I died.
It was a profoundly stupid death involving a rogue delivery truck, a dropped ice cream cone, and a heroic-yet-ultimately-pointless dive to save said cone. The truck won. My dignity, and my mint chocolate chip, lost. I remember a brief, surprisingly vibrant flash of neon green, then… nothing.
So, naturally, I woke up covered in fur.
Not a little bit of fur. Not a "wow, I really need to shave" amount of fur. I'm talking a full-body, head-to-toe, luxurious coat of dusky gray fur. My hands were gone, replaced by clumsy, oversized paws with little black pads that felt like brand-new pencil erasers. My ears twitched, picking up the sound of a leaf falling twenty feet away with irritating clarity.
And the smell. Oh god, the smell.
My old nose was a decorative facial feature, good for holding up sunglasses and occasionally detecting if the milk had gone bad. This new one was a high-fidelity sensory nightmare. It bombarded me with the rich, damp funk of moss, the loamy scent of decaying wood, and the sharp, coppery tang of something rotting nearby.
My first thought wasn't "Where am I?" or "What happened?"
It was, "I need a bath. Urgently."
Then, because the universe clearly had a sense of humor as twisted as a pretzel, a glowing blue box of text materialized in front of my new, super-powered snout.
[System]: Welcome, Reincarnator. Species: Wolf Cub. Rank: F-.
…Of course.
Not a dragon. Not some cool, shadow-assassin demon. Not even a human with a cheat skill. A wolf cub. The tutorial-area enemy that gets slaughtered by Level 1 adventurers for a handful of copper coins and a quest completion checkmark.
Rank: F-minus. That felt personal. It was the universe giving me a cosmic wedgie.
I tried to scream, but the only sound that came out was a pathetic, high-pitched yip. I tried to stand up on two legs and promptly face-planted into the dirt, my new body a four-legged contraption I had zero idea how to operate. It was like trying to pilot a mech suit with oven mitts for hands and a user manual written in ancient Sumerian.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
Lying there with a mouthful of dirt, I decided to try something I'd only ever read about in cheesy webnovels. I focused my thoughts, channeling my inner nerd with all the desperation a furry, pint-sized creature could muster.
Status.
Another blue screen flickered into existence, and it was even more depressing than the first one.
[Character Sheet]
Name: Unnamed
Species: Wolf Cub
Rank: F-
Level: 1 (0/50 EXP)
[Stats]
HP: 10/10
MP: 5/5
Strength (STR): 1
Agility (AGI): 2
Endurance (END): 1
Intelligence (INT): 1
Wisdom (WIS): 1
[Skills]
None.
[Titles]
[Reincarnator]: You remember a life you shouldn't. Grants a minor boost to mental resistance and a major boost to existential dread.
I stared at the screen, my wolf-brain struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated weakness on display. My Agility was a 2. That was my highest stat. I was, statistically speaking, slightly better at wiggling than I was at… well, anything else. My Intelligence and Wisdom were both a 1, which was a flat-out lie. My pre-truck Intelligence was at least a solid 6, maybe a 7 on a good day.
The system was clearly a terrible judge of character.
And no skills. Not even a basic [Bite] or [Pathetic Yelp]. Just a title that read like a sarcastic comment from a jaded developer. A boost to existential dread? Thanks, System. That's exactly what I needed right now.
My pity party was rudely interrupted by a new, far more primal sensation. A deep, aching hollowness in my gut that screamed a single, all-consuming word.
Hunger.
It wasn't the "oh, I could go for a snack" hunger of my old life. This was a deep, instinctual command that hijacked my brain. It was a physical need so powerful it made my limbs tremble. My new nose, previously an instrument of torture, suddenly became my greatest asset. It sifted through the scents of the forest, ignoring the dirt and moss, and zeroing in on something else.
Movement. Life. Protein.
My head snapped towards a patch of weeds, my ears swiveling like satellite dishes. There, crawling laboriously up a thick green leaf, was a beetle. It was a big one, a crunchy-looking thing with an iridescent shell that shimmered like an oil slick in a puddle.
My former self, the one who paid taxes and ate ice cream, would have been mildly interested at best. Maybe he'd have taken a picture for his nerdy insect blog.
My new self, the F-minus wolf cub, started drooling.
Don't judge me. You haven't experienced primal, system-enforced hunger, have you? It turns your brain into a single-minded calculator of calories. And that beetle looked like a five-star meal.
Instinct took over. I dropped into a low crouch, my ridiculously fluffy tail sticking straight out behind me. My body felt awkward, a jumble of uncoordinated limbs, but the idea of the pounce was there, hardwired into my DNA. I wiggled my backside, a motion so stereotypically canine that my human mind recoiled in embarrassment.
I lunged.
And tripped.
My front right paw caught on my front left paw, sending me into an undignified somersault. I landed in a heap, missing the beetle by a good foot and getting another snoutful of soil for my troubles.
The beetle, sensing the vibrations of a moron, wisely toppled off its leaf and scurried into the undergrowth. My five-star meal was gone.
I let out a whimper, a sound of pure, pathetic failure. I was going to starve to death. I was going to be the first reincarnator in history to be defeated by a bug.
But the failure, and the lingering hunger, had ignited something. A flicker of wolflike determination. Okay, Plan A: Pounce with a modicum of grace, failed. Time for Plan B: Sniff It Out and Shove It In My Face.
I pushed my nose to the ground, and the world exploded into a map of smells. I could trace the beetle's path, a faint trail of insect-funk leading under a rotten log. I scrambled over, my claws digging into the soft wood, and began pawing at the dirt with a manic energy I didn't know I possessed.
Dirt flew everywhere. I was a furry little excavation machine.
Finally, I saw it. The beetle, trying to burrow its way to safety. No more finesse. No more tactics. I just plunged my face into the dirt and snapped my jaws.
There was a loud, satisfying CRUNCH.
An unexpectedly nutty, earthy flavor filled my mouth. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either. It was food. I swallowed it down, my stomach gurgling in protest and then grudging acceptance.
A familiar blue box appeared.
[+1 EXP]
One experience point. For eating a bug. At this rate, I'd be Level 2 sometime next century.
Still, it was progress. A tiny victory in a world that had, thus far, only handed me cosmic lemons. Feeling a sliver of pride, I turned my attention back to my immediate surroundings. I was in a small clearing, nestled at the base of a colossal, moss-covered tree. It looked like a den. My den.
That's when the coppery smell of rot I'd noticed earlier finally registered. It was stronger here. Much stronger.
My eyes, now adjusting to the dim forest light, fell upon a shape half-hidden in the shadows of the den's entrance. It was a large, gray wolf, her fur matted with dark, dried blood. Her eyes were glassy and vacant, staring at nothing. Around her lay two other, smaller bundles of fur. My siblings.
Oh.
That's where my family was.
The existential dread the system had promised me arrived right on schedule, hitting me like a physical blow. I wasn't just a lone wolf cub. I was an orphan. A survivor. And whatever had done this…
Snap.
The sound of a twig breaking just outside the den cut through the air.
It was sharp. Close. Too close.
My fur bristled. Every muscle in my tiny, pathetic body went rigid with terror. My high-fidelity nose was suddenly overwhelmed by a new scent. A musky, reptilian odor that smelled of stagnant water and old blood. It was the scent of a predator.
A blue screen, this one a stark, pulsing red, flashed in front of my eyes.
[System]: Warning! A predator of Rank F has detected your presence!]