Little Coco suddenly frowned.
Her bright brown eyes narrowed as she noticed something suspicious—Poppy, was still perched comfortably atop Kafka's head, clinging to his hair like it was her personal throne.
Seeing this, Coco puffed out her cheeks, her tiny fingers curling into fists. She made a low, grumbling sound, and then—
"Babu…babu babu!" She babbled, pointing furiously at Poppy.
Her sister Lotte, sitting beside her, immediately caught the tone. She turned to look at where Coco was pointing and gasped dramatically—her own face scrunching up in adorable outrage.
"Babu! Babu! Babuuuu!"
Poppy, meanwhile, blinked down from her lofty perch, completely offended. She tightened her tiny arms around Kafka's head as if declaring: mine!
And then pointed back down with an equally indignant. "Babu babu BABU!"
Coco's eyes went wide.
"Babu?! BABU BABU!" She shot back, her baby language filled with unspoken fury.
Lotte quickly backed her sister up, chiming in with a stern, "Babu!" while wagging her tiny finger like an authority figure.
She clearly agreed—it wasn't fair that only one of them got to sit on their father's head.
But Poppy wasn't backing down…Oh no.
She clutched onto Kafka's hair with all her might, pressed her cheek against the top of his head, and defiantly shook her head, mumbling.
"Babu! Baba, Babu!"—which, in the unspoken language of babies, translated roughly to:
'He's my seat, get your own!'
And in response, Coco's little face flushed red. Lotte gasped.
The tension in the air thickened.
Then suddenly, all the other babies, who had been watching this exchange with growing interest realized what was happening.
And it hit them all at once.
They wanted a turn with their father too.
One by one, the babies' wings fluttered. Some giggled mischievously, others squealed with excitement.
And before Kafka could sense the danger, a small army of adorable infants began rising into the air like a squadron of soldiers preparing for war.
Kafka blinked, realizing too late what was happening.
"Wait—wait—hold on, what are you doing?! Guys?! GUYS?!"
His plea was ignored.
The next second—whoosh!—they all launched themselves toward him at once.
Tiny arms outstretched. Giggling. Screaming. Glowing with energy.
"WAIT—HOLD UP—OH NO NO NO—!"
Kafka scrambled to his feet, tripping over his cloak as the horde descended.
Coco led the charge, squealing triumphantly, followed closely by Lotte, Blue, and the other babies, all of them flapping, floating, and crawling toward him at alarming speed.
Poppy, still on top of his head, squeaked indignantly as her throne started moving—Kafka was now running across the garden, laughing and shouting as his divine children swarmed after him.
"Not the hair, Poppy! Don't grab the hair—hey! That's my ear!—wait, you're drooling—oh COME ON, not the wings too!"
From the sidelines, their mothers could hardly contain their laughter.
June was doubled over, tears in her eyes. "Oh my god—look at him go! He's running like he's being chased by an army!"
Olivia smirked. "He is being chased by an army. A very tiny, adorable one."
Even Seraphina, silent as ever, had her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly—though her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Poppy, clinging to Kafka's head like a general leading her troops, then clapped her little hands and shouted a single command—
"Babu!"
—which, if anyone understood, probably meant:
'Faster, Daddy! Faster!'
Kafka groaned between gasps of laughter.
"I'm being overthrown by my own children! Someone save me!"
"Why would we?" Nina yelled, grinning from ear to ear. "This is the best entertainment we've had all year!"
And just like that the garden was filled with laughter—baby laughter, godly laughter, the sound of wings fluttering and feet stomping on grass.
Meanwhile, Kafka darted through flower beds, trying to escape the flying toddlers, only to trip over a bush and fall flat on his back.
Instantly, all of the 30+ babies piled on top of him in a heap—giggling, babbling, drooling, tugging on his cheeks, and showering his face with uncoordinated kisses.
