Overlord: Wrong World, Can I Change It?

-A week has passed

Okay, I'm still a baby. Which means I've officially hit rock bottom on the power scale. Can't cast magic. Can't swing a sword. Can't even lift my own damn head without help. If I had stats, they'd probably look like this:

Strength: 0.1

Intelligence: College student

Charisma: Baby eyes

Endurance: Screaming when cold

Luck: Debatable

Great start.

Ever played one of those games where the tutorial is unskippable, full of slow dialogue, and everything moves at a snail's pace? That's this. Real-life Tutorial Mode. I can't move, I can't skip, and I definitely can't rage-quit. I'm stuck in meat jail.

Worst part?I can understand everything. I hear the language and somehow I get it. I mean, I didn't exactly take "Ancient Medievalese 101" before being reborn, so I'm guessing some kind of isekai translation filter kicked in during my soul transfer.

Right now, I spend most of my time lying in a wooden cradle, staring up at a ceiling of smoke-stained rafters and the occasional spider. My motor functions are a joke. I try to move my arm and end up smacking myself in the face.

And don't even get me started on diapers. If you've never been fully aware while someone twice your size wipes your ass with a damp cloth—congrats. You're living the dream.

Let's talk about the humans keeping me alive—my parents. Or, at least, the people who think I'm their son.

My mother, thankfully, does not look like a medieval ogress with ham-sized forearms. She's probably in her late twenties, with chestnut hair always tied back in a braid that somehow survives the chaos of daily life. Her face is soft, but you can see the fatigue—like someone who hasn't slept through the night since the last harvest festival. Freckles dust her cheeks. Her green eyes are sharp. Around her neck hangs a silver ring on a string—too worn to be decorative. Her hands are capable: the kind that can gut a fish or rock a cradle without blinking.

She doesn't smile often. But when she does, it's calm and steady—like lighting a candle in a storm. Sometimes she hums while cooking, and the tune lodges in my brain like a lullaby I never learned but somehow remember.

My father is sturdier. Broad shoulders, thick arms, sun-darkened skin, and calloused hands—definitely a man familiar with hauling wood, tools, or possibly bodies. No judgment. He's probably in his early thirties. His black hair is short and always messy, his beard trimmed just enough to show he cares... a little. He's quiet. When he speaks, his voice is low and calm—like someone who's learned to hold things in because the world outside is already too loud.

The first time he looked at me, he hesitated. Then he smiled—awkwardly, like it was a muscle he hadn't used in a while. But it wasn't fake. It was the kind of smile that doesn't need a reason.

Today, they had a moment in the kitchen.

"He looks at everything now," my mother said, watching me as I sat in her lap, chewing on my own hand like it owed me money.

"He's thinking," my father replied from the hearth, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"He's quiet," she murmured. "Too quiet, sometimes."

"Takes after you, then," he smirked. She rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.

They love me. That's the worst part.The guilt sits in my chest like a stone. I didn't ask to be here. But I am. And these strangers—they treat me like I'm the miracle they've been waiting for.

The house is modest. Wood and stone, warm and smoky. Dried herbs hang from the beams. The fireplace is always lit. It's quiet most of the time, save for the crackle of fire, the wind, and the soft murmur of voices when they think I'm asleep.Spoiler: I'm not.I just can't move. So I listen.And think.Probably too much.

Fair enough—my mind is still trying to reconcile being an adult soul trapped in a baby's body in a world that very much wants me dead.

Let's recap:I've been reborn into a child's body—accidentally, I think. From what I overheard in a hushed conversation, my parents lost their first child. That might explain why they keep looking into my eyes like they're hoping to see someone else.

But that's not even the worst part.

See, this world? It's not just any fantasy land.No, no. I've landed in that world.The world of Overlord.Yeah. That anime. With the death-god skeleton, overpowered NPCs, and a world that treats human life with the same care I gave to terms and conditions before clicking "accept."

I wish I could say I got reborn into a peaceful isekai, where the worst threat is bad weather or an awkward love triangle.

Not this. Not Overlord. Not the world where entire kingdoms vanish because a socially awkward skeleton decides it's Tuesday. This is the world where a single man—Ainz Ooal Gown, formerly Suzuki Satoru—could snap a kingdom in half before breakfast. A world where the humans are considered among the weakest races.

And here's the cherry on this cursed sundae:I don't know when I am.

For all I know, Yggdrasil's server shutdown could be tomorrow—or it already happened. At some point soon, a tired office worker turned demigod is going to land here… with a full guild of NPCs who make cosmic horror look like background dancers.

Sure, Ainz is technically "neutral with a dash of compassion," but what about the others?Albedo. Demiurge. Shalltear.Those aren't side characters. They're walking, talking apocalypses in high heels.

If they decide to nuke the local barony for fun, nobody can stop them.

If I had to rate the threat level of this world, I'd call it:"Please give me a sword, a strategy, and some adult diapers."

There's some good news, though. Based on something my dad said while talking to a blacksmith from a nearby town, I've figured out where we are:A village called Arona, somewhere in the Baharuth Empire.

Apparently, a group of adventurers from the Re-Estize Kingdom passed through recently to get their weapons repaired. That puts us somewhere near the middle of the continent. Not great, but not instant death either.

So at least I know the kingdom hasn't been destroyed yet. The main story hasn't started. Though honestly, I kind of wish it had. Under Ainz, it might actually be better. No monsters. No bandits. Undead bodyguards. An efficient bureaucracy run by liches building schools and hospitals. Sounds like a dream.

Anyway, I'm relieved. Sort of. My dad's forging work is getting noticed, which means he's good at what he does. And if he's good, we might be able to stay out of trouble for a little while.

Unless, of course, the gods, monsters, or a flying tomb decide otherwise.

Anyway.

It's getting late. The fire's dimming. My limbs are heavy.My mother's singing again—something slow.

Whatever tomorrow brings… I'll be here. Literally. I can't move.

Sleep now. Suffering later.