God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 862

Chapter 862: Natural Born Sovereign
Kafka was starting to relax a bit, feeling like he just hit a expensive car without any insurance, only for the owner of the vehicle to be understanding and let him go.

But just as he was feeling so grateful that his mother could clean up any of mistakes and thinking that it’s nice to be a nepo baby—things took a turn for the worse.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, one of the goddesses screamed.

“Look! Look at the tree!”

He spun toward the towering giant that stretched high into the heavens. For a moment, he didn’t see what she meant, the tree was enormous, its crown disappearing into the clouds.

But then, as his eyes adjusted, the sight struck him like lightning.

Up near the upper branches, the vibrant emerald leaves, so lush and alive moments ago—were changing.

Their color dulled from deep green to a faint yellow, then to an eerie brown.

The edges began to curl inward, crumbling like paper.

“What…” He breathed, taking a step forward.

The rot spread fast.

Within seconds, the entire section was drying out, the once-lively canopy turning brittle and thin.

The shimmering aura that had always surrounded the tree dimmed, and the soft golden glow that radiated from its bark began to flicker like a dying flame.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd.

“The Tree of Origin…” Someone whispered. “It’s…decaying.”

“No, no, that’s impossible.” Another said in disbelief. “That tree has stood since the creation of the heavens—it can’t die!”

Kafka’s pulse pounded in his ears as he looked upward again.

But the rot wasn’t stopping.

The corruption spread down the trunk, faster than fire, faster than disease, until the great branches began to sag under their own weight.

The roots that wound through the garden groaned, cracking the soil beneath them as the life within them drained away.

Then, before anyone could react further, the leaves began to fall.

They didn’t flutter down like autumn leaves; they crumbled, disintegrating into gray dust before even touching the ground.

The heavenly tree—the same one that had been said to judge the potential of demigods for millennia—was dying before their eyes.

And then, with a final creak that echoed like thunder, the tree turned to dust. It collapsed in on itself, its towering form dissolving into nothingness.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Every god stood frozen.

Every demigod stared in stunned disbelief.

Even the music that had been softly playing somewhere in the distance had gone silent, as if the heavens themselves were mourning.

“The Tree of Origin…” one murmured. “Destroyed…”

“How…How could it vanish like that?”

“Was it…his doing?”

Kafka’s knees felt weak when he saw everyone staring at him.

“Oh no.” He whispered, voice trembling. “Oh no, no, no…”

He turned to his mother with wide eyes, panic etched across his face.

“Mom!” He said in a low, desperate tone. “Mom—we need to go. Right now! Before they pounce on me for what I’ve done!”

But in response, Vanitas only tilted her head, blinking once as though still processing what had happened.

“I-I can’t even apologize for this.” Kafka went on, tugging lightly at her hand. “They’re going to kill me, Mom! That tree’s older than half of them! We need to get out of here before someone—”

He glanced around at the surrounding gods.

Their faces were frozen in disbelief, their eyes darting between the pile of gray ash where the tree once stood and the young demi-god who had just made it vanish.

Kafka’s throat went dry.

“Y-Yeah.” He said shakily. “Before they all realize it was me.”

But once again, Vanitas didn’t answer.

She didn’t even look at him.

Her gaze was fixed ahead, locked onto the place where the sacred tree had stood moments ago, her expression shifting from shock to something strangely focused.

Her eyes, violet and ancient, shimmered faintly, as though she were seeing something beyond what anyone else could perceive.

“Mom? What are are looking at?” Kafka hesitated.

But then—her pupils widened, her lips parting in realization.

“Look, Kafka.” She said suddenly, her voice trembling—not with fear, but wonder. “Look over there…the tree—look at the tree!”

Kafka blinked, startled, before turning his head to where she pointed.

The rest of the gods, still murmuring and panicking, followed her gesture—and one by one, their eyes widened in disbelief.

Because floating in the air, where the colossal tree had stood moments ago, was something impossibly small and yet holy.

A seed.

A tiny, brown seed, hovering weightlessly amidst the fading dust and ashes. It pulsed faintly with light, like a heartbeat.

Kafka’s breath caught. “Is that…?”

Before anyone could answer—a faint crack echoed through the clearing.

The seed split open.

A fragile sprout then unfurled from within, glowing faintly as it descended toward the scorched earth.

The gods fell silent, watching as the sprout touched the ground—and then, in an instant, roots began spreading outward in all directions.

From that single point of contact, life burst forth.

Rumble!

The soil trembled. The roots grew like veins of light, burrowing deep, weaving through the earth. The sprout thickened into a stem, the stem into a trunk, bark forming layer after layer, expanding rapidly.

In mere seconds, the small sapling towered over them, swelling into a magnificent, ancient tree once more.

Its branches spread wide, lush with fresh green leaves.

The canopy stretched across the heavens again, reborn in all its glory.

Gasps filled the air.

“The tree…it’s growing again.” Whispered one goddess in awe.

“How can this be…?!” Said another. “It took eons for it to grow before…”

Their disbelief rippled through the crowd as the newly reborn tree continued to expand, powerful and majestic—

—until, in the blink of an eye, it was whole.

Kafka stood rooted to the ground, watching it all unfold, jaw slightly slack.

“It’s…back.” He murmured.

For a moment, relief washed over him.

The tree was alive again.

Maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t doomed an entire generation of gods after all.

He even allowed himself a shaky smile.

“Well…that’s good, right? It’s fine now. No harm done.”

But fate wasn’t done with him.

Because even as he said that, the leaves above began to tremble again.

At first, it was subtle—a faint discoloration spreading across the branches.

Then, in the span of a breath, the leaves began to rot.

Their green shimmer dulled into brown, curling at the edges, drying out completely.

The same deathly decay returned.

“What?! What’s happening again?!” Shouted one of the gods, pointing upward in horror.

Kafka’s stomach dropped as the same dreadful transformation replayed before their eyes.

The leaves crumbled into ash. The branches split and cracked. The trunk darkened, aged, and withered.

In mere seconds, the newly reborn tree collapsed into dust again, its ashes scattering into the air like mist.

And once more—silence.

Kafka stared, dumbfounded.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

But before he could say anything more, the air shimmered again—and from the same spot, a faint golden glow appeared.

The seed had returned.

“It’s…happening again.” Whispered a goddess, her voice trembling. “The seed…it’s rebirthing itself.”

And it did.

The seed cracked open once more, sprouting a new shoot.

The roots spread.

The trunk rose.

Branches grew.

Leaves bloomed.

And just like that it died again…before rising again.

…And again.

…And again.

…And again.

…And again.

The cycle repeated—beautiful, unstoppable, terrifying.

Growth. Decay. Rebirth.

The tree lived. The tree died. The tree lived again.

Over and over, the cycle of life and death played out before their eyes, faster and faster, until the entire sky seemed to flicker with green and gold, light and shadow, creation and destruction.

The gods whispered among themselves, their voices a chorus of disbelief.

“What kind of power is this…?”

“Is it a curse? A blessing?”

“This shouldn’t be possible—the Tree of Origin cannot die, let alone revive itself!”

Kafka felt his throat go dry, his eyes darting between the tree and his mother.

“Mom…” He said weakly. “I think…I think I broke reality.”

Vanitas, however, didn’t answer.

Her eyes were glowing faintly now. Her body didn’t move, but her mind clearly did.

He could feel it—thoughts racing, calculations firing, the weight of knowledge she alone carried pressing down on her.

“Mom, you’re scaring me.” He muttered, tugging gently at her sleeve again.

Still nothing.

Then, after several long minutes—minutes that stretched like eternity—Vanitas suddenly inhaled sharply.

The sound echoed through the clearing like the gasp of a being who had just glimpsed something beyond comprehension.

Her gaze then suddenly snapped toward Kafka.

But this time, she wasn’t looking at him as his mother.

There was no fondness, no humor, no warmth.

She looked at him like one might look at a creature that should not exist—a being too holy to belong to any world.

Her lips trembled before finally parting.

“…Kafka.” She whispered.

He blinked, uneasy. “Uh…yeah?”

“This…isn’t just some random reaction.” She said slowly, voice quivering with awe. “This phenomenon, what’s happening right now, it’s not normal. It. It’s the…”

“… the Tribulation of Life and Death.”

Hearing her whispered words, the entire gathering went silent and everyone turned to her with horrified gazes of disbelief.

Vanitas continued, her tone both reverent and fearful.

“It’s the same trial that only one being in existence has ever triggered. The same one I endured when I ascended to become the Sovereign of Life and Death. And now…”

Her eyes widened further.

“…you, of all people—you’ve just awakened that very tribulation inside the Tree of Origin.”

A collective gasp swept through the gods.

Whispers rippled across the divine assembly, like the rustling of leaves before a storm.

“Impossible…” One goddess stammered. “That trial is only meant for True Gods who are already on the brink of ascension—how can a demigod, or worse, a mortal-born, trigger it?”

“There’s no mistake! We all saw it, life and death cycling endlessly just like the ancient texts described!”

“Then…That means the boy, he…”

“He’s not ordinary.”

The whispers grew into a wave of awe and fear.

Every divine being present, no matter how proud, began to look at Kafka differently.

Their gazes, once filled with amusement, curiosity, and mild respect shifted into something else entirely.

Reverence.

Kafka, however, was horrified.

“O-Okay, time out! Why are you all looking at me like that? What’s going on? Mom, what do you mean by ‘tribulation’? And…” He gestured helplessly at the flickering tree. “…what exactly did I do?!”

Vanitas took a slow, heavy breath. Her composure had returned, but her voice still trembled slightly with awe.

“Kafka…” She said quietly. “Do you remember what I told you about the trials, the paths a demigod must walk before becoming divine?”

He nodded faintly. “Yeah…that only through a divine trial or ascension can someone reach the level of a true god.”

Her lips curved slightly. “Yes. But this is no ordinary trial. This is the one that surpasses them all, the tribulation of creation and destruction itself. It is said to test the fabric of life and death, to bend the cycle until it recognizes its master. I triggered it to reach the level I am now…” Her voice softened. “…and now, somehow, you have.”

Kafka’s eyes widened.

“But I’m not even a full demi-god yet, not to mention a True God. I-I don’t even know half the stuff you do!”

Vanitas chuckled softly, though it was hollow.

“Exactly. That’s what makes this…unprecedented.”

She glanced back toward the fading motes of dust where the tree had once stood.

“This tree was the arbiter of potential, the one thing in existence that could measure heavenly worth. And instead of measuring yours…” She turned back to him. “…it broke.”

“Broke?” He stared at her in disbelief.

She nodded slowly.

“You didn’t destroy it out of weakness, Kafka. You destroyed it because it couldn’t contain you.”

He froze, speechless.

“The tribulation appeared because the Tree recognized you not as a candidate.” She continued, her tone almost trembling with conviction. “But as a successor. The laws of the universe themselves are acknowledging you, Kafka. You’re not walking the same path as the others.”

Her smile returned, this time, faint and strangely proud.

“What I’m trying to tell you, my son, is this: unlike any of us—unlike any god before—you won’t need to ascend, or face a trial, or beg the cosmos for power.”

Vanitas stepped forward, her hand rising to touch his cheek. Her touch was gentle, but the weight of her words made him shiver.

“As long as you keep walking your path…you will become what I am. The Sovereign of Life and Death. The ruler of existence itself.”

She exhaled slowly, her mighty aura flaring behind her like fire.

“And one day…you will even surpass me.”