The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 78: The One Where Lucien Almost Kills Silas

[Rynthall Estate—Lucien’s Chamber | Seven Minutes Later]

The room was chaos. Organized, towel-drenched, emotionally unhinged chaos.

Lucien was on the bed, drenched in sweat, silk robes tossed over a nearby chair, and hair stuck to his forehead like he’d just done battle with an ocean storm. One hand crushed Marcel’s wrist. The other clutched a poor pillow that had done nothing wrong.

"I’M DYING! YOU HEAR ME?! THIS IS IT! TELL THE ARCHIVES TO START WRITING MY TRAGEDY—I WANT A PLAY!"

Faylen, fanning Lucien with a folding screen, muttered, "Tragedy’s already written. It’s called your love life."

Lucien tried to slap him with a towel but missed because—CONTRACTION. He howled.

"WHERE IS THAT SNAKE-HIP, BEAUTIFUL-EYED, MUSCLE-INFESTED MAN?!"

Fredrick: "Still running, presumably."

Lucien: "TELL HIM TO STOP RUNNING AND START TELEPORTING!"

Marcel leaned in, panting. "Lucien, you need to breathe—!"

"DON’T TELL ME TO BREATHE, YOU TALL IDIOT OLD BUTLER, I AM BREATHING AND DYING AT THE SAME TIME!"

THUD.

The estate doors slammed open below.

CRASH.

A vase shattered somewhere.

CLANG.

A guard yelled, "SOMETHING JUST RAN OVER MY FOOT!"

And then—

SLAM.

CRACK.

BOOM.

The chamber doors BURST open so hard the doorknob ricocheted off the wall and embedded in a potted plant.

And there he was.

Silas Rynthall.

Cloak half-torn. Hair windblown. Shirt half-buttoned. One glove is missing. Eyes wild like a man who’d fought death itself—and possibly a rose bush.

He stopped at the doorway, looked at Lucien, and immediately took one step back.

Because Lucien’s glare could’ve melted iron.

"YOU," Lucien rasped, voice low and furious. "HOW. DARE. YOU."

Silas opened his mouth.

Lucien hurled a spoon at him.

"YOU DID THIS TO ME!"

Silas ducked. "Lucien, I—"

"SINFUL! HANDS!" Lucien shouted, flailing. "WRATHFUL! KISSES! UNNECESSARY! FLEXING!"

Silas dashed to the bed, took Lucien’s hand, and kissed it reverently. "I’m sorry, I’m here. I came as fast as I could—"

"I DON’T WANT FAST—I WANT RETRIBUTION!" Lucien shrieked. "GET IN THIS BED AND PUSH WITH ME!"

Faylen: "Do it. For moral support."

Fredrick, calmly preparing herbs: "He deserves it."

Silas—sweating—gripped Lucien’s hand tighter. "I’m not going anywhere."

Lucien sobbed. "YOU’D BETTER NOT. Because the moment Wobblebean arrives, you’re taking all night shifts. I SWEAR IT, SILAS."

Fredrick stepped in. "Alright! Focus. Push on the next contraction."

Lucien was sweating. Shaking. Roaring.

One hand clutched the bedsheets like they had personally offended him.

The other?

Fisted firmly in Lord Silas’s glorious, silvery, previously immaculate hair.

"AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" he howled. "WHY—WHY ISN’T WOBBELBEAN COMING OUT?! I’VE BEEN PUSHING FOR TEN YEARS!"

Silas, hunched beside him, groaned in agony as Lucien YANKED his head down again.

"My love—OW—your grip is iron—OWWWWWWW—"

"DOES IT HURT?" Lucien hissed, red-faced, wild-eyed, breath coming in ragged gasps. "DOES IT HURT MORE THAN ME?! I’M BEING SPLIT IN HALF LIKE AN ENCHANTED PINEAPPLE!!"

Silas winced. "Darling, I don’t think pineapples—"

"SILENCE!"

Lucien yanked his hair again.

Silas’s entire upper body jolted like a puppet. "AAH—OKAY! YES! IT HURTS! OW—MY SCALP IS WRITING ITS WILL!"

Frederick, crouched at the foot of the bed, snapped, "PUSH, my lord. One more. You can do this."

Lucien snarled. "YOU PUSH."

Faylen stepped closer, voice full of calm panic. "The child is coming, I promise—just a little more—"

"I’M GONNA RIP!" Lucien cried. "I CAN FEEL MY SOUL LEAVING!"

Marcel peeked from behind a pillow. "Do souls bleed? Because it sounds like he is bleeding."

Lucien turned and roared like a wrathful banshee.

"I SWEAR ON MY FUTURE STRETCH MARKS—IF THIS CHILD ISN’T OUT IN THE NEXT MINUTE, I’M CLOSING SHOP FOREVER."

Silas, panting, leaned closer, hair frizzing under the strain. "Here, my love, take it—TAKE ALL MY HAIR! JUST DON’T DIE!"

He grabbed Lucien’s hands and offered his hair like a peace treaty between nations. Lucien grabbed it with the vengeance of a woman scorned by fate and poor life choices.

From the corner, a maid whispered to another, "Should... should we start mourning Lord Silas’s hair?"

The other maid nodded solemnly. "It was so shiny. So full of bounce."

Fredrick barked, "You two! HOT WATER! NOW!"

The maids yelped and bolted like gremlins on fire.

Lucien howled again, muscles trembling, every vein on his forehead screaming.

"FREDRICK—I’M NAMING THIS CHILD—PAIN. MIDDLE NAME: BETRAYAL. LAST NAME: YOUR FAULT, SILAS."

Silas—foolishly—let out a soft laugh.

