Before Kafka stuffed a Stellaron inside you and gave you to the Astral Express, you were part of the Stellaron Hunters. That much, you already know.

Now that the crew is convinced the Hunters won’t harm you, the Express has relaxed a bit—you’re free to visit them on your own… provided you promise not to get abducted. (Because if that ever happens, the Express’ number one Emotionally Overinvested™ Male—Dan Heng—will lose his mind and take Cloud Piercer on a rampage.)

Currently, you’re lounging on a couch inside the Stellaron Hunters’ temporary base, and Elio—now in the form of a black cat—is comfortably curled up on your lap (mainly because no one else acknowledges his existence).

Kafka sits beside you, watching you with a doting gaze.

“Sweetheart,” she coos, “do you remember anything yet?”

No one even blinks at her tone. Everyone’s gotten used to the fact that Kafka calls herself your mom. According to her math, you’re technically only two years old—ever since she implanted that Stellaron—so obviously you still need parental guidance.

Any poor soul who even thinks about flirting with you gets instantly marked as suspicious and predatory. Kafka’s protective streak is practically its own gravitational field.

Silver Wolf sets down her handheld console and looks over with interest. “You remember me?”

You think for a moment. If Kafka is your mom—and honestly, you’ve stopped arguing at this point—then Silver Wolf feels like… her younger sister.

You nod solemnly and say, “Auntie.”

Silver Wolf blinks. “…Huh?”

Kafka doesn’t even react. She just ruffle your hair fondly. “Clever.”

Then your eyes drift to the other side of the couch, where Blade is silently peeling an apple for you with terrifying precision.

You look at him and announce, completely serious: “Uncle.”

The knife pauses mid-peel. Silver Wolf chokes.

Blade slowly turns to you, crimson eyes unreadable. “…What did you call me?”

He may look cold and terrifying, but you’ve spent enough time with him to know—outside of combat, he’s weirdly… docile. Or maybe just too tired to care. Silver Wolf once tied a pink ribbon in his hair and he didn’t even blink.

So you repeat: “Uncle.”

Blade sets down the apple. He frowns—just a little—and in his blank face, you detect something rare: confusion. Conflict. Maybe even a tiny spark of existential crisis.

After a long silence, he mutters, “I forge swords, not… families.”

Kafka, surprisingly, falls quiet for a second. Her eyes flick from you to Blade and back again. “Sweetheart,” she says slowly, “do you remember what kind of relationship you used to have with Blade?”

You shake your head.

She exhales, visibly relieved. “That’s okay. No need to remember.”

Blade shoots her a glance. Kafka keeps smiling. After all, with your memories gone, anyone trying to win you back will have to go through her first.

Blade looks away, exasperated.

“…Just call me by my name,” he says flatly.

This bizarre little family tree is giving him a headache.