Chris was a professional fighter, a man who lived for the roar of the crowd, the crack of bone under his fists, and the rush of victory inside the cage. His world was blood, sweat, and broken jaws—and he loved every second of it.
But never, in his wildest nightmares, did he imagine he'd be face-to-face with a nipple the size of a champion's belt.
The moment he opened his eyes, Chris froze in stunned horror.
He wanted to shout, "What in the actual fuck?!" but what came out was a pathetic, sputtering, "Wah! Wah!"
"My voice…?" He tried again, panic creeping in, but all that came was another helpless wail. And then the realization hit him like a heavyweight's right hook.
He was a baby. A goddamn baby. Again. Fuck.
His limbs flailed weakly as he struggled to look around. He was bundled up in thick, rough furs, the kind that smelled of wild beasts and smoke. And looming over him were monsters—towering brutes with tusks, thick muscles like slabs of rock, jagged scars across their greenish-brown skin. Orcs. Absolute units.
One of them—a female orc with braided black hair and kind, amber eyes—gazed down at him. Her voice rumbled like distant thunder but was surprisingly soft. "Little warrior… you must be hungry. Come now, drink. Grow strong."
And then—oh no—she brought that champion's belt-sized nipple right to his face.
Chris—no, not Chris anymore—felt his pride wither under the absurdity. Before he could even flinch, a flood of warm milk blasted into his mouth like a broken hydrant, practically drowning him. He had no choice but to drink or choke.
His tiny stomach filled to bursting, stretching painfully, his mind a storm of disbelief.
And then… the memories came flooding back.
He remembered stepping into the ring, fists taped, jaw clenched, the roar of the crowd as he claimed the lightweight championship. Victory. Then the long-awaited trip to the tropics—golden sands, cold drinks, nothing but peace.
Until it all went to shit.
He'd been lying on the beach, scrolling through some trashy web novel on his phone, when something splattered on his face.
"Ugh—bird shit?"
Instinctively, he wiped it off. Sticky. Hot.
"What the hell—?"
When he looked at his hand, his heart skipped. Blood. Thick, dark, slithering… alive. It crawled down his chest, into his skin, burrowing into his very bones.
"This isn't real. I'm losing it."
But then the sky dimmed.
He looked up.
A figure—a shape so massive it eclipsed the heavens—stared down from the void. Larger than planets. Its monstrous body swallowed the sun, and with it, hope.
A massive mace, blacker than the abyss, descended from the stars, slamming into the ocean. The world cracked. Mountains shattered. People screamed.
But Chris didn't panic. He just sighed, wiping his forehead. "Seriously? Guess I'm not finishing that novel."
Then—nothing.
No time. No light. No life. Just blankness.
When consciousness returned, he wasn't on a sunny beach anymore. He was in a dense, ancient forest—gargantuan trees, thick vines, the air full of the wild, musky scent of untamed earth.
Before he could fully process it, a massive orc stepped into view. Fifteen feet tall, muscles rippling like war-forged steel, skin dark as mahogany, tusks curling from his fierce grin. His long braids hung like ropes, and his yellow eyes glimmered with feral pride.
"Vrakka! Let me hold him!"
The orc lunged forward, but the slightly smaller orc woman twisted out of his reach like a practiced fighter dodging a sloppy punch.
"Grond Bloodfang! You might be a chieftain, but you're still a thick-headed oaf! Our cub's only just been born—don't break him before his first breath!"
"Ha! Fine, fine."
Grond gently scooped Chris up—no, not Chris anymore. A new name whispered through the wind, through blood, through instinct.
"By the ancestors! My son! His name shall be HulkBloodfang!"
A newborn orc, born weak, destined for war.