LITTLE_LYTA

BLURB



> He was reborn by mistake. Raised with purpose. Loved by a god. Worshipped by monsters. And the galaxy doesn’t stand a fucking chance.

Irvine’s soul took one wrong turn through the wheel of karma and woke up in a body grown by an intergalactic hivemind goddess with boundary issues and galaxy-sized ambition. Now he’s the golden child of a psychic swarm that feeds on control and burns whole worlds for affection.

With Crystal at the helm, warriors like Kimchi, relic-weapons like Kiya, and a council of psionic horrors eager to call him king, Irvine must choose what kind of god he wants to be.

Because when a hivemind learns to love...
...it doesn’t know when to stop.

The universe will kneel—or get devoured trying.


SYNOPSIS

Irvine didn’t ask to be reincarnated, but the cosmos had other plans. And it didn’t hand him a cheat code or a clean slate—just one random boon, selected by an uncaring divine roulette wheel.

Good karma? Bad karma? Balanced as all fuck.

Now he's reborn in the body of a psionically tuned alien hybrid, raised from psychic infancy by Crystal, the hivemind queen of a race so advanced they’ve abandoned individuality for shared omniscience. All except her baby boy.

Irvine is the singularity inside the swarm, the first soul allowed to think, dream, and desire independently. Trained by warriors like Kimchi, advised by bio-symbiotes like Kiya, loved ferociously by hive sisters like Diane, and shadowed by powers ancient and unnamed, Irvine is both weapon and wielder, saint and sacrifice.

But empires don’t run on hugs and handjobs. As Crystal expands her dominion—across star systems and sentient nebulae—Irvine must lead the charge through blood, fire, and psionic flame.

His soul is still human. His body? Engineered for extinction. His heart? Not entirely his anymore.

Reincarnated as a Mushroom?

Chapter 67: The Mutation She Left Behind, or: An Unexpected Gift for Research

Ronnie weighed nothing in my arms. I hoisted him like an overripe sack of potatoes—awkward, a little sad, and clearly past his emotional expiration date—and hauled him over to the base of his own ship's ladder. I set him down against it gently, like he was a fainting Victorian lady in need of a fan and a drink with too much sugar in it.

Didn't take long for his eyes to flutter open.

The moment he regained consciousness, his face flared so red I thought his cheeks might combust and take half the cockpit with them. His mouth twitched, poised to blurt out some overwrought apology—probably involving the word "Father" and the phrase "unworthy of witnessing a psionic kiss" or some shit.

I cut him off before the cringe collapsed him again.