The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 76: The Womb Wars: Lucien vs. Wobblebean

[Holy Temple—Inner Courtyard | Morning Light]

It was too quiet.

Not the reverent kind of quiet that sanctuaries promised. No.

This was the quiet of coiled tension, like a bowstring drawn too tight—ready to snap.

High Priest Caldric stood beneath the great spire of the Holy Temple, arms raised as morning light filtered through the stained-glass ceiling. The mosaic of gods painted the floor in holy colors—reds, golds, and blood.

But even the gods seemed to look away today.

Caldric’s lips moved, mumbling ceremonial scripture under his breath. But his eyes weren’t closed in prayer.

They were open.

Fixed.

Watching the priest kneeling before him, trembling under the weight of expectation and fear.

"You understand your task, don’t you, Brother Elian?" Caldric’s voice was soft. Too soft. Like silk wrapped around a knife.

The young priest nodded quickly, hands clasped in front of him. "Yes, Your Grace. We will intercept the child the moment the labor begins. I’ve secured access to the estate’s outer wing. The moment the blessed being arrives—"

"You will not speak of the child so casually," Caldric snapped, turning. "This is not just some mortal birth. This is a divine event. A reckoning. You are not retrieving a baby..."

He leaned in, lips near Elian’s ear.

"You are retrieving a god."

Elian swallowed thickly. "Yes, Your Grace."

Caldric stepped back and looked toward the gilded temple gates.

"Good," he said coldly. "Because if you fail me... it will not be mercy you pray for."

***

[Rynthall Estate—Hallway of Doom (a.k.a. Outside Lucien’s Chamber)]

Meanwhile, at Rynthall Estate, Lucien stood perfectly still.

Frozen. Statuesque. Breathe shallowly. Eyes wide.

A half-folded baby blanket dangled from one trembling hand.

"...My Lord?" Marcel asked cautiously, standing just inches away, clutching a tray of prenatal lemon cakes. "What’s wrong? You’ve gone pale—well, paler. Is it time? Please don’t tell me—"

A horrified gasp echoed down the corridor.

"LORD LUCIEN’S WATER BROKE!!"

It wasn’t clear who screamed it. Could’ve been Marcel. Could’ve been the parrot on the fourth floor. Either way—

The entire estate exploded into chaos.

In the kitchen, someone dropped a cast iron pan.

In the garden, a maid fainted directly into the flowerbed.

In the training yard, a sword clanged dramatically to the ground as a knight shrieked, "SOMEONE INFORM GRAND DUKE, THE PRIEST, THE EXORCIST—"

Faylen and Fredrick ran like some ninja yelling, "We’re coming..."

Shoes thundered down corridors. A flute shattered. Someone sprinted with an entire pillow in their arms as if it were a sacred relic.

Alphonso appeared like a summoned demon of efficiency, already halfway through tying back his hair. "MY LORD, HOLD ON—WE SHALL CARRY YOU TO YOUR CHAMBER LIKE A SACRED RELIC BEFORE WOBBLEBEAN BURSTS OUT LIKE AN OPERA NOTE—!"

Lucien blinked once.

Twice.

"...It’s not that."

Everything froze.

The footmen halted mid-step. A servant carrying towels midair suddenly forgot how gravity worked. One guard had even managed to half-unbutton his shirt dramatically, preparing to sacrifice himself to fate.

"...Pardon?" Alphonso and Marcel said in perfect unison.

Lucien stood in the center of this madness, blinking like a confused squirrel. He rubbed his belly slowly. His lips trembled.

And then—

"HE’S KICKING."

"...Pardon?"

Lucien’s bottom lip wobbled. And then came the tears. Violent. Dramatic. Endless. Tears poured down his cheeks like the Nile River had reincarnated in his tear ducts.

"WOBBLEBEAN IS DOING A WHOLE DAMN BALLROOM DANCE IN MY INTESTINES, AND IT HURTS LIKE THE GODS ARE PUNISHING ME FOR BEING HOT."

A maid dropped a spoon.

Another one whispered in terror, "He’s...he’s dancing?"

"HE’S DOING A FULL-COURSE CHOREOGRAPHY!" Lucien howled. "I THINK HE JUST PERFORMED A SPINNING KICK—THERE’S A WHOLE BALLET HAPPENING IN MY UTERUS!"

Marcel nervously offered a lemon cake. "Your Grace... maybe he’s just excited?"

"EXCITED?" Lucien shrieked. "TELL HIM TO BE EXCITED QUIETLY. INTERNALLY. I’M NOT A BOUNCY CASTLE!"

Alphonso raised a hand like a general. "Everyone! Fall back! Step away from the Duchess! He is not delivering—he is being assaulted by... his own inborn child!"

Lucien crumbled dramatically onto a chair brought by some maid, hands over his belly, rocking back and forth like a man possessed. "I SWEAR I SAW HIS FOOTPRINT MOVE ACROSS MY BELLY. HE’S WRITING HIS NAME ON MY ORGANS WITH HIS TOES. HE’S TRYING TO ESCAPE THROUGH MY RIBCAGE—"

A pause.

Then a soft thump.

Lucien blinked. Sat upright. The kicking had... stopped.

"Oh," he mumbled, wiping his tears. "He’s... done now."

Everyone stared in stunned silence.

Lucien looked around and sniffled. "Why are you all looking at me like I’ve lost my mind?"

