The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 77: The Wobble bean Awakens

[Rynthall Estate—Lucien’s Chamber | Afternoon Light]

Lucien lay slumped sideways on a mountain of silk pillows like a fallen nobleman who had just survived a war... against his own uterus.

One hand held a half-eaten cookie.

The other hand pressed wearily to the side of his stomach, where Wobblebean had apparently just completed his eighteenth consecutive somersault. His robe had slipped slightly off one shoulder, his hair was a mess, his eyeliner was smudged, and his dignity was leaking through the floorboards.

"I swear to the stars... If this child does one more backflip—I will evict him myself."

He lifted a cookie with all the dignity of a battle-worn monarch, took a slow, solemn bite, chewed like a man surviving a siege, and then let out another long-suffering sigh.

And then—

Silence.

Stillness.

Lucien paused.

Frowned.

Looked down at his belly suspiciously.

"...Wobblebean?"

No kicks.

No somersaults.

No pirouettes of fetal vengeance.

Just... quiet.

Lucien blinked in surprise, then cautiously rubbed his belly like one might soothe a cursed artifact.

"There, there, Wobblebean," he cooed in his gentlest whisper, "be Mama’s good little demon spawn. That’s right. Stay quiet. Sleep. Rest your tiny little hooves."

He tilted his head, inspecting his now-peaceful belly like it was a ticking bomb that had decided not to explode—yet.

"...You can resume the aerial acrobatics after birth," Lucien muttered. "I’ll get you an entire trampoline. A tiara. A one-man circus. Just... just let me sleep tonight."

Satisfied with the calm, he sighed dramatically, rolled off the bed with a grunt, and wobbled toward the bathroom.

"...Let’s go pee and sleep," he muttered. "I feel wet anyway."

He stopped.

Blink.

Blink, blink.

"...Huh."

He looked down.

At his legs.

At the suspiciously growing puddle beneath him.

"..."

Lifted the hem of his robe.

Stared at the suspiciously wet silk fabric.

"..."

Took a step.

Squish.

Another step.

Squiiish.

Lucien’s entire face slowly contorted into the expression of a man discovering that his enemy has moved into his house and replaced all the furniture.

"I—"

He looked left.

Looked right.

No witnesses.

Then stared down again.

"...Did I... pee myself?" he whispered, utterly scandalized. "I haven’t peed myself since I was six, and I dreamt of waterfalls and a harp."

He shifted again.

SSQUISH.

The puddle beneath him was growing. The robe was soaked. "...But I didn’t even pee. I was on my way to pee."

Lucien pointed accusingly at his belly. "Wobblebean, what. Did. You. DO?!"

As if in answer, a sharp cramp twisted through his gut.

He gasped.

Clutched the wall.

Eyes wide.

A sharp, sharp pain twisted through his abdomen.

"...Oh no."

The pain hit again—like a fist from inside.

"...OH NO."

Lucien froze and trembled (as much as one could tremble while nine months pregnant and emotionally dramatic), clutching his belly with trembling hands.

"WOBBLEBEAN." His voice cracked. "YOU TRAITOROUS LITTLE CREATURE."

Then came another contraction. Stronger. Meaner. Like a stab from within. Lucien’s entire soul left his body for three seconds before it returned screaming.

"OH GODS I’M LEAKING, AND I’M BEING STABBED. IS THIS WHAT BETRAYAL FEELS LIKE?!"

He hobbled forward, robe dragging dramatically through the puddle behind him like a tragic bridal train.

And then—HE SCREAMED.

"FREDRICK! FAYLEN! MARCEL! ALPHONSO! MAIDS! GUARDS! THE GUY WHO BRINGS TEA! ANYYYYYYYYYONEEEEEEEEE—!!!"

The scream cracked through the estate like thunder, echoing off marble floors and ancient tapestries.

Somewhere in the kitchen, a maid dropped an entire tray of dumplings. In the stables, a horse neighed and broke free. In the garden, a footman faceplanted into the koi pond.

Everyone’s brain rebooted.

And then—like trained assassins—they sprinted toward Lucien’s chamber like their lives depended on it.

BOOM!The door BURST open like an explosion of chaos and lemon cake crumbs.

Marcel nearly skidded on the polished floor, breathless. "What—WHAT HAPPENED?! DID HE KICK AGAIN?! DID HE DO A TRIPLE SPIN THIS TIME?! IS HE CARTWHEELING ON YOUR SPLEEN?!"

Lucien, sprawled against the bedframe, eyes glassy with pain, whispered like a cursed prophet:

"...No."

He locked eyes with Marcel.

His voice dropped low and deadly:

"He’s not dancing anymore... He’s ESCAPING."

Marcel’s soul left his body. The tea tray fell from his hands with a crash.

"FAYLEN!!" he screamed toward the hallway. "WE’RE GOING INTO EMERGENCY MODE!!"

From down the corridor, Faylen’s ever-calm voice floated back:

"IS IT REAL THIS TIME OR JUST DRAMATIC?!"

"HE’S SCREAMING, FOAMING, AND THREATENING VIOLENCE! IT’S REAL!!"

Alphonso slid into the room like a knight on roller skates.

Both Alphonso and Marcel rushed to Lucien, grabbing him from both sides and carefully lowering him onto the bed like he was an unstable bomb.

And then—

Lucien snapped.

Grabbed Alphonso by the collar. Dragged him in with the strength of ten angry gods.

His eyes were wide. Teary. Absolutely unhinged.

"WHERE. IS. THAT. USELESS. TREACHEROUS. CHARMING. STUPID. MAN?!"

Alphonso stuttered, blinking. "Who?!"

Lucien shrieked, "SILAS, YOU IMBECILE—WHO ELSE?!"

