The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 63: Heaven Should Be Afraid

[Holy Temple...]

The sacred halls of the Holy Temple were silent.

Too silent.

Sunlight poured in through stained-glass windows, casting halos of crimson and gold across the gleaming white marble floors. The divine light made everything shimmer with false purity.

High Priest Caldric stood at the altar—tall, draped in ceremonial robes embroidered with suns, wings, and ancient script. His hands were folded in front of him, jeweled rings glittering like temptation itself. His eyes were closed.

But this was no prayer.

There was no peace in that stillness.

Only calculation. Something was wrong. Off. Shifting beneath the surface.

Not in the heavens.

But in the earth.

In the heartbeat of the temple walls.

"A storm..." he thought, brows tightening ever so slightly. "A storm is coming."

And it wasn’t divine.

It was wrath.

Raw. Feral. Furious.

Born not of prophecy, but of a mother’s love—the kind that turns holy men into ashes. The doors of the inner sanctum creaked.

Not wide. Just enough.

A soft shuffle of silk and slippers preceded the arrival of a young temple acolyte. She knelt low before him, head bowed in reverence, but her voice carried panic through the stillness.

"Your Holiness... The imperial knights have arrived. They’ve escorted Lord Lucien Rynthall and Lady Seraphina Duclair."

Caldric’s breath hitched—only for a moment. He opened his eyes slowly, as if peeling back a layer of control.

"...Lucien?" he said softly. "He’s here?"

The acolyte nodded, visibly shaken. "He looks... angry. Angrier than heaven on Judgment Day."

Caldric didn’t move.

Then, he smiled.

Not kindly.

Not holy.

But the thin, knowing smile of a man who’s faced monsters—and thinks he can tame them.

"Prepare the sanctum," he murmured. "Bring out the golden tome. The incense of peace. We must welcome Lord Lucien with the honor... befitting his divine state."

He turned, his robe swishing behind him like smoke, and began walking toward the eastern wing—the room reserved for negotiation.

As soon as the door closed behind him, the smile dropped. His jaw clenched. His pace quickened.

The mask was gone.

"Finally," he muttered. "The Grand Duke must’ve told him. Sooner than I planned—but no matter. He’s here now. That child is within reach." His fingers curled in the folds of his sleeve. "All I need is a few sacred words... a soft prayer... a little fear. Mothers are always so easy when they’re alone..."

He smiled again. But this time it was pure evil. The kind of smile that should never belong on a man who wears robes embroidered with salvation.

He reached the waiting chamber and, without knocking, slammed the doors open.

And paused.

The room was not what he expected.

Lucien Rynthall sat on a grand velvet sofa near the center, one hand resting gently but protectively over his belly, the other draped across the armrest like a king awaiting trial.

Except... he wasn’t trembling.

His back was straight.

His expression was cold. Still. Dangerous.

Those usually soft eyes? They were sharpened to gold-glinted daggers. The knights stood like statues around him—positioned not as guards but as a wall between him and the world.

And beside him?

Seraphina Duclair.

Lounging like a lioness, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap, staring at Caldric with an expression that said: "Try me, and I’ll remove your kneecaps with my heels."

But Caldric... didn’t notice her. His greedy eyes were on Lucien. More precisely—on the swell of Lucien’s belly.

As if it were the altar itself.

Seraphina muttered under her breath, venom in every syllable. "Should I pluck out his eyes now or wait until he says something unforgivable?"

Lucien didn’t even look away from Caldric as he replied coldly, "No. That’s my job."

Caldric stepped inside, smiling with false benevolence, palms outstretched like some merciful deity.

"Lord Lucien," he greeted, voice dripping with reverence. "It humbles me to see you here, gracing the temple in such a... divine state. The gods surely smile upon you."

Lucien tilted his head, slow and deliberate.

"Oh?" His voice was quiet. Controlled. Deadly. "Then I wonder why I feel so sick in your presence."

The smile on Caldric’s face twitched.

"Perhaps the child is... unusually sensitive to holy energy," he said, still walking closer. "It is, after all, no ordinary child."

Lucien’s brows arched slightly. "No, he’s not. He’s mine."

Caldric froze for half a second—but covered it with a chuckle. "Of course. Of course. But as the scriptures say, what is given by the gods—"

"—Does not belong to men like you," Lucien finished, and now his voice held a razor.

The room chilled.

Even the knights stiffened.

Caldric swallowed. "My lord... I think we’ve had a misunderstanding."

