The God Who Tripped

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

Mine didn’t.

Instead, I heard the loudest “OH SHIT” in existence.

Let me back up.

I was a middle-aged salaryman in Tokyo. Thirty-eight. No wife, no kids. Just stress-induced back pain and a boss who measured loyalty in unpaid overtime.

I’d just left the office, the sky clear and calm—crisp city air, neon buzzing, the same crosswalk I always crossed.

And then—

BOOM.

A flash of white.

No thunderclouds. No warning. Just lightning from a clear sky. Straight into me.

---

Darkness swallowed me.

No pain. No sound.

Then… light.

But not fluorescent light. Not even hospital light.

I was floating. Somewhere bright and infinite, like a cloud made of glass. And sitting awkwardly in front of me on a cosmic bench… was a man.

No, not a man.

A god.

And he looked guilty as hell.

“...Ah,” he said, scratching his golden halo like it was a dandruff problem. “So about that bolt of lightning…”

I stared at him. Or, floated. I wasn’t sure if I had a body anymore.

He sighed and gestured vaguely. “I, uh… tripped. My staff hit the weather controls and—well. Tokyo got zapped.”

“...What?”

“I was reaching for a divine pastry, okay? It’s not like I meant to kill you.”

My silence was probably louder than any accusation.

“Look,” he continued, clearing his throat, “I can’t send you back. Paperwork’s already processed. Your body’s... well, fried.”

“So I just die?” I asked.

“No, no, no!” he waved quickly. “I’m offering you reincarnation. Into a world of swords and magic! Dragons! Castles! Girls with pointy ears!”

“...You’re bribing me.”

“Correct.”

I squinted. “Will I be powerful?”

“Not overpowered. That would ruin the story.”

“Story?”

“Nothing.” He coughed. “But I’ll make sure you’re… talented. Swordsmanship, magic, a strong starting point. The rest is up to you.”

“And what’s the catch?”

“You’ll live as a baby first. No skipping childhood. Growth arc and all that.”

I closed my eyes, sighed, and nodded.

Better than dying for nothing.

God snapped his fingers. “Alright then. New name, new world, new start. Make it count.”

As the light pulled me down and my senses blurred again, I heard him mumble behind me:

“...And maybe next time, I won’t wear sandals near the lightning panel…”

---

Chapter 1 – A New Name, A New Life

Part 1: The Cradle That Breathed

It’s strange being held again.

Stranger still when I realize I’m the one being held.

At first, I thought it was a dream. A very lucid, very warm dream—where everything smelled like milk and woodsmoke, and every surface felt impossibly soft. But no, this wasn’t a dream.

It was worse.

It was reality… and I couldn’t move a damn thing.

My arms? Useless noodles. My legs? Flailing twigs. My voice? A pathetic little squeal that didn’t even sound like me. And don’t get me started on my bladder—I have no control over that situation anymore.

I was a baby.

A literal, honest-to-god, born-an-hour-ago infant.

And worse yet? I was aware of it.

The first time I saw their faces, I was still convinced it was some weird dream stitched together from a fantasy novel and an overtime coma. But after the third diaper change and the tenth awkward breastfeeding attempt—I knew.

This wasn’t Earth.

The people here spoke in a language I didn’t recognize—flowing and melodic, like water over polished stone. Not Japanese, not English. Something else entirely. But I could tell from their expressions what they meant, even if I didn’t get the words.

The woman—my new mother, I guessed—had silver hair that shimmered even in candlelight and eyes the color of lilacs after rain. She smiled like the whole world was in my face.

The man—tall, broad-shouldered, probably my father—had raven-black hair tied back in a loose band and deep blue eyes. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was the kind that made you think you’d done something right.

They were… beautiful. Almost unfairly so.

And then it hit me.

If those two were my parents…

Then I must be one hell of a good-looking baby.

I spent the first few days doing what all babies do: sleeping, crying, eating, and pooping. In that order. Over and over. But inside, my thoughts were constant. Restless. Watching, cataloging, trying to understand this new world.

The walls were made of stone, but not cold. The windows didn’t have glass—just drapes and wooden shutters. Firelight came from sconces, not bulbs. And magic… I saw it.

Real, actual, sparkly magic.

My father—at least, I assumed he was my father—would sit beside the fireplace at night and hold his palm out. A flicker of wind would dance across his hand, coiling into shapes before vanishing into smoke.

I was reborn into a world of swords and sorcery.

And strangely? I didn’t feel cheated. I didn’t feel angry.

I felt… curious.

One night, maybe a week in, I tried to speak.

Just to test my vocal cords. Maybe say something profound like, “Where am I?” or “Who are you people?” or, hell, even “Nice tits,” as a joke to my new mom.

What came out was:

“Ggguuaahhhbl.”

I stared up at her face, horrified at myself.

She squealed with joy.

“Ohh~! He’s trying to talk already!” she said in that otherworldly tongue, clutching me to her chest and rubbing her cheek against mine.

So that’s how it was going to be.