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 75: The Strip Between Worlds and the Toothy Men Who Wait There

Ecumenopolis 4 — the planetary colossus named with all the creativity of a bureaucrat choking on his own tax forms — was, like its six kin, a monument to contradiction. One of the seven glittering nails in the coffin of the Spartari solar system's ecological sanity, it loomed like a world halfway between divine ambition and cybernetic madness.

Ronnie had done a solid job painting the place with words on our approach, but words, even well-placed ones, are like trying to describe a hurricane with a haiku. Seeing the planet in person was something else entirely — something that pressed up against my eyeballs with the weight of scale.

At the equator, Ecumenopolis 4 bloated out at 150,000 kilometers of full planetary waistline. And the world, rather poetically, had split itself in two — not by politics or faith or language, but by aesthetic schizophrenia.