Kraven had always felt more at home with animals than people.
Even as a child, while others were out playing tag or glued to handheld games, he was crouched in the tall grass of his backyard, feeding stray cats and whispering secrets to pigeons. His parents—both busy, practical types—never understood his attachment to creatures they saw as dirty or distracting. To them, animals were a responsibility, not companions.
But to Kraven, they were everything.
He grew up, as all children do, but the world outside his room never grew any more appealing. By his twenties, Kraven was living alone in a small, overgrown apartment tucked between the city's decaying bricks and its last few breaths of greenery. Ivy crawled across his windows. Bird feeders hung from the balcony. Inside, the place was a wild sanctuary—half home, half animal refuge.
He had taken in everything from a three-legged cat to a retired racing ferret. A blind owl named Petra slept in a custom-built perch above his kitchen. His daily life revolved around feeding, cleaning, grooming, and caring. The sound of wings rustling, the soft thump of paws, and the gentle breathing of his animals at night—that was his peace.
People thought he was lonely. But loneliness, Kraven believed, required a craving for company.
He didn't crave people.
Not when he could fall asleep with a dog curled at his feet and wake to a parrot demanding breakfast like a tiny feathered tyrant.
It was a rainy evening when everything changed.
Kraven had just finished feeding the animals and was sketching a fantasy chimera—half eagle, half lynx—on his tablet when he felt it. Not pain exactly. More like a slow, sinking weight in his chest. His vision dimmed. His limbs tingled. The world around him twisted like a camera lens out of focus.
He reached for Max—his oldest rescue, a golden retriever now white around the muzzle—but the dog's bark was already fading.
There was no drama. No last words.
Just darkness.
And then... light.
No, not light. Brightness. Blinding and hot. His senses screamed. His ears twitched at strange new sounds—low grunts, the rustle of leaves, a high-pitched mewling that pierced the air like a siren.
Kraven opened his eyes—or at least, tried to. Everything was blurry and upside-down. He could feel his body, but it wasn't right. Too small. Too soft. Too warm.
And there were others.
He could sense them. Smell them. A pile of wriggling, squirming bodies all pressed together in a tangle of limbs and fur. One of them let out a weak, yowling cry. Another pushed against him with surprising strength.
What the hell…?
A massive shape loomed above them, casting a shadow in the den. It was a lioness—huge, powerful, and yet... tender. Her eyes were watchful and golden, her fur sleek and sun-kissed. She nosed Kraven gently, licking his head with a warm, rough tongue that made his entire body shudder.
It wasn't a dream.
He had been reincarnated.
And not just into any animal—but a lion.
A lion cub.
Kraven tried to move, but his legs barely responded. His body flopped, more instinct than control. His ears twitched involuntarily. The others—five of them, he counted—were his brothers, all squirming and whining, their small tails flicking. One had a darker coat than the others, and he immediately took to climbing over the rest. Another was the loudest, constantly squealing, demanding attention.
They were… his littermates.
I've been reborn as one of six lion cubs.
He wanted to laugh, but the best he could manage was a soft, pitiful bleat.
Over the next few hours—or days; time was hard to track—Kraven's thoughts churned like a storm. Part of him grieved his old life. He wondered what had happened to his animals. Did anyone come to check on them? Would someone rescue Max and Petra and the rest? Or had they been left alone?
The thought made his tiny chest ache.
But as the ache passed, a new awareness crept in. He wasn't dead. Not truly. He had a body again. A heartbeat. A family—whether he asked for it or not. Five warm little bodies curled against him, breathing together. Sharing space. Sharing life.
He studied them when they slept, memorizing their scents and fur patterns. The bold one with the dark nose he quietly named Bran. The loud one was Tavi. The quiet, sleepy one who always nuzzled closest to their mother was Leo. The fourth cub had a tuft of golden fur between his ears—Kraven called him Mika. The fifth was playful and clumsy, often tripping over his own paws: Finn.
And then there was himself.
Smallest of the six. Weakest. The runt.
But he didn't feel like a runt.
He felt… awake. Like his soul was humming with potential.
He remembered stories he used to draw—reincarnations, magical beasts, chosen ones. He used to dream about being born into a world where he could live among animals without human limitations.
Now it's real.
No more digital sketchpads. No more apartments or phones or closed doors.
Now there was only the wild. The heat of the sun. The pulse of life.
And one big, terrifying, beautiful world to grow into.
That night, under the breath of stars and the watchful gaze of their lioness mother, Kraven curled against his five brothers. The den was silent but alive with warmth and breath.
He didn't know what fate had in store for them.
But one thing was certain.
He wasn't just going to survive in this world.
He was going to rise in it.
Because Kraven, the reclusive human, had been reborn into the wild as a lion cub.
And this time… he wouldn't be watching from the sidelines.
He would live it.
He would roar.