Breathing wasn't as simple as I remembered. My lungs wheezed like I'd chain-smoked since birth, and every tiny gasp felt like I was dragging gravel through a straw. Apparently, reincarnating into a dead baby isn't a smooth transition.
Still, progress was progress. I was alive again—at least, I thought so. My new parents definitely thought so. My father kept staring at me like I'd just performed a miracle. My mother, though still sobbing, looked ready to punch anyone who got too close. And the crowd? They treated me like the second coming of Mushroom Jesus.
If I had the strength, I would've raised a hand and waved. Yes, yes, my child resurrection tour begins now. Tickets are limited.
The old mushroom crone with the staff stepped closer, her wrinkled lips twitching into a grin that had way too many teeth for my comfort. She muttered something in a language that sounded like a combination of choking and gurgling swamp water. Then, with a tap of her staff, golden light shimmered again, wrapping around me like a blanket.
"Blessed," she croaked.
Great. I was blessed. No pressure or anything.
The following days—or maybe weeks, it was hard to tell—passed in a blur. Being a baby is basically a full-time job in suffering. Can't hold my head up. Can't walk. Can't talk. Just eat, poop, sleep, and occasionally cry for no reason. I was like a Tamagotchi on hardcore mode.
At least I wasn't totally helpless. That warmth I'd felt from the old woman's spell still lingered. My body healed fast—faster than normal, I guessed. My mind, too, felt sharp, like it hadn't reset with the reincarnation. I wasn't starting from scratch; my memories from Earth were still intact. Lucky me.
Sometimes, when I stared long enough, I swore I could feel things through the floor. Tiny vibrations ran up through the wooden cradle, like threads under the surface connecting everything. Mushrooms sprouting, villagers walking, even the distant hum of water running through pipes. Mycelium Wi-Fi, basically.
One night, I woke to faint whispers.
At first, I thought it was my parents—maybe my mom humming to herself, maybe my dad talking in his sleep. But no. This was different.
The whispers weren't around me. They were inside me.
"Grow."
"Consume."
"Spread."
Creepy as hell, right? But also kind of motivating, in the same way late-night motivational YouTube videos are. I was torn between screaming and asking them if they had a training plan.
I decided to test it.
"Okay… grow," I whispered in my head.
Instantly, a tingling spread from my chest down to my fingertips. My tiny baby hands flexed, and a faint, pale glow lit up the skin around my knuckles. Something squirmed just beneath the surface—like roots looking for a way out.
I yanked the thought back. The glow vanished. My heart pounded like I'd just sprinted a marathon on chicken legs.
Congratulations to me. Day three of life and I was already manifesting eldritch horror powers.
Morning came with chaos. The village was buzzing with shouts. My father—still clad in his armor—burst into the hut. His face was smeared with dirt and blood, though not his own.
"They're pushing into the western grove," he growled.
My mother paled. She clutched me tighter, almost crushing my tiny ribs. "The Mawborn?"
Even as an infant, I could feel the dread dripping from that word. Mawborn. It rolled off the tongue like something you didn't want crawling under your bed.
"Not yet," my father said, voice low. "But close. The beasts are restless."
So, great. My new life lasted less than a week before monsters were already at the gates. At least things were consistent—Earth had meteors, this place had nightmare bear-spider hybrids.
That night, they came.
I was woken by the sound of alarms—bells clanging, boots thundering on rope bridges. My father shoved into the hut, scooped me up with one hand, and dragged my mother with the other. We rushed outside into chaos.
The village glowed with torchlight, shadows twisting across the massive branches. Warriors—both human and mushroom kin—rushed past us, wielding swords, spears, even bows strung with glowing fungus. My baby brain couldn't process it all at once. It was like watching a fantasy MMO raid, but in first person.
Then I saw them.
The beasts.
Crawling from the lower branches and up the bark came creatures that didn't belong in any world. Black, oily skin. Mouths where mouths shouldn't be. Claws that curved too long, too sharp. Some had extra arms, some had too many eyes, others had no eyes at all. They moved in jerks, like puppets whose strings were pulled by a sadistic child.
My mother screamed. My father roared back. I just drooled a little, which, honestly, was the appropriate response.
