DaoistOJGrAB

He died the way he lived—loud, reckless, and with both middle fingers raised. A man of chaos with a fist for every problem, he left behind a trail of broken bones (mostly not his own) and unanswered questions, the last one being: "What happens if I punch a truck?"

Answer: reincarnation.


Welcomed by a smug, divine beauty who calls herself the Goddess of Realms, he's offered a single choice—to be reborn as anything in a fantastical new world. No hesitation. No subtlety. “Make me the most powerful being alive,” he demands.

She smiles. Not kindly.

Darkness. Silence. Then light—grass beneath him, wind brushing over fur. Fur?

He stands, wobbling on tiny limbs. The ground feels taller. The trees feel... enormous. 

Confused, he stumbles to the edge of a clear river and peers in. Not a dragon. Not a warlock. Not a dark overlord wreathed in flame and fear.

Just a round, fuzzy creature with eyes too big for its face, fluffy ears, and a body resembling a marshmallow.

He blinks once.

Twice.

Then the scream echoes through the valley.

Dominating Armies as a Little Floof

A lovely little thing. Soft pastels, enchanted to self-clean, with tiny gold thread embroidered stars around the hem. It even had a matching bonnet. Lyra had spent hours on it. Not for her, of course—she had style, thank you—but for Poffin, the little fluffy chaos-gremlin that had somehow burrowed his way into her heart and permanently onto her lap during downtime.

And that was exactly why he was currently running like the hounds of hell were after him.

"Poffin!" she called out, darting through the market. "You promised you'd at least try it on!"

A vendor dodged out of the way as she zipped past. Another pointed wordlessly toward the alleyway, mouth agape, still holding the broken remnants of what was once a jar of olives.

"Oh no," she groaned. "He's been eating his way through town again, hasn't he?"

She slowed as she reached a side street. The scent of baked goods lingered in the air like a trap. Poffin's favorite. She squinted. A faint trail of fur? Definitely his. She pressed onward, lifting her skirts and muttering a mild wind spell to blow away the worst of the street dust.

Even if he was a gremlin with legs.

Lyra tucked the dress tighter under her arm and marched in the pointed direction. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The back alleys led her deeper into the quieter parts of the town, where crates stacked high and alley cats ruled like monarchs of the dusk. She could hear whispering. Rustling. Something that sounded suspiciously like chanting?

There he was. Poffin. Atop a box like some kind of adorable warlord, surrounded by strays. His tail swished with alarming confidence. His makeshift leaf crown was tilted slightly sideways.

"You have got to be joking..." she whispered. "He has followers."

Poffin paused mid-speech—well, mid-yipping. His fluffy ears perked. He turned, eyes locking with hers like a criminal caught mid-crime.

The chase resumed with renewed chaos.

Lyra halted as a young girl ran up with flushed cheeks and a breadstick. "The fluffball went that way! He had—um—a crown? And was riding a goose."

"He was barking something as well..'" the girl added helpfully.

Oh no. Oh no. The little fuzzbucket might have started another revolution.

Lyra gave up on magic. This was personal now. She ducked, spun, hurdled a barrel. A cat meowed as she stepped on its tail and vanished in a shimmer of sparkles. Her spellbook thumped at her hip with every stride, probably judging her.

"I just wanted to put you in a cute outfit!" she screamed over the sound of tiny paws skittering across cobblestones.

Behind her, one of Poffin's cultists attempted a brave but tragic diversion tactic, throwing a turnip.

She incinerated it mid-air without stopping.

Eventually, she stopped—gasping for breath, bent over, dress wrinkled, and pride slightly bruised.

Poffin was gone. Again. The dress still hung neatly over her arm, slightly crumpled but undefeated.

"…Fine," she muttered to the wind. "But tomorrow. Tomorrow you wear this."

Somewhere, very faintly, a tiny, smug yip echoed.

Short Sub Story: Lyra