I am Lao.
In my last life, I was Kael Williams, a fantasy author who spent nearly two decades breathing life into a world of shadows and wonder. And now, somehow, I find myself reborn within it—a fragile creature in the body of a child, adrift in a basket upon a river, barely seven months old.
Through the woven reeds of the basket, I peer up at the sky, and it's as unmistakable as a death sentence. The deep purple expanse spreads above me, draped with two looming moons, one the color of venomous green and the other a sickly yellow, casting their ghastly glow. Three stars hang like sentinels, as they always have in my mind's eye—a grim reassurance that this is indeed my world, a creation I had once written into being.
But no ink, no sentence, could have conjured the reality I now endure.
My parents… they tried to defy fate. My father, a proud dark elf, and my mother, a noble-born moth demoness, clung to one another against the will of their bloodlines. Their union sparked hatred that ran like poison through their families' veins. For my mother's kin, my father's blood was an abomination. And to my father's house, my mother was a wretched blight. Assassins came, each family dispatching killers in the name of honor, wielding blade and spell to purge the stain of love between them.
They died for it. Burned in a fire set to consume them, leaving nothing of their lives but ash and memory.
But I, a lone, cursed fragment of their union, was spared. From their charred remains, I hold two relics close—my father's summoning whistle, cold against my infant skin, and a single, worn picture of the two of them, now smudged and fraying, the only remnants of a love defied and a legacy of shadows.
The river drags me onward, deeper into the unknown heart of this dark world. The water whispers around me, lapping with secrets I once wrote, but can no longer remember. As I drift beneath those two diseased moons, I feel the weight of my past life, Kael Williams, and the irony of being reborn into the very nightmare I once crafted for others.
I was raised with love—or at least, I would have been. There was a warmth that lingers in the memory, a shadow of care I never truly felt. The connection never had time to kindle, yet I mourn them still, feeling the ache of what might have been, of bonds that were severed before they could take root.
In this world, I am a living paradox. In my former life, I had written it as a fantastical place, a realm governed by a system like those video games I'd lost myself in, where statistics, skills, and statuses held meaning beyond mortal limits. Now, as I glance inward—almost instinctively, as if checking some invisible screen—I see the absurdity of my own existence laid bare.
{Lao}
Species: Divine
Sub-species: Demon Elf
Titles: God of Creation
Class: Administrator
Sub-class: Mage
{Core Stats}
• Health Points (HP): Infinity
• Mana Points (MP): Infinity
• Stamina (STA): Infinity
• Physical Defense (PDEF): Infinity
• Magic Defense (MDEF): Infinity
• Attack Power (ATK): Infinity
• Magic Power (MAG): Infinity
• Speed (SPD): Infinity
{Attributes}
• Strength (STR): Infinity
• Dexterity (DEX): Infinity
• Intelligence (INT): Infinity
• Wisdom (WIS): Infinity
• Endurance (END): Infinity
• Agility (AGI): Infinity
• Perception (PER): Infinity
• Luck (LUK): Infinity
{Status Effects}
• Immortality
• Magic Immunity
• Skill Immunity
• Poison Immunity
• Natural Causation Immunity
{Skills}
• Conjure: The power to create anything from thought alone, to mold existence to my will.
• Harvest: The ability to absorb anything, whether knowledge, power, or essence, leaving emptiness in its wake.
• Progenitor: The source of all, the fountain from which worlds spring and gods tremble.
I gaze at these figures, and they seem like the punchline of a cosmic joke I once wrote. A god of creation trapped in the body of a child, adrift in the currents of fate. Ridiculous—until I remember that I wrote this world. I am not just a creature in this realm. I am its origin, its first breath, the ink and the page. Yet here I am, powerless in ways I never foresaw.
These abilities, these "stats," are both gift and curse. They offer me everything, yet everything feels like nothing. Immortality, strength, creation—hollow boons when one floats alone, a remnant of what once was.
I can't move—not really, anyway. You'd think with stats like these, strength would mean something. But more than once, a simple sneeze has punched holes into the walls of the cabin my parents built with their hands, each time a reminder of the weight behind every small motion. Now, drifting in this basket down the river, I'm overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all.
I'd dreamed, once, of being overpowered, of possessing abilities beyond the scope of mortals. But living it? It's surreal. I've never felt hunger, nor thirst. Not a single breath of fear has crept into me, and yet here I am, wondering how I'll survive in a world I crafted with my own words and whims.
As the basket rocks along, I catch glimpses of myself in the river's surface—a dark reflection cast in a world all too real. The boy in the water is a stranger, yet familiar. Dark skin, like in my previous life. Green eyes that flicker with an eerie light. White hair that glows faintly in the night, and those ears, sharp and pointed, a clear mark of my father's elven blood.
But it doesn't stop there. If anyone were to lay eyes upon me, they'd know instantly what I am—a hybrid, a strange fusion of worlds. Four slender arms that curl around my tiny body. Small, spiraled horns jutting from my brow, likely my mother's inheritance. And behind me, delicate, moth-like wings, strange and ghostly, clinging to my back as if uncertain whether they belong.
They haven't moved—not once. I don't know if they ever will.
I am, in many ways, the embodiment of contradictions. A creature with infinite power yet no control, blessed with a form both haunting and fragile. Perhaps, in some twisted way, this is a fitting rebirth: to be adrift, left to wonder if strength alone can ever replace connection.
Without warning, the water around me surged, breaking the quiet lull. A shadow loomed above, and I was suddenly lifted from the river, water dripping from the edges of my basket as I rose into the cool night air. I stared up, blinking, trying to focus on the figure above me.
A woman. Her skin was a deep, unusual shade of pink, glistening under the twin moons' light. She gazed down at me with eyes both curious and wary, speaking in a language that rolled through the air like ancient thunder, harsh and unfamiliar. She had long, curved horns jutting from her forehead, sharp and fierce, marking her as something otherworldly. I knew her kind. The features, the bearing—it all matched perfectly with what I'd written.
An ogress.
Behind her, another figure moved—a man with skin the color of midnight seas, a powerful frame silhouetted against the trees. The blue-skinned male followed her gaze, and their eyes met with a silent understanding. These were ogres: proud, honor-bound warriors, strong and intelligent enough to form their own villages. In my stories, I'd painted them as creatures of firm conviction, creatures who valued strength and unity but held to a strange, unyielding sense of honor. And now, as real as any legend, they stood over me.
The woman lifted my basket carefully, her eyes narrowed in concentration, as though weighing what strange cargo fate had cast her way. Then, without a word, she turned and began to carry me into the forest, her powerful strides steady and assured. The trees closed in around us, branches interwoven like a shroud, casting shadows that danced in the light of the green and yellow moons above.
Held in her arms, I was neither fearful nor comforted. I was simply… here. Bound to a destiny I could not control, caught in the arms of beings I had once only imagined.