Poppy sat proudly atop the pile, still patting his head triumphantly, while Kafka just lay there, utterly defeated but laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
"Okay—okay! You win! You all win! Daddy surrenders!"
The sight was so precious, so cute, that even the Heavenly Valkyries known for their solemness nearby couldn't help but chuckle.
And just like that, the day continued in warmth and laughter.
The heavens shimmered with gold as the festival carried on—songs echoing, petals drifting in the breeze, and the whole world wrapped in that blissful feeling of family.
This went on unti the light softened and night rolled in, the laughter began to quiet.
The stars glimmered above, casting silver light across the garden.
And then, from the center of the grand celebration, a voice called out—Abigaille, smiling proudly from atop the stage.
"Everyone…" She said, raising her glass. "It's time for what we've all been waiting for—"
The crowd hushed, anticipation building.
"—the birthday cake!"
Hearing the word 'cake', the babies all squealed at once, their eyes glowing as they saw the massive cake—taller than their mothers, shimmering with frosting and adorned with tiny glowing candles being carried to the table.
Even Kafka was excited about the cake.
After running around and being chased by nine giggling babies, he was starving—and the fact that the entire family had worked together to make the cake made it even more special.
He could already smell the sweet mix of vanilla, fruit cream, and honey frosting drifting through the air.
"Finally…" He said, rubbing his hands eagerly. "…a reward for my hardwork of entertaining such a large crowd!"
He couldn't wait to dig in—but then something caught his attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, under the soft, silver glow of the moons, he saw a lone figure standing a little ways off.
Evangeline.
She stood apart from the crowd, her golden hair catching the moonlight, her expression unreadable—except for her eyes, which were fixed firmly on him.
And in her arms, she held a small bundle of white cloth.
Even though she hadn't said a word, Kafka could feel her gaze. She didn't need to speak for him to understand what it meant.
"…Ah." He sighed with a wry smile. "That's the 'come here' look."
Seeing that he had no choice, he gently began peeling the babies hanging off him one by one—which was harder than it sounded, considering they clung like affectionate little octopi.
Even Poppy, who had been sitting proudly on his head, refused to let go, grabbing onto his hair with tiny fists.
"Poppy, sweetie, Daddy will be right back—"
"Babu!"
She puffed her cheeks and started crying the instant he tried to pry her loose. Olivia hurried over, smiling patiently as she took her daughter into her arms, whispering.
"There, there, my little angel. Daddy will be right back, I promise."
With that handled, Kafka straightened his slightly ruffled clothes and jogged over to Evangeline.
"Eva!" He greeted brightly. "You called—ohhh, look who's here!"
Without another word, he reached forward and gently scooped the bundle from her arms.
Inside it was a small, glowing baby girl with soft golden hair and eyes like melted starlight—Evangeline's daughter, Orange, who's name didn't need to be explained with Evangeline's obsession over a certain fruit.
"Oh, Orange." He cooed, nuzzling her cheek. "Aren't you just the sweetest thing in existence? Who's Daddy's little goddess? You are—yes you are!"
"Hehehehe!"
The baby giggled, wriggling in his arms, and Evangeline's normally composed face softened.
For a brief moment, her entire aura—the calm, unshakable divinity—melted into something purely human: a mother's warmth.
But the tenderness evaporated the instant Kafka opened his mouth again.
"Ah, thank the heavens you didn't inherit your mother's eyes." He said cheerfully, still smiling down at the baby. "They're so beautiful, but imagine a baby staring at you with that cold glare."
"…I'd be terrified! I'd be the first father in history scared of his own kid!"
The air turned cold and Kafka blinked, feeling the temperature drop several degrees.
Slowly, he turned his head to see Evangeline's sharp gaze fixed on him, utterly deadpan.
"I see…" Evangeline said calmly, though her tone could've frozen fire. "So my eyes are terrifying, are they?"
