-A week has passed
Okay. I'm still a baby. Which means I've officially hit rock bottom on the power scale. Can't cast magic. Can't swing a sword. Can't even lift my own damn head without assistance. If I had stats, they'd probably look something like this:
Strength: 0.1
Intelligence: College student
Charisma: Baby eyes
Endurance: Screaming when cold
Luck: Debatable
Great start.
Ever played one of those games with an unskippable tutorial, filled with slow dialogue and painfully sluggish mechanics? That's me right now. Real-life Tutorial Mode. I can't move, can't skip, and I definitely can't rage-quit. I'm stuck in meat jail.
Worst part? I can understand everything. I hear the language, and somehow I get it. I didn't exactly take "Ancient Medievalese 101" before dying, so I'm guessing some kind of isekai translation filter kicked in during my soul transfer.
At the moment, I spend most of my time lying in a wooden cradle, staring at smoke-stained rafters and the occasional spider. My motor functions are laughable. I try to move an arm and end up punching myself in the face.
And diapers. Let's talk about diapers. If you've never been fully aware while someone twice your size wipes your ass with a damp cloth, congratulations. You're living the dream.
Let's talk about the people keeping me alive, my parents. Or at least the people who believe I'm their son.
My mother, Sofia, thankfully, does not resemble a medieval ogress with forearms the size of hams. She's probably in her late twenties, with chestnut hair always tied in a braid that somehow survives daily chaos. Her face is soft, but lined with exhaustion, like someone who hasn't slept through the night since last year's harvest. Freckles dust her cheeks. Her green eyes are alert, thoughtful. Around her neck hangs a silver ring on a string, too worn to be decorative. Her hands are practical, the kind that can gut a fish or rock a cradle without blinking.
She doesn't smile often. But when she does, it's warm and steady, like lighting a candle in a storm. Sometimes she hums while cooking, and the melody burrows into my brain like a lullaby I never learned but somehow remember.
My father, Erob, is sturdier. Broad shoulders, thick arms, sun-darkened skin, and hands calloused from labor, wood, metal, or possibly something more ominous. No judgment. He's likely in his early thirties. His black hair is short and messy, and his beard is just neatly trimmed enough to suggest minimal effort. He's quiet. When he speaks, it's in a low, calm voice, the kind of voice people use when they've learned the world is already loud enough.
The first time he looked at me, he hesitated. Then he smiled, awkwardly, like it was a gesture he hadn't used in a while. But it wasn't fake. It was the kind of smile that doesn't need a reason.
Today, they had a moment in the kitchen.
"He looks at everything now," my mother said, holding me in her lap while I gnawed on my own hand like it owed me rent.
"He's thinking," my father said from the hearth, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"He's quiet," she murmured. "Too quiet, sometimes."
"Takes after you, then," he smirked.
She rolled her eyes, but didn't deny it.
They love me. That's the hardest part. The guilt sits in my chest like a stone. I didn't ask to be here. But I am. And these strangers, they treat me like a miracle.
The house is modest, wood and stone, warm and smoky. Dried herbs hang from the beams. The fireplace is always lit. It's quiet, save for the fire's crackle, the wind, and murmured conversations when they think I'm asleep.
Spoiler: I'm not. I just can't move. So I listen. And think. Probably too much.
Fair enough, my mind is still adjusting to being an adult soul trapped in a baby's body in a world that very much wants me dead.
Recap: I've been reborn into a child's body, accidentally, I think. From what I overheard, they lost their first child. That might explain why they keep staring into my eyes like they're hoping to see someone else.
But that's not even the worst part.
This world? It's not just any fantasy land. No, no. It's that world.
The world of Overlord.
Yeah. That anime. With the death-god skeleton, overpowered NPCs, and a setting that treats human life like I treated software license agreements: skimmed, skipped, and ultimately discarded.
I wish I had landed in a gentle isekai, where the biggest threat is a drought or an awkward harem.
Not this. Not Overlord. Not the world where entire cities disappear because Ainz Ooal Gown, a socially anxious undead salaryman, felt mildly inconvenienced.
This is the world where a single man can erase nations before breakfast. A world where humans are among the weakest races.
And here's the cherry on this cursed sundae: I don't know when I am.
Yggdrasil's shutdown could be tomorrow, or it already happened. Eventually, a bored office worker turned demigod is going to show up here. And when he does, he'll bring a guild of NPCs capable of wiping out civilization as an afterthought.
Sure, Ainz is technically neutral, with the occasional flicker of empathy. But the others?
Albedo. Demiurge. Shalltear.
They're not side characters. They're natural disasters with catchphrases.
If they decide to nuke a village for fun, no one's stopping them.
If I had to rate the threat level of this world, I'd call it: "Please give me a sword, a strategy, and some adult diapers."
Some good news, though. Based on something my dad said to a visiting blacksmith, I've figured out our location: a village called Arona, somewhere in the Baharuth Empire.
Apparently, a few adventurers from the Re-Estize Kingdom passed through recently for gear repairs. That places us somewhere near the continent's center. Not ideal, but not immediate doom either.
So, the main story hasn't started yet. The Kingdom still exists. Ainz hasn't arrived. Honestly? Part of me wishes he had. Say what you want, under his rule there's no crime, no monsters, and probably excellent dental care. You've got tireless undead guards who don't sleep, don't eat, and don't accept bribes. And then there are the liches, bureaucrats so efficient they make spreadsheets look disorganized. The paperwork probably files itself out of fear.
Good news: my dad's forging work is starting to get noticed, which suggests he's good at it. Maybe we'll be okay. Maybe.
Unless the gods, monsters, or a mystic tomb decide otherwise.
Anyway.
It's getting late. The fire is dimming. My limbs are heavy. My mother hums again, something slow.
Whatever tomorrow brings… I'll be here. Literally. I can't move.
Sleep now. Suffering later.