As the monsters swarmed, something inside me stirred. The whispers came again, louder this time.
"Grow."
"Consume."
"Spread."
Protect.
I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't even have control of my bladder yet, let alone mystical fungal powers. But instinct took over.
My tiny hands reached out, and golden spores burst from my skin. They floated on the air like dust motes, landing on warriors as they fought. Wherever they touched, wounds knit together, cuts closed, fatigue lifted.
I was healing them.
My father looked down at me in awe. "By the roots…" he whispered.
But it wasn't all good news. Some of the spores drifted further—onto the monsters.
And they laughed.
Not normal laughs. Deep, guttural, gurgling laughs that made my insides turn cold. The spores didn't heal them. They twisted them. One beast's claws elongated, another's mouth split wider. They grew stronger, more feral.
Apparently, my powers weren't selective yet. Oops.
The battle raged until dawn. Warriors hacked and slashed, arrows flew, fire roared across branches. Bodies—human, mushroom, and monster alike—littered the platforms.
By sunrise, the attack had broken. The surviving beasts retreated into the shadows. The village held, but barely.
And me? I was exhausted. I'd burned through something deep inside, and my baby body couldn't keep up. My head lolled, eyes half-shut.
Before I passed out, I heard my father's voice rumble above me.
"He's not just blessed. He's chosen."
Then darkness swallowed me again.
When I woke again, I expected more screaming, more chaos, maybe another monster trying to chew my new dad's face off. Instead, I was staring at the roof of our hut—woven leaves, thick vines, and glowing mushrooms that pulsed faintly like night-lights. Cozy, if you ignored the faint bloodstains still splattered across the wood.
I was alive. My parents were alive. The village was alive. Barely.
I tried to move, but being a baby meant I had all the mobility of a soggy potato. So I just lay there, staring at the mushrooms overhead, thinking: Great. Born again just to become a fungus-powered potato.
Then the memories hit me. The battle. The monsters. The whispers in my head. The spores I'd unleashed.
I'd healed people. I'd also made monsters stronger. If this was a skill tree, I'd just unlocked the "Team Buff / Enemy Buff" ability, which was the most broken and dangerous mechanic possible. Basically, I was a double-edged sword, and no one had figured out which side was sharper yet.
The door flap rustled open. My father ducked inside, ducking low because he was basically built like a tank in human skin. His armor was gone, replaced with simple cloth trousers. The scars on his chest told a story of way too many battles.
Behind him came my mother, carrying a bowl that steamed with something thick and green. Soup, probably. At least, I prayed it was soup.
She sat beside me, setting the bowl down, and leaned close. Her face was softer now, but her eyes still carried the weight of someone who'd cried too much in too little time. She brushed a strand of hair—well, not hair exactly, more like a mushroom cap's edge—back from her face.
"He sleeps, he wakes," she whispered to my father. "Like the cycle. Maybe it was not luck."
My father grunted, sitting heavily on the floor. "Not luck," he said. His voice was gravel dragged across iron. He looked at me with those sharp green eyes. "Blessing. Or curse. Depends on how long he survives."
Wow. Love you too, Dad. Real motivational.
The next few days blurred together in what I can only call the "baby montage." My parents fed me mashed-up glowing roots. Old mushroom folk came in to poke me with staffs, mutter in strange tongues, and nod sagely like they knew what they were doing.
And always, there were the whispers.
Grow.
Consume.
Spread.
Protect.
Sometimes they felt comforting, like someone was patting me on the head and telling me I was destined for greatness. Other times they sounded hungry, echoing deep in my bones like they wanted to crawl out of me.
One night, as I drifted in half-sleep, I felt myself sink into the floor again—down into the threads I'd sensed before.
The world beneath the world.
It was vast, endless, a network of glowing veins that stretched through soil, wood, stone, water. Mycelium, alive and breathing. And it was aware of me.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of voices whispered in unison:
You are ours. Ours to carry. Ours to grow. Ours to become.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I did the baby equivalent: I started bawling.
My mother jolted awake, scooping me up, murmuring soft words to calm me. She thought I'd had a nightmare. She wasn't wrong.