"N-No, no! Don't misunderstand me!" He said quickly, waving his hands. "Your eyes are gorgeous! Stunning! I love your eyes! They're—uh—they're like—uh—divine judgment made sexy!"
The temperature dropped further. Even Orange looked confused.
"…That didn't help, did it?" Kafka's voice faltered.
"No." She said flatly.
And seeing that he had no choice, he immediately bowed down, clutching Orange protectively as he said,
"I'm sorry! I was an idiot! Please forgive this fool for his sins, your majesty!"
Finally, Evangeline's lips curved into a soft smirk.
"Fine, fine." She said, sighing as she reached down to help him stand. "Don't bow down so easily. If you do that, our daughter will think her father is hopelessly weak."
Kafka straightened, smiling sheepishly, and then to her surprise, gently kissed her forehead.
"I'm not bowing to anyone…" He said quietly. "…only to my beautiful wife. And I don't think there's anything weak about that."
Evangeline's composure faltered. Her cheeks tinted a faint shade of pink, and she turned her face away.
"…Sweet talker." She murmured. "Always so dramatic."
But Evangeline soon straightened again, her gentle look fading into something more solemn.
"Alright, enough flirting." She said quietly. "There's something important I need to show you."
"Right now?" Kafka blinked. "But—the cake! They're about to start singing! I can taste the frosting from here!"
She shook her head.
"It's precisely because the celebration is beginning that I want to show you." She said. "I want this done before the night moves forward. There's someone you need to meet, and it can't wait."
Kafka frowned, noticing the weight in her tone.
"Someone I need to meet? Who?"
Evangeline only smiled faintly.
"You'll understand soon enough."
And before he say anything back she waved little Orange's tiny hands at him like she was saying goodbye. And to his surprise he saw the world around him disappear, realising that he was being transported to a different place.
And when he finally opened his eyes, he found himself standing in an enormous library filled with golden sunlight streaming through the large windows.
Rows of books stretched endlessly in every direction, and in the middle of the room, children ran around laughing, chasing each other between the pillars.
Kafka blinked in awe.
"Where…where am I?" He whispered, looking around at the endless shelves of knowledge.
The air carried that familiar scent of paper and faint coffee—a smell he hadn't sensed in what felt like years.
He took a few hesitant steps forward, scanning the rows of shelves, the gleaming wooden floors, and the gentle hum of the ceiling lights. And then his gaze fell upon the large circular desk at the center of the room.
The librarian's desk.
For a moment, his heart stopped. He knew that shape—that exact desk, those scratches on the corner, the half-broken drawer he used to jam shut every morning.
Slowly, realization dawned on him, and he whispered in disbelief,
"This…This is my old workplace."
He spun around, eyes wide, as the memory fully hit him.
The library, the one from his previous world. The last job he had before everything changed, before the trial, before the gods, before the endless journey that made him who he was now.
Every detail was exactly the same. The glowing desk lamp. The faintly flickering monitor screen. Even the tiny cat ornament he had kept at the corner.
And when he turned around toward the far end of the room, his breath caught again.
There it was—the same computer. The same computer that had glowed with unnatural light that fateful day, the same one that had pulled him into another world entirely.
He could still remember the last words he'd said before everything went white.
He walked closer slowly, almost afraid that if he touched it, the illusion would fade.
"No way…" He murmured. "She's really sent me back over here…"
He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the monitor.
And that was when he heard it.
A voice—soft, slightly amused and surprised, but all too familiar spoke from behind him.
"I'm guessing that you're Kafka, right?" the voice said, laced with calm curiosity. "I mean, you have to be. Otherwise, it'd be pretty weird if there was a third person who looked exactly like us."
Kafka froze.
His blood ran cold as the words sank in.
That voice, it wasn't just familiar. It was his own.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turned around.
And there, standing just a few steps away washimself.
Kafka.
But he knew this wasn't a clone or a copy or even Evangeline disguised as him once again.
But it was actually the original Kafka from his world right before his eyes.