The Reincarnation Story of a Not-So Ordinary Orc

The stadium fell silent.

Tens of thousands of people stared toward the center of the stage, their faces hidden beneath the darkness. Above them, the spotlights converged on a single point, illuminating the empty space where I was about to appear.

I hated this moment.

It was ridiculous, really. I had performed before millions of people, topped international charts, and sold out stadiums across the world. Yet there was something unsettling about a silent crowd. For those few seconds, it felt as though every person in the stadium was judging me, waiting for me to prove that I deserved to stand before them.

What if I disappoint them?

The thought flickered through my mind.

Then I took a breath and stepped into the light.

The silence shattered.

Cheers erupted from every corner of the stadium. My name echoed through the stands as thousands of fans jumped to their feet. The deafening roar washed over me, and the familiar tension in my chest finally disappeared.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

There you are.

I raised my microphone, and the opening notes of my latest hit thundered through the speakers.

The stage came alive.

Flames erupted along its edges, illuminating the dancers as they swept into position. Screens the size of buildings flashed in time with the music, painting the stadium in shifting colors. Every movement had been rehearsed until it became instinct, every transition timed to the second.

And, for once, everything went exactly as planned.

No missed cues. No awkward transitions. No dancers stumbling into the wrong position.

Beautiful.

As I reached the chorus, tens of thousands of voices rose to meet mine. They knew every word. Some sang with tears in their eyes; others danced with their friends, waving their hands beneath the lights. For a moment, the entire stadium seemed to breathe in time with the music.

That was what I loved most about performing.

Millions of people knew me. Millions of people chanted my name. The fame feels sooo good!

The final note of the opening song rang out. Fireworks exploded above the stage, sending waves of color across the stadium.

I lowered my microphone, letting the applause wash over me.

Then I smirked.

One song down.

I rolled my shoulders, glanced toward the band, and signaled for the next track.

The second song from my new album began with a low, pulsing beat. The crowd recognized it almost immediately. Their screams nearly drowned out the music before I had even sung the first line.

This time, I didn't bother holding back. I moved across the stage, trading lines with the backup singers while the dancers followed every cue. When the chorus arrived, the entire stadium sang with me.

From the stage, I could make out familiar faces in the private seating areas: celebrities, business magnates, and even a few world leaders who had apparently decided that international diplomacy could wait until after my concert.

I couldn't help grinning.

Look at them.

People who could command entire countries were standing up and cheering for me.

For a brief moment, I remembered the years when no one had cared about my music. The rejected demos, the empty venues, the nights I had spent wondering whether I was wasting my life chasing an impossible dream.

Those memories felt distant now.

I made it.

Not merely as a musician, but as the musician of my generation.

I wanted my name to survive long after the final note of my final song had faded. I wanted future musicians to study my work, compare themselves to me, and wonder how anyone could possibly have reached the heights I had reached.

This is how legends are made. This is how I will become the King of Pop.

The final chorus thundered through the stadium.

I raised my microphone, and the audience sang the last line for me.

Then the music stopped.

For one suspended second, there was nothing.

And then the stadium erupted.

I stood there, breathing heavily, sweat running down my face. My legs ached, my throat felt raw, and my clothes clung uncomfortably to my skin.

I had never felt more alive.

I bowed, thanked the fans, and waved toward the distant stands before disappearing backstage.

The moment I stepped behind the curtains, the professional atmosphere collapsed into chaos.

Dancers hugged one another. The lighting crew exchanged high-fives. Someone shouted that the performance had been flawless, and another person immediately began arguing that the fireworks had been the best part.

I could only laugh.

"Congratulations, everyone!" I called.

The room quieted just enough for me to continue.

"You all did an incredible job tonight. Seriously. Every single one of you."

A few people cheered. Someone clapped me on the shoulder.

I looked around at their exhausted, smiling faces and felt a rush of pride. Whatever my name said on the album covers, this performance had never been mine alone.

Then I raised a hand.

"And now, I believe we have one last thing to take care of."

The chatter faded. Several dancers exchanged suspicious looks.

I let the silence linger.

"TONIGHT'S PARTY IS ON ME!"

For half a second, nobody reacted.

Then the room exploded.

"YEEEEES!"

"WE JUST MADE HISTORY!"

"I'M ORDERING THE MOST EXPENSIVE THING ON THE MENU!"

"YOU'RE ALL GOING TO PUT ME IN DEBT!" I shouted over them. "BUT TONIGHT, I DON'T CARE!"

I laughed along with everyone else.

This is going to be a very long night.

I had no idea how right I was.

Several hours later, the largest club in the city was still packed.

The music pounded through the walls. Colored lights swept across the dance floor, illuminating a sea of moving bodies. Bottles covered the tables in our reserved section, and people who had sworn they would only have one drink were now attempting to dance with varying degrees of success.