Marcel, shaking, answered meekly, "He’s... at the Imperial Palace. The high priest matter—he went to deal with it."

Lucien’s lips parted in absolute horror. His voice dropped to a whisper of betrayal.

"...He left me?"

And then—

Another contraction.

Lucien doubled over with a growl of pain, grabbed a pillow, and SCREAMED INTO IT LIKE A BANSHEE AT A METAL CONCERT.

"HE LEFT ME TO BE RIPPED OPEN ALONE?! THAT—THAT BEAUTIFUL DEMON WITH HIS SINFUL HANDS AND SHARP CHEEKBONES DID THIS TO ME!!"

He clutched Marcel’s sleeve. "THIS IS HIS FAULT! THIS IS HIS CURSED, GLORIOUS FAULT! I HOPE HE STUBS ALL TEN TOES! ON DIFFERENT FURNITURE! I HOPE HE SITS ON A CHAIR THAT’S STILL WARM FROM SOMEONE ELSE!"

Marcel: "OH GODS!"

SLAM.

Fredrick entered like a seasoned war medic, tossing his bag onto the bed and rolling up his sleeves.

"Alright! Let’s assess—deep breaths—"

Lucien turned to him with a look that could melt gold.

"If you tell me to breathe one more time, Fredrick—I swear—I will THROW YOU OUT THAT WINDOW AND STAB YOU WITH A NURSING PILLOW."

Fredrick blinked. "Duly noted."

He checked quickly and calmly.

"Fully dilated," he announced. "He’s coming. The baby’s coming."

Lucien’s face crumpled like bad parchment. "Oh gods. Wobblebean is really... really coming."

Fredrick: "Yes. You’re in labor."

Lucien: "I’M IN HELL."

Alphonso was already barking orders at the guards, "Summon extra medics. Bring hot water and clean towels, and someone—ANYONE—send a hawk to Lord Silas!!"

Marcel nodded frantically. "YES—FLY HIM HERE IF YOU HAVE TO!"

Lucien grabbed Alphonso by the wrist and howled:

"TELL HIM TO RUN HERE NAKED IF HE HAS TO! I DON’T CARE IF HE JUMPS OUT THE PALACE WINDOW—JUST GET HIM TO MY SIDE OR I WILL DRAG HIM TO THE UNDERWORLD WITH ME!!"

Fredrick, calm as ever, added, "Push when I say push."

Lucien snapped his head around. "PUSH? PUSH?! I’M NOT PUSHING UNTIL THAT MAN IS HERE TO WITNESS THE DAMAGE HE CAUSED."

A contraction hit again.

Lucien: "AAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH—!! FAYLEN, I’M GOING TO BLACK OUT!"

Faylen finally arrived mid-sprint, skidding across the marble. "I BROUGHT SNACKS AND TOWELS AND EMOTIONAL STABILITY—WHAT DID I MISS?!"

Lucien pointed a trembling finger. "TELL. SILAS. I SAID. FLY."

Faylen: "A hawk’s already on the way."

Lucien: "GOOD. I HOPE IT CLAWS HIS FACE FOR LEAVING ME!"

Fredrick: "Alright. Contractions are slowing. Catch your breath, Lord Lucien."

Lucien, heaving, collapsed back onto the pillows, tear-streaked, robe rumpled, and absolutely feral. "I swear on every blood moon... I am never... letting that man touch me again."

***

[Imperial Palace—Throne Room | Mid-Explosion Energy]

Silas stood with perfect posture, jaw tight, his voice slicing through the gilded air of the throne room.

"We will not allow this false prophecy to continue," he growled, each word deliberate, powerful, and poised to strike. "This ends today, High Priest Caldric, will be done to—"

SLAM!!

The throne room doors burst open so violently that two guards ducked for cover. A young soldier skidded in, hair wild, eyes wide, and chest heaving like he’d just outrun a lightning storm.

"MY LORD!!" he gasped, clutching the wall. "IT’S—IT’S TIME!!"

Emperor Adrein turned, brows furrowed. "...Time?"

The soldier stood up straight, inhaled dramatically, and shouted like a man delivering war news—

"LORD LUCIEN IS IN LABOR!!! HE’S SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER—AND CURSING LORD SILAS’S ENTIRE BLOODLINE!!"

Silas paled.

Like, dead-prince-in-a-poem pale.

"...What?"

"HE SAYS YOU DID THIS TO HIM!" the soldier cried. "THAT YOUR ’SINFUL HANDS’ CAUSED THIS AND THAT YOU SHOULD EXPERIENCE DEATH BY TOENAIL STUBBING!"

Silas blinked once.

Twice.

And then—

DROPPED EVERYTHING.

Sword? Thrown.Scrolls? Yeeted.Ceremony? Over.High Priest? Forgotten.

"NOPE—THIS IS ABOVE YOUR PAYGRADE NOW!" he barked, and SPRINTED.

Down the palace stairs.Past stunned guards.Across the courtyard.Through the rose bushes (which snagged his cape, but who the hell cares—LUCIEN IS IN PAIN).

"MOVE, OUT OF MY WAY—MAKE WAY FOR THE PANICKED FATHER!!"

He ran like the wind. Like a man escaping taxes. Like his soul was on fire, and only Lucien’s screams could put it out.

One poor maid stepped into the hallway—"Oh, Lord Sil—AHHH!"—and flattened against the wall as he zoomed past in a blur.

Because this wasn’t just any emergency.

This was the kind where Wobblebean was about to make his grand, dramatic, diva-level entrance into the world.

And Silas?

Silas had approximately seven minutes to get there before Lucien turned into a mythological being of rage and threw an entire bedframe at someone.