That was it.

Lucien slapped his chest so hard, Silas gasped like he’d been hit by a thunder spell. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

"DON’T. YOU. DARE. LAUGH," Lucien growled, eyes glowing with maternal doom. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT. ALL OF IT. EVERY. LAST. STRETCH."

Faylen, fanning Lucien with the fan of a dead emperor, nodded to Marcel. "Imagine the child with Lord Lucien’s lungs and Lord Silas’s stubbornness."

Marcel, weakly waving a towel, whispered, "We’ll have to exile them at age five. For the kingdom’s safety."

Fredrick: "We’re going to need three nannies. A therapist. And a magic containment barrier."

Lucien wailed. "AND A MAGIC SCROLL TO ERASE THIS PREGNANCY!"

Another contraction hit like a meteorite.

Lucien SHRIEKED. Silas shrieked because Lucien was pulling his soul out through his hair. Faylen almost dropped the fan.

Fredrick shouted over the noise: "NOW, LORD LUCIEN—PUSH! THIS IS THE BIG ONE!"

Lucien inhaled the way a war general breathes before charging into a battlefield. His legs shook. His eyes rolled.

"IF I DIE," he moaned dramatically, "BUILD ME A SHRINE—OUT OF DIAMONDS AND ANGUISH."

Lucien PUSHED with the strength of a goddess betrayed, a duchess scorned, and a person who had once stubbed their toe on every possible corner in the universe.

Silas held his hand and sobbed. "You’re doing amazing—"

Lucien: "YOU’RE NEVER TOUCHING ME AGAIN!"

Silas: "That’s fair."

Lucien screamed.

Fredrick: "I SEE THE HEAD!"

Faylen: "WE’RE ALMOST THERE, MY LORD!"

Fredrick: "ONE. LAST. PUSH!"

Lucien screamed one last time, long and loud, the kind of scream that could split the sky and make nearby villages light prayer candles just in case.

Frederick, hands steady, voice sharp: THE CHILD IS COMING!"

Lucien:"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH—SILAAAAAAS, I’M GOING TO RIP YOUR SOUL INTO EIGHT PIECES!"

Silas, sobbing beside him, cradling Lucien’s hand to his chest like a relic: "I deserve it—I deserve all eight pieces—just don’t stop pushing!"

Lucien bared his teeth like a goddess of vengeance and pushed with everything he had left—his pain, his rage, his dramatic flair, and the power of every insult ever hurled at Silas’s cheekbones.

And then—

WAHHHH....WAHHHH....WAHHH....

A cry.

A sharp, loud, fierce little cry that shattered the tension in the room like a sword through stained glass.

Fredrick caught the child, blinked down, and—

"...It’s a girl."

A collective gasp rippled through the chamber like a divine wind had passed through.

Alphonso, jaw dropping, staggered back as if struck by lightning."A—A girl?!"

Marcel, already teetering on emotional overload, squeaked, "A princess? A real one? With hair and tiny angry fists?!"

But Silas...

Silas didn’t look up. His eyes weren’t on the baby just yet. He was still clutching Lucien’s hand, breath shaky, heart pounding.

Lucien was panting—sweaty, teary, and glowing with post-apocalyptic exhaustion. His chest rose and fell like he had just conquered Mount Doom.

Silas leaned in, thumb brushing Lucien’s temple. "Are... are you alright, my love?"

Lucien blinked up at him, face pale, lips dry, hair a mess, but his gaze burned like a dying phoenix. And with all the strength of a war widow possessed by drama gods, he whispered hoarsely:

"I... will... kill you."

Silas smiled softly, like a man who would gladly die a thousand deaths for this exact moment.

Fredrick, composed despite the literal chaos, interrupted gently.

"Congratulations, my Lords... You’ve just welcomed a miracle."

Silas and Lucien turned their heads toward Fredrick—and then...

They saw her.

Their daughter.

And suddenly, the pain, the panic, the pillows, the puddles, and the swearing—it all evaporated like mist.

Lucien’s lips parted in stunned silence.

Silas’s grip on his hand tightened.

Fredrick’s voice dropped to reverence.

"...It’s a girl child, my lord."

Lucien’s eyes widened so fast it looked like his soul left and re-entered his body.

Silas choked out:"A... girl?"

Alphonso—yes, stoic, emotionally armored Alphonso—cried.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he dropped to one knee, hand over his heart."It’s been... generations. Generations since a daughter was born to this house. This—this is not just a child. She is a blessing. A sign. A legacy."

Lucien, still trembling, his arms weak from battle, reached out.

"Bring her to me..." he whispered, voice cracking. "Please... bring her here..."

Frederick, smiling now—gently, like a man delivering a star—brought the bundled infant closer and laid her softly beside Lucien.

She was crying, of course. Loud, fierce, unstoppable—until she saw them.

Two faces.

One pale, wild-eyed, and tear-streaked, still half-wrapped in a ruined silk robe. The other battle-armored, silver-haired, trembling with awe.

And then—

She stopped crying.

Just like that.

Silence fell.

Lucien and Silas stared.

She stared back.

Her hair was dark—darker than midnight, thick, and already untamable. Her tiny mouth was curled in the tiniest frown, like she had already formed opinions about taxes, men, and global affairs.

And then—

With shocking coordination—

She punched Lucien.

Right in the chest.

With the tiniest, angriest little fist.

Lucien blinked."Did... did she just hit me?"

He looked at Silas.

Silas looked like he was going to pass out."She’s... she’s perfect."

Meanwhile, Marcel stood, wobbling. "Okay—I’m fine. I’m—"

THUMP

He fainted into a chair in happiness.