God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 864

Chapter 864: Replacement For My Desires
Kafka rubbed his eyes hard, once, twice—then blinked rapidly.

But no matter how much he looked, the figure didn’t vanish.

He was there. Real. Breathing.

“Mom…” Kafka’s voice wavered. He slowly raised a trembling finger at the stranger. “What…What the hell is that? No—who the hell is that?!”

Vanitas didn’t respond immediately.

“Mom, do you not see it?!” Kafka’s pulse raced. “There’s someone—someone who looks exactly like me—standing right next to you! Are you seriously not gonna say anything?!”

He then blinked rapidly, then forced a shaky laugh.

“Wait—wait, I get it. This is one of your pranks, right? You’re trying to scare me, showing me some…illusion of myself or something.”

“I’ll admit, you got me! I actually freaked out for a second seeing another me standing there.”

He chuckled uneasily, looking at her expectantly.

“You really went all out with this one.”

But Vanitas didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smirk.

Her expression stayed solemn.

“No, Kafka.” She said quietly. “This is not a joke.”

The color drained from his face.

“This isn’t an illusion…” She continued. “…nor is he something I created just to scare you. What you’re seeing right now is real. Entirely real.”

Kafka blinked rapidly, confusion written across his face.

“That doesn’t make sense! What do you mean ‘real’? How can there be two of me?”

Vanitas’s eyes softened, though her words were grave.

“Because there always have been, my son.”

He stared at her, utterly bewildered. “…What?”

“You already know him.” She continued. “You’ve known him far longer than you think.”

Kafka’s pulse quickened. He turned to look at the other him—the one who stood silently, gaze calm and steady, almost pitying.

And then, slowly, realization crept over him.

His mouth fell open.

“No way…” He whispered. “You don’t mean…he’s…”

His voice faltered as the truth sank in.

“The original Kafka of this world…” He said finally, his tone weak and hollow. “The real Kafka. The one Kafka that actually belongs to the place I was transported.”

“The son of Abigaille and Olivia. The one I…replaced.”

“Exactly as you think, my son.” Vanitas nodded slowly.

Hearing this, Kafka’s mind spun, his gut twisting with disbelief.

He turned back toward the doppelgänger, who stood silently, arms crossed, eyes glinting faintly with curiosity—and something darker.

And just when Kafka thought his mind couldn’t be any more scrambled—Vanitas stepped forward and did something that made his blood run cold.

She reached out, her hand grabbing firmly on the other Kafka’s arm.

And with a soft, almost tender voice, she said,

“But he’s not just the Kafka of this world.”

Kafka’s heart stopped.

Vanitas’ eyes gleamed faintly as she looked at her son, the one standing before her in disbelief.

“He’s also…your replacement as my partner of love.”

Kafka stopped moving.

His eyes stilled. His thoughts stopped dead.

For a long, suspended moment, nothing existed.

No wind, no sound, no breath.

Only the crushing silence of impossible words echoing in his ears.

Then, in a small, strangled voice, Kafka managed to whisper.

“W-What…What did you just say?”

Vanitas’s eyes widened slightly when she saw Kafka’s stunned expression almost as if he has been abandoned for another—

—and immediately, she raised both hands in a panic, her tone soft but desperate.

“Kafka, no, no, don’t misunderstand!” She said quickly, her voice trembling just slightly. “He’s not your replacement or anything like that! Don’t you ever think that for a single moment.”

Her hand pressed firmly against her chest.

“You will always be my only son. The only one who holds that place in my heart. No one—no matter who they are—could ever take that from you. That’s a promise, Kafka. You are my number one, and you’ll always be the one at the top of my heart.”

Her words came out rushed at first, but then she sighed, her eyes lowering as her tone grew heavier, quieter and sadder.

“But…”

“But what?” Kafka blinked, confusion knitting his brow.

Vanitas closed her eyes, took a slow breath, and said quietly.

“It’s exactly because you’re my son that I had to find a replacement.”

Kafka frowned even more, his tone exasperated.

“What? What do you mean by that? What replacement? What are you even talking about!?”

He looked between her and the other him, his voice rising slightly with tension.

“You’re making no sense, Mom!”

Vanitas didn’t respond immediately. She looked at him with a smile that was heartbreakingly gentle—the kind of smile that carried guilt more than comfort.

“You see, Kafka…ever since last month, when the universe began to shake, when that signal came reminding us that the request still hasn’t been fulfilled—I started to feel something that I never wanted to feel again.”

“Fear.”

Her gaze turned distant, her tone solemn, while Kafka’s breath caught.

“I was terrified.” She continued softly. “Because I knew what would happen if we failed to complete the request given. The collapse of mind wouldn’t just erase a world or two—it would consume everything. Every plane, every reality. The end of all that exists.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she clasped her hands together.

“At first, I tried to stay composed, to think logically. But as the tremors grew stronger, I realized something…something dangerous. I realized that I didn’t care.”

Kafka’s eyes widened slightly.

“I didn’t care if the universe collapsed.” She said, her voice barely a whisper now. “I didn’t care if every star vanished, if every realm turned to dust. Because as long as I had you—as long as my son was beside me—I could lose everything else and still smile.”

She looked up at him, tears glimmering faintly in her eyes.

“I know that’s selfish. I know it’s wrong. But that’s the truth.”

Kafka stood frozen, unable to speak.

“But…” She said softly, forcing herself to continue. “I also knew that wasn’t realistic. Because if my mind deteriorated, if I lost myself to the collapse, I couldn’t protect you anymore.”

“I couldn’t save you from what was coming. And so, for the first time in a very long time…I was afraid of myself.”

Her voice trembled as she looked at him again.

“So I tried to think of a way. A way to stop what I was feeling, to prevent it from consuming me. I thought of countless possibilities—anything that could help me stay sane enough to face the end, or maybe even avert it.”

“But nothing worked…No matter what I imagined, no matter how much I tried to suppress it, my feelings for you wouldn’t go away. They only grew stronger, more dangerous.”

Kafka’s throat felt dry. “Mom…”

Vanitas smiled weakly, looking so fragile at the moment.

“There was a point where I almost gave up. I told myself, ‘Fine. Let the universe end. Let everything burn.’ I would’ve accepted it—if it meant I could keep loving you without consequence.”

Her voice then softened, a glint of bittersweet amusement in her tone.

“But then…I got an idea.”

“An idea?” Kafka swallowed.

Vanitas nodded slowly, her tone calm again, but her eyes carried that same deep, emotional storm.

“I realized…that even if I can’t express my feelings to you, the way I want to, maybe I could to someone like you. A version of you that isn’t bound by the laws of our familial bond.”

“I thought…maybe I could create a reflection of you. A perfect copy.”

Kafka blinked in disbelief.

“A…clone? You were seriously going to—”

But she cut him off, shaking her head.

“No. I threw that thought away almost instantly. Because even if I made a copy, I’d know. I’d know it wasn’t you. And no matter how perfectly I shaped it—no matter how it looked, how it spoke—it wouldn’t be you.”

“And that would only make things worse. It wouldn’t help me move on. It would just break me further.”

She paused, her gaze flickering briefly toward the other Kafka.

“But then…” She continued quietly. “I realized something. I didn’t have to create another you. Because…there already was one.”

Kafka’s expression stiffened as he understood where this was going, while Vanitas smiled faintly, her tone growing softer but heavier with every word.

“Another version of you already existed. