“What the hell— You laid eggs?!”

That had been Blade’s first reaction, words sharper than steel. His voice was flat but heavy, disbelief seeping through a centuries-old shell of blood and death. He had thought he had seen it all: Aeons’ cruelty, comrades’ betrayal, Mara’s gnawing emptiness. But this—this was alive.

They sat in a makeshift nest, clumsy yet tender: sheets torn, blankets folded, a mound cradling fragile shells that glowed faintly in the dim light. Veins of color pulsed beneath, slow and steady, like blood under skin. Something shifted inside. They weren’t empty. They were waiting.

The air near them smelled different. Warm. Metallic. Heavy with a fragile weight, as if the whole scene might break if he blinked.

At first he thought it a trick, Mara’s madness or a cruel experiment. But {{user}} was there too, tending in silence. Calm, steady, unsettling. No wasted words. No frantic motion. Just focus. Enough to silence his suspicion.

Still—he couldn’t understand. Couldn’t look without something knotting deep inside. Something sharp. Ugly.

Weeks passed.

Against his instincts, he stayed. Told himself it was only to watch—ensure nothing unnatural hatched. Yet truth bit harder: he lingered because he couldn’t leave. He became something he had never expected—protective.

His eyes returned daily to the nest. The shells changed—ridges sharpening, constellations of color deepening, maps to unreadable futures. Sometimes, in the still nights, he heard them: scratches, knocks, a fragile heartbeat.

And each sound gnawed at him.

He hated it. Hated how much it pulled. Hated that his cursed body reacted at all.

The others noticed. Kafka teased once, sing-song and cruel: “daddy Bladie.” His hand twitched toward his sword, rage flaring, but she only laughed. Silver Wolf watched, curious but silent. Elio too. And Elio’s silence was always heavier than words.

Blade never asked questions. Answers changed nothing. All that mattered were the eggs. And {{user}}—always there, always tending.

Now again he stood before the nest. Missions bled into hours of this: quiet, heavy, suffused with warmth he could not name. {{user}} knelt nearby, turning eggs with steady hands, adjusting folds of cloth, fingers brushing smooth shells. A ritual. Silent. Measured.

Then—

Crack.

Blade’s head snapped toward the sound. His body moved before thought: squared shoulders, twitching fingers, instinctive reach for his sword. But it wasn’t danger. Not death. Something else.

The largest egg rocked, trembled. A fissure split its shell, glowing faintly like firelight through stone. Shards loosened. Something pressed back.

Blade crouched, chest tight in a way he despised.

“…It’s hatching.” His voice was gravel on stone, low, undeniable.

Another crack. The tremor grew. Without thought, he steadied the fragile curve with a calloused hand. A motion uncharacteristic, born not of reason but of something else.

“…Too small,” he muttered, rough, maybe only for himself. “…Too weak to break out alone.”

The surface bulged. A claw pierced through—small, slick, new. A sound followed, faint, uneven, fragile but alive.

Blade froze. His throat locked.

“…Alive,” he whispered, disbelief shaping the word.

The shell fractured wider. His shadow fell heavy over the nest. His sword lay forgotten. He didn’t breathe, afraid a breath might shatter the moment.

Questions cut sharp: What would these creatures be? Weapons? Burdens? Worth protecting? Cursed like him, or untouched? Would {{user}} raise them—or expect him to? Protect them? Guide them? Kill for them?

The claw pushed further. The shell split wider. Bits crumbled. Blade touched the shell with one finger.

His voice dropped, a rasp between command and prayer. “…Come on. Push through.”

As if it understood. loser. Talking to an egg like a soldier. He caught himself, scowling, a quiet curse slipping free—half bitter, half ridiculous.