Our concert had been a triumph.

Apparently, my crew had decided that surviving the performance entitled them to celebrate until sunrise.

I couldn't exactly disagree.

Unfortunately, my body had other opinions.

My head felt as though someone had taken a hammer to it. The room kept spinning whenever I tried to stand, and the floor seemed like a perfectly reasonable place to spend the rest of my life.

I squinted at the man standing beside me.

He looked completely fine.

Not merely fine. He looked irritatingly refreshed, as though he had spent the entire evening drinking water and reading a book.

My secretary, producer, video editor, lighting director, and driver all rolled into one.

The man was just a very good worker.

"Bro," he said, offering me a hand. "Let's get back to the hotel. It's late."

"Mm-hmm."

I tried to stand.

The world tilted violently.

I immediately reconsidered my decision.

He sighed, grabbed my arm, and hauled me upright.

"Seriously? You drank just as much as I did!"

I stared at him with an annoyed expression.

"I hate you."

"Noted."

He guided me toward the exit while I muttered several deeply unflattering things about his existence.

The night air hit my face as we stepped outside. It was cold enough to make me shiver, and for a moment, I felt slightly more human.

Then I remembered the headache.

I hated life again.

My secretry had the car waiting for us. With considerable assistance, I managed to collapse into the back seat, stretching out as far as the space allowed.

Finally. Peace.

The car pulled away from the club.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the steady throbbing in my skull. Streetlights drifted past the windows, casting brief golden streaks across the ceiling.

I was halfway to sleep when my secretary spoke.

"By the way, there's something I should tell you."

"If it's about the party bill, I'm not paying it."

"It's not about the bill."

"Then it can wait until tomorrow."

"It's about her."

My eyes opened.

I turned my head slightly.

"Who?"

He gave me a look.

"The miss."

For a moment, I said nothing.

Then I let out a short, humorless laugh.

"What does she want?"

"She asked if she could talk to you. She also said she's sorry."

Sorry.

The word seemed to hang in the air between us.

Then I snorted.

Of course she is.

When I had nothing, she had walked away. Back then, I was just a new singer starting out.

She hadn't wanted any part of that life, She wanted to be with someone more famous. She wanted to live in mansions.

Now? Now that I am the most famous musician in the world. My songs are playing in countries I had never visited, my concerts sell out within minutes, and people who had once ignored me were suddenly eager to call themselves my friends.

And now she wants to talk.

She wants to apologize.

How convenient.

"Let me guess," I muttered. "She misses me?"

My secretary didn't answer immediately.

"I don't know what she wants. I'm only telling you what she said."

"Then tell her I'm not interested."

I turned toward the window.

A part of me wanted to ask why she had contacted me now, of all times. What had changed? What did she think an apology could possibly fix?

But the questions died before they reached my tongue.

I didn't need answers.

I had spent too many nights wondering what I had done wrong, too many mornings convincing myself that I would eventually forget her. Now I had everything I had once dreamed of, and I refuse to let the past take even a single moment of it away from me.

"She's just sorry she missed out," I said. "People like her always come back when there's something to gain."

My secretary glanced at me but said nothing.

I hated that silence almost as much as I hated the headache.

"Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"You're doing it right now."

He sighed and turned his attention back to the road.

I slumped into the seat.

"Just drive."

Outside, a thin layer of rain began to gather on the windshield.

The road glistened beneath the streetlights. The secretry slowed as we approached an intersection, wiping the glass with the back of his hand.

My eyes had grown heavy again, and the rhythmic hum of the engine was beginning to pull me under.

Then my secretry spoke once more.

"For what it's worth, you don't have to talk to her. But maybe you should at least hear her out before deciding what she wants."

I opened one eye.

"Are you seriously taking her side?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side."

"Good. Because I-"

A blinding pair of headlights appeared through the rain.

The secretry swore and slammed on the brakes.

Tires screamed against the wet road.

For one bewildered instant, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.

A truck had crashed into our car!

My body lurched forward.

Someone shouted my name.

Then the world erupted in metal, shattered glass, and a deafening crash.

Pain flashed through me.

The car spun. My head struck something hard, and every light outside the window smeared into a bright, meaningless blur.

I tried to breathe.

I tried to move.

Nothing seemed to work.

The noise faded into a distant ringing.

And, strangely, the last thing that came to mind wasn't the concert, the cheering crowd, or the legacy I had been so desperate to leave behind.

It was her.

Her face appeared in my fading vision, just as I remembered it from the day she walked away.

I wanted to curse her.

I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Instead, one bitter thought drifted through my mind.

After everything I've achieved, is this really how my story ends?

The darkness swallowed me before I could find an answer.