KaraCabage

I was just your average burnout. Now I’m a kobold in a dungeon where everything wants to eat me—and frankly, I get it. I look delicious.

Reincarnated as the weakest possible monster in the worst possible place, I start with nothing but panic, backward knees, and a skill called Civilization Mimicry—which is sealed. Because of course it is.

But survival isn't the story.

This is the story of what comes after.

Of finding meaning in the scraps. Of building law from ashes. Of kindling memory in a place designed to erase.

Because even if the world sees kobolds as nothing, I’ve seen what we used to be.

And I’m going to bring it back.

Firelight by firelight. Burial by burial. One fragile tradition at a time.

Because if the world wants kobolds to be nothing?

Then I’ll teach it what nothing becomes when it learns to dream.

Building a Kingdom as a Kobold

I didn't claw my way out of death. No radiant fire. No divine chorus. No system singing my praises for being too stubborn to stay dead.

I woke up in a bed made of half-burned mosscloth, under a roof that still smelled like emergency tarp, with a medical flag flapping above me that someone had drawn with their foot. Probably Quicktongue.

Everything hurt. Except the part that should have—the chest.

That? That felt... warm. Not good-warm. Not fever-warm.

Like someone had taken the fire and curled it into a knot behind my ribs. Sleeping.

Not standing. Not alert. Just slumped over a crate, one leg wrapped in a moss splint, head resting on a stack of charcoal-smudged relay sheets.

So Apparently I'm Alive and That's a Whole Problem