The next morning, the village gathered in the great hall, which was really just the fattest tree trunk carved hollow. My father carried me on his shoulder, and I felt like a royal mascot, perched high while everyone stared. Humans in worn armor, mushroom kin with caps and glowing veins, children with wide eyes.
At the front stood the elder—the old mushroom crone with the staff. Her cap sagged with age, and her robes smelled faintly of moss.
She raised her stick. "The child has shown the light."
The crowd murmured. Some in awe. Some in fear.
"He healed warriors in the night of blood. He marked himself chosen."
That part earned cheers. But then she added, "And he fed the Mawborn too."
Instant silence.
All eyes turned to me. A baby. Drooling. Probably looking like I was halfway to a nap.
I wanted to say, Hey, cut me some slack. I've been alive for, what, five days? But all that came out was a hiccup.
The elder's eyes glowed faintly. "We must decide. A gift like this can save us… or doom us."
My father stepped forward, jaw set. "He is mine. Flesh of my blood, son of my house. Judge me if you wish, but he stays."
My mother pressed her forehead to mine. "And he is mine. Born from death into life. He is not doom."
The hall broke into arguments—shouts, growls, spore clouds puffing out in agitation. Some argued I was a blessing. Others that I was a curse, a beacon for the Mawborn.
Me? I just farted. Which, honestly, felt like the most appropriate response.
That night, my father trained. I lay in the cradle, watching him through slitted eyes. He moved like a storm—swinging a massive greatsword, muscles rippling, scars shining with sweat. Each blow shook the hut.
He wasn't just strong—he was terrifying. And yet, when he looked at me afterward, his expression softened, pride hidden behind steel.
"You'll be stronger than me," he muttered. "Or you'll die."
Real comforting, Dad. Thanks again.
The whispers didn't let up.
Grow. Spread. Protect.
One evening, unable to resist, I reached again for the glow under my skin. This time I focused. I wanted to see what I could control.
The spores answered.
A soft, golden mist puffed from my palms, drifting across the hut. When it landed on a dying moth near the window, its wings straightened. It fluttered weakly, then buzzed into the night.
Success!
Then the mist reached a beetle. Its shell warped, twisting until jagged spikes jutted out. It screeched, scuttling madly before slamming into the wall.
Failure.
I pulled the spores back in, heart hammering. My mother stirred but didn't wake.
I realized then what the whispers meant. I wasn't just healing or harming. I was accelerating life. Whatever touched my spores grew—sometimes right, sometimes wrong.
It wasn't control yet. But it was power.
Two weeks later—at least, I think it was two weeks—trouble came back.
The bells rang again. Warriors scrambled across bridges. The air turned sharp, filled with the stench of blood and oil.
Mawborn.
This time, I saw them clearly. Crawling up from the forest floor came things that nightmares would run from. Bear-sized bodies with too many arms. Skin like tar, dripping in clumps. Mouths opening sideways, filled with wet grinding teeth.
The warriors met them in force. Arrows whistled. Swords clashed. Mushroom kin unleashed spore clouds of flame, ice, or poison.
I was supposed to be safe in the hut. But the whispers didn't let me stay quiet.
Grow. Spread. Protect.
So I reached again. This time, instead of letting the spores drift wild, I focused.
I thought of healing. Of strength. Of walls.
The spores obeyed. They poured from me like smoke, weaving together into a shimmering barrier that wrapped around our hut. The first beast that slammed into it shrieked as golden vines lashed across its body, searing the oily flesh.
My father, roaring with battle rage, burst out the door, greatsword in hand. He didn't even look surprised that I'd just conjured a fungal forcefield. He just grinned, savage and proud, and charged into the fray.
My mother knelt by me, eyes wide. "What are you?" she whispered.
Good question, Mom. Wish I knew.
The fight lasted all night again, but this time the village held stronger. My spores had spread further than I realized—into the wood, the bridges, even the trees themselves. Roots pulsed golden. Branches hardened into weapons. The village itself fought back.
By sunrise, the Mawborn retreated, hissing and snarling.
But victory came at a cost. Bodies littered the platforms. Too many. My spores couldn't save everyone.
And as I lay in my mother's arms, drained and weak, I realized the whispers weren't whispers anymore.
They were voices.
And they were laughing.