"Oh no," Lucien said with terrifying calm. "You made yourself very clear. You declared that my child—a living being growing inside me—is a prophecy. A holy object. And that once he’s born... the temple has a claim over him."

The words hung in the air like blades. Deadly. Unforgiving.

High Priest Caldric said nothing for a moment. But then, slowly—too slowly—he smiled. That same cursed smile. All teeth, no soul.

"My lord," he said, mockingly gentle, "it seems you do not fully understand the interpretation of the gods’ will—"

Lucien’s glare could’ve turned sunlight to ash.

He stood.

And in one sharp movement, his hand snatched a silver fruit knife from the golden fruit tray beside him. The blade caught the light—gleaming like the judgment of a betrayed mother. The imperial knights behind him surged forward instinctively, surrounding him like a living wall, their hands at their hilts.

Lucien didn’t flinch.

His voice cracked through the temple, louder than any cathedral bell.

"I am not your chosen vessel, priest. I am not your sacred cow. I am not your incubator, your prophecy, or your golden goose. I am not a gift box for you to unwrap and steal from."

His hand pressed to his belly.

A gesture of love. Of power.

"I am a person. I am a parent. And this child—my child—is mine. Not yours. Not the temple’s. Not the gods’. Mine."

Caldric stumbled back, his robes whispering against the floor, but still clinging to his delusion.

"You... you don’t understand the divine nature of this child," he sputtered, lips twitching with fanatic desperation.

But Lucien’s fury was far beyond reason now.

"No," he hissed, eyes glowing like wildfire. "You don’t understand what divine wrath looks like."

He moved closer—so close now Caldric could see the glint of rage swimming in amber irises.

"You think I’m afraid of you because you wear silk and chant scripture like a parrot?" Lucien whispered, voice low and lethal.

"You think you can own something just because you label it ’holy’? You think you can tear my child from my arms and expect me to bow?"

He leaned in.

"Let me make something clear, Your Holiness," he said, each word dipped in venom. "I will burn this temple to its holy stones before I let you lay a single blessed—no, cursed—finger on my child."

The room froze.

And just then—CRASH!

The temple doors burst open.

"LUCIEN!"

Silas.

Storming in like a man possessed, sword in hand, cloak flying behind him, panic written across every inch of his face. His eyes scanned the room—and froze at the sight:

Lucien.

Pregnant. Armed. Surrounded by knights. Standing inches from the High Priest with a blade in hand.

"Lucien," Silas breathed, stepping forward like the floor might collapse beneath him, "What are you doing here?"

Lucien turned his head slowly, just enough to meet Silas’s eyes for a heartbeat.

That was all.

Just one glance. But in that glance lived betrayal, heartbreak, and steel-forged fury. Then he turned back to Caldric, ignoring Silas entirely.

"I am not here for violence," Lucien said, voice low and commanding. "Not yet."

Caldric swallowed visibly.

Lucien raised the knife—not to strike, but to point, like a dagger of words.

"I’m here to deliver a warning," he growled. "A final, merciful warning."

He stepped closer. Caldric visibly flinched.

"You lay those cursed, power-hungry eyes on my child again, and I swear—I will rip them from your skull and hand-deliver them to your gods so they can finally see what kind of monster you are."

He didn’t blink. Didn’t tremble.

His voice dropped to a deadly hush.

"Do not test a mother. Especially, do not test me. I can end a life when it comes to my child, even if that life belongs to some holy priest."

Caldric was pale now, lips parted, but no words came. He stood frozen in the shadow of Lucien’s fury.

Lucien turned, sheathing the knife into his coat pocket like a final threat. And as he walked past Caldric, he didn’t just brush his robes—

He stepped on them.

Crushing the embroidered hem beneath his heel like a dying lie. And the high priest stumbled backward from the force of it.

Lucien didn’t stop. He walked with fire in his bones.

Silas tried to follow. "Lucien, please—"

"Don’t." Lucien didn’t turn.

"Don’t talk. Don’t follow. Don’t try to fix this with more silence."

He paused at the temple threshold, turning just slightly.

"Next time," he said, eyes still blazing, "I won’t bring a knife. I’ll bring the empire."

And with that, Lucien Rynthall—pregnant, furious, divine—marched out of the Holy Temple like an angel of war.

Behind him, Silas hesitated.

And High Priest Caldric remained frozen in place—shaking for the first time in decades. Because he hadn’t just seen a noble lose his temper.

He had seen a parent rise.

A reckoning had come.

And it walked in silk slippers and carried a child in its belly.

END OF SEASON ONE

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