've been feeding you for three hours now. You were so still I thought you died," Mom said, smiling like she didn't almost drown me in calcium.
THREE HOURS?!
Lady, you fed me like I was a leech and you were a goddamn waterbed.
Wait… wait wait…
Did she... actually kill her original baby by accident, and I just slurped into his soul slot like nothing happened?
Holy afterbirth, I'm a damn soul squatter.
Thank god I moved my head in time or I'd have been next on her list of milk-based casualties.
But who breastfeeds for three hours straight? What is this? A kink?
Now I'm worried for my dad. Is he even alive? I hope he didn't die while making love to her.
I need to observe the battlefield.
This "house" is humble. And by humble, I mean "made of wet disappointment."
All I see is a bed, a door, and vibes. This ain't a house, it's a hut with delusions of grandeur.
Suddenly, the door flung open like a WWE entrance and someone walked in.
Please be a sane person.
Woah. Who's that? Skinny hulk?
After seeing who arrived I finally got to know that I was really in another world.
A green skin woman, thin like she owed calories money, skin green like expired lettuce, and face dotted with red pimples like a pepperoni pizza with legs, walked towards my mother.
"Here! Brought warm clothes for this cutie," she said, then looked at me like I was edible. "Did he do anything while I was gone? I told you to feed him."
Mom smiled. "Yes, I started feeding him. After twenty minutes, he went still. But after three hours of continuous feeding, he finally moved again!"
"WHAT!?" said Goblin aunty, looking like I just came back from the dead.
Yeah. You should be shocked.
You leave a baby alone with this lunatic and come back to find me practically marinated in milk.
"Three hours is way too less!"
The hell? What kind of lactose cult is this?
"You don't know anything, sis," she added.
I blinked.
SIS?
No... no no no. They can't be blood related.
I looked at my hands. Human.
Looked at mom. Human.
Looked at goblin aunty again. Clearly kissed by Shrek's diseased cousin.
They must be sworn sisters. Childhood trauma bonding. Not blood.
"You got my mother's qualities more than me, Sofia. So you are intelligent. I got my father's genes more. Blood plays a part in such things."
Blood. BLOOD?!
Either Grandma got bored at a goblin orgy or Grandpa had a goblin maid and no self-control.
That's the only way this makes sense.
And both these women have the nerve to call themselves "intelligent"?
One murdered her child by overfeeding him like a python. The other thinks that's not enough.
Where. The fuck. Have I landed?
Now, now—before some greasy logic monster starts crying again: "But how is he understanding their language? It's a new world. New people. New tongue. This MC is so unrealistic. Ugh."
To them, I say:
One – I'm the main character.
Two – read paragraph seventh again.
Back to the battlefield— I mean, the present.
Goblin aunty spoke again, firing off another psychological war crime:
"So if you know I'm intelligent, then listen to me. Feed him more. He needs to drink to become a strong man."
She talks like breast milk is pre-workout. This is not how muscles work, Sofia. This is how lawsuits happen.
And mom, that lovable menace, AGREED.
"Yes. Yes."
NO!
Don't listen to the goblin, Mom!
You'll traumatize me into hating boobs forever!
Which is a tragedy worse than war.
But I couldn't stop them. I was a mute, helpless potato. My only weapon? Crying. And crying was for cowards.
Mom leaned in again. Chest first. A damn milk missile.
I moved my head back. Again.
She leaned forward.
I dodged like Neo in the Matrix.
And then she smiled and whispered: "Hehe. Come here, naughty boy. Stop playing. Give up on running."
I am not playing! You give up. If you give up nothing will happen. But If I give up, I will die. I will be smothered to death by boobs. I am a man of culture but not that much.
Goblin aunty joined in: "You have to win, sis! He must drink milk! Don't give up! I'll help you!"
Then she grabbed my baby head like a cantaloupe and started shoving it toward Mom's chest like a tag-team WWE finisher.
WHAT IS THIS FAMILY?!
I want a refund on this reincarnation.
I swear this goblin is a spy from a rival race. This is sabotage.
I was about to accept death when...
THUD!
The door burst open again.
Please... please be someone sane. A voice of reason. A god, maybe.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU BOTH ARE DOING?!"
A MAN. FINALLY.
A masculine roar. Bass in the voice. Sanity in the words.
"My son won't drink that anymore."
It was him.
My father. He's alive. And he's spitting facts.
The goblin aunty finally loosened her iron grip on my baby skull, and Mom backed off—boobs still dangerously armed.
"Welcome back, dear," she said, as if they weren't a mid-homicide attempt by dairy.
Dad nodded. Calm. Composed. The man I waited for.
Yes, father. Save your genetically unfortunate child.
He picked me up gently, his face glowing with fatherly warmth.
"My son," he said, voice like honey and justice, "you don't have to drink that anymore."
Thank you. Sweet mercy. I have survived the Milk War.
"But now…" he smiled wider. A glow in his eyes.
Wait… what's that look?
"You're going to drink papa's milk."
…
I see.
Gods? It's me.
Can you please send me to hell? I want to die again.