I've been awake for exactly three minutes, and already I can tell life has taken a sharp turn for the worst.
You ever wake up and immediately realize something's wrong? That sense of absolute wrongness crawls up your spine, like you're waking from a dream but everything still feels just a little too surreal? That's me. Right now. Except it's not a feeling.
It's a fact.
I'm not in my bed. I'm not in my apartment. Hell, I'm not even in my own body anymore. And don't ask me how I know that, because that's the most confusing part of all this. I don't feel like me. I don't feel like anything at all.
And then there's the crying.
Not mine, thank whatever higher power might still care about me. No, there's crying all around me. It's the kind of raw, ear-piercing wailing that only comes from infants. My ears are assaulted by the high-pitched chorus of baby screams, and the faint scent of… I don't know… sour milk? Wet clothes? It's a sensory overload that hits me like a train, and that's when I realize the truth.
I've been reborn.
Oh, hell no.
I try to scream. Nothing comes out. Instead, my limbs flail—short, stubby limbs that barely seem to respond to my commands. It's like trying to pilot a badly made marionette with tangled strings. My whole body jerks awkwardly, and it only takes a split second to realize I'm not in control. Not fully. Not yet.
I'm a baby.
I'm. A. Baby.
Oh, I've read stories. Seen the isekai tropes. But not once did I expect this. I thought if you died and got reborn, you'd at least have some kind of advantage—magic powers, memories from your old life... something that makes it worth the horrifying start of wearing diapers again. Instead, I can barely breathe without drooling.
What did I do in my past life to deserve this?
That's when I feel it—the first real sensation beyond my flailing arms and wailing baby lungs. It's a tightness in my chest, a slow, subtle constriction around my heart. It's faint, barely noticeable at first, but it grows, winding around like a snake. My heartbeat quickens, and for a second I think, This is it. I'm going into cardiac arrest on day one. What a way to go.
Then I feel it twitch.
Not my heart—the thing around it.
There's something alive in my chest.
Nope. I'm out. Tap out. What kind of sick joke is this?!
Suddenly, my baby lungs remember how to work again, and I let out a high-pitched scream that could probably shatter glass. My arms flail wildly, and for the first time since waking, I feel the cold, hard reality around me. There's something tight around my wrist—no, both wrists. Shackles. Metal shackles, heavy for my tiny arms, pinning me down on some kind of hard stone slab.
I'm shackled. As a baby. And there's something crawling in my chest.
This isn't just reincarnation. This is the worst kind of nightmare.
The crying around me grows louder—other babies, all in the same situation. And that's when it clicks. This isn't a cozy rebirth where some kind god gives me a second chance. No, this is something else. Something sinister.
"Silence," a voice rasps from the shadows. It's low, guttural, and commands the kind of fear that only years of practice can achieve. The crying stops immediately. Not just because of the voice, though. It's the pressure in the air. Heavy, dark. The babies fall silent, not out of understanding, but because something primal inside them—and me—knows to fear whatever just spoke.
I can't see the figure. Not clearly. My baby vision's blurry, like trying to watch an old VHS tape that someone's scratched up for fun. But I catch a glimpse—a robed figure, hooded, moving slowly around the room, checking each of us.
"Weak. Fragile. But suitable," the voice murmurs as they approach me. I feel their presence—cold, too close. I want to squirm away, but my baby body won't cooperate.
The figure reaches into their sleeve, pulling out a glistening needle that looks about as long as my tiny forearm. My panic spikes. They're going to stab me. I'm going to get stabbed by some robed weirdo on day one.
But the needle doesn't come for me. No, it glows faintly in the dark, and with it, I feel a pulse of energy—Qi, if I'm not mistaken. Energy gathering is a common thing in cultivation stories, right? Except this feels dirty. Heavy. Twisted.
The needle vanishes into my chest. There's no pain, not immediately. But I feel the thing around my heart coil, squeezing tighter as if it knows what's happening.
"Soon," the robed figure whispers, withdrawing the needle. "You will serve the sect."
Sect? That's when it hits me. I'm not just any random baby. This isn't a warm nursery or some royal palace. This is an evil sect. A place where they kidnap kids and raise them as future cultivators or worse—fodder for their rituals. And that thing coiled around my heart? That's my leash.
I've been reborn into a nightmare. Welcome to Crimson Mantle Sect, where babies aren't just babies. We're tools.
Fast Forward: Time Skip (Because I'm a Baby, and Babies Can't Do Much)
Days pass in a blur. Or maybe it's months? Honestly, I don't know. I'm stuck in a baby body, and my sense of time is shot. I get fed on a schedule—some kind of weird, sludgy milk that tastes like dirt and leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. I guess it's better than starving, but I've had better meals back in my old life.
Old life. Yeah, I had one of those, didn't I? Memories flicker back, but they're hazy. A job. A boring life. Then… something. Something stupid. I can't even remember how I died, which honestly sucks. If I'm gonna get reborn, I'd at least like to know what I was running from.
But now I've got bigger problems. Namely, the Crimson Mantle Sect, which seems to specialize in raising kids the way farmers raise pigs. For slaughter.
I learn fast that the spirit centipede wrapped around my heart is not just for decoration. I feel it squeeze whenever I try to resist, whenever I don't comply with whatever the sect demands. It's a reminder—constant and silent—that I'm theirs now. And they can snuff me out whenever they want. Just like that.
Three Years Later
I'm three years old now, or at least that's what I think. I can walk. I can talk—though I don't. Not to them, anyway. There's no point in drawing attention to myself. I've learned that the hard way. The other kids, they're loud, they fight, they squabble. And every time one gets too rowdy, one of the elders appears, and the centipedes do their job.
They drop. Like flies.
Three years. That's how long it's taken for me to figure out just how deep this hellhole goes. We're all part of the Outer Sect. The bottom of the barrel. The useless ones. And it's here that we're trained. No, conditioned.
Every day is the same routine. Qi gathering—sitting cross-legged in the cold, damp stone halls, trying to pull the natural energy from the world into our bodies. It's basic, the most fundamental form of cultivation. But the Qi here? It's thin, dirty, like sucking on old bones for marrow. I can feel it slipping through my fingers.
That's when I notice something different about myself. It's subtle, but it's there.
My soul is stronger.
I can feel it. When I sit to gather Qi, it comes to me easier than the others. Not by much, but enough that I notice. And then there's the other thing—the one the elders don't want us to know about. The Soul Eater's Grimoire. A manual they've given to the outer disciples to "supplement" our cultivation. Dark, twisted techniques that focus on soul absorption. Using the essence of others to boost our strength.
It's risky. Too risky for most. Absorb the wrong soul, and you get corrupted. Your mind breaks down. You turn into something worse than a beast.
But not me.
I've already absorbed three souls.
The first time was an accident. One of the other kids—the bullies, the ones who thought they were better than everyone else—died in a sparring match. I don't know what made me do it, but I just… took it. The moment his body hit the ground, I felt the pull, and then his essence—his soul—rushed into me.
I waited for the corruption to hit. For the madness. But it didn't. Instead, I felt stronger. Clearer. And I remembered him. His memories. His thoughts. His fears.
And it was terrifyingly easy.
I've done it twice since then. Quietly. Carefully. And each time, I get stronger. The centipede around my heart? It reacts, but it doesn't crush me. Maybe it can't. Maybe my soul is too strong for it to fully control.
Either way, I'm not just another tool anymore.
I'm a ticking time bomb.
And one day, I'm going to detonate