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 73: The Scent of Command, the Stink of Politics

I walked toward the Centurion with the kind of authority that only comes from either a deep familiarity with chaos or a profound disregard for consequences. In my case, it was both. Each step against the asteroid's alloy floor rang with intent — not aggressive, not deferential, just... inevitable.

The woman waiting at the heart of this ceremonial farce was six feet tall in heels, yet she carried herself like she owned gravity itself. It wasn't the kind of confidence earned by skill — it was deeper, more dangerous. A well-honed predator's posture wrapped in regality. Her armor was custom-forged, gleaming in deep reds and sharp golds, every curve adorned with engraved filigree that radiated legacy and unspoken threat.

It wasn't military standard. This was personal. Political. A message etched in alloy: I am important, and I can afford to make you disappear.