naosigma
So, strap in, because apparently my life has an afterlife sequel-and no one handed me a script. Before this divine nonsense, I had a job. Yeah, a real one. The kind where you juggle five languages, fix problems no one else dares touch, and somehow manage daily miracles... and what do you get? A boss who hovers behind you, explaining spreadsheets as if they're the lost works of Plato, and somehow still managing to claim everything as his own genius. Spoiler: it wasn't.
One fateful day, I snapped. Not like a villain in a cheap TV drama-oh no, just a casual, 'You know what? I quit, and by the way, good luck surviving without me,' said with maximum passive-aggressive flair. Immediate regret? Sure. But then came the most efficient solution: alcohol. Except apparently Death had a better RSVP. Horn. Screeching tires. White flash. End scene.
And now? Oh, now I wake up as a four-year-old, silver-white hair, glowing hands, a toga that screams 'cosmic toddler chic,' and a golden falcon judging me harder than any HR review ever could. Yep, apparently I've been chosen as the Lightbringer. Reborn to fix the world. Because apparently dying quietly is so last season.
So here I am: tiny, glowing, armed with sarcasm as my primary weapon, ready to negotiate peace with orcs, beastmen, mermaids, and dragons, while also probably accidentally setting half the forest on fire. Honestly, if you think this is terrifying, you've clearly never met me-or seen me deal with idiots in corporate meetings.
Fun fact: I now wield powers that make gods nervous, get called a hero by literally everyone, and somehow still find time to roast everyone around me. Welcome to the Erika show. Tickets sold separately. Snacks recommended.