Alphonso, stone-faced: "Because, my Lord... you just declared war on your unborn child."

Lucien turned slowly, mascara of exhaustion dripping beneath his eyes, and hissed like a betrayed goddess.

"He started it."

Fredrick, ever the responsible healer, stepped forward with the energy of a man who had absolutely seen too much. "Alright, my Lord... Perhaps now would be a good time to lie down, rest, and maybe not scream at your fetus like it’s a political rival."

Lucien sniffled, nodded slowly like a tragic war widow, and turned to make his noble, dramatic exit back to his chamber—

But then he froze again.

Mid-step.

His hand clutched his belly. His back arched slightly. His face twisted in righteous agony.

Everyone panicked. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

"—What now?!" Marcel shouted, grabbing a vase for no reason.

Lucien’s mouth opened—

"W-HHHHYYYYY?!!" he wailed, pointing down at his belly with a shaking hand. "WOBBLEBEAN IS PLAYING GYMNASTICS INSIDE ME AGAIN!"

He crumpled theatrically to one knee like a Shakespearean prince mid-soliloquy.

**"HE’S BACK! HE’S BREAKDANCING! IT FEELS LIKE I’M BEING PUNCHED FROM THE INSIDE—with rhythm!"

Faylen leaned toward Fredrick, whispering carefully, "Why does it sound like... labor pain?"

Fredrick, calm as ever, casually glanced at Lucien’s lower half—his professional gaze checking for signs of catastrophe.

No puddles. No leakage. Just raw, emotional suffering.

He looked at Faylen.

Then they both sighed in unison.

"He’s just kicking again."

Meanwhile, Lucien was now openly sobbing into the nearest curtain. "I SWEAR TO ALL CELESTIAL BEINGS, HE’S TRYING TO ESCAPE THROUGH MY RIBCAGE. I FELT A TOE BEHIND MY LUNG. A WHOLE TOE."

A soft hush fell over the hall.

Until Lucien’s jaw suddenly twitched.

His eyes sharpened.

A new storm brewed.

He clenched his fist.

Everyone took one step back.

And then came the whisper—dark, dangerous, filled with betrayal.

"It’s all Silas’s fault."

Alphonso blinked. "...Lord Silas?"

Lucien flipped his entire body around with the speed of a haunted spinning top.

"YES, SILAS." he thundered. "BECAUSE OF HIM—I’M PREGNANT! BECAUSE OF HIM—I’M A WALKING WATERMELON WITH A FUTURE CONTORTIONIST FOR A SON OR DAUGHTER! BECAUSE OF HIM—I HAVEN’T SEEN MY FEET IN SIX MONTHS!"

Marcel attempted reason. "But... my lord, you love Lord Silas."

"I ALSO LOVE BREATHING, AND YET WOBBLEBEAN IS OUT HERE TRYING TO DEFLATE MY LUNGS FROM THE INSIDE."

Fredrick gently stepped in. "My Lord, why don’t we get you back into bed?"

Lucien glared. "Is the bed childproofed?! Because apparently I’m housing an acrobat who thinks bedtime means ’let’s practice aerial combat in the womb!’"

Faylen bit his lip to keep from laughing. Marcel didn’t even try.

Alphonso pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Very well," he muttered, nodding to the nearby guards, "prepare Lord Lucien’s chamber. Reinforce the pillows. Remove any fragile vases. Also... hide the cookies. We don’t want him throwing them again."

Lucien, still weeping dramatically:

"I THREW THEM ONCE—AND THEY WERE STALE!"

Marcel, looking like he was both panicking and spiritually dying inside, rushed to Lucien and wrapped a comforting arm around him. "There, there, my Lord. Let’s get you to your chamber before Wobblebean starts doing pirouettes on your spine again."

Lucien sniffled. "He already did that. I think my liver’s out of alignment."

Marcel nodded with the calmness of a man herding a tornado. "Very good. Come along now."

Lucien rose slowly like a cursed phoenix reborn in tears and back pain, wobbling forward in a majestic shuffle, one hand on his belly and the other dramatically pressed to his temple. "I shall walk... but not in silence. Let the record show I am suffering."

Marcel smiled tightly. "The record has ten volumes, my lord."

As Lucien limped theatrically down the hallway, mumbling curses at gravity and fetal gymnastics, Faylen clapped his hands with a flourish, stepping into the center like a very tired stage manager.

"Alright, everyone! The show’s over! The Lord is just having one of his regularly scheduled mood hurricanes. He’s not going into labor. He’s just dramatically fighting his child’s enthusiasm to do swords fighting in the womb. Back to your posts! Chop chop!"

A nearby maid who had nearly fainted let out a relieved breath. A footman who had dropped a tray of croissants slowly retrieved them, muttering, "Praise be to the gods. I thought the baby was coming with a sword."

Faylen added with a wave of his hand, "Also—someone bring hot chocolate to his room. And ice cream. And a cold compress. And maybe a stuffed bunny for emotional support."

Fredrick, sipping tea like a weary war medic, muttered, "Make it two bunnies. One for Wobblebean and one for Silas—he’ll need it."

And as Lucien vanished into the hallway, still sniffling and mumbling things like "My hips are being held hostage" and "Tell Silas I curse his entire bloodline..."

...the estate slowly returned to its usual, chaotic rhythm.

Peace?

Not quite.

But the war had been postponed by ice cream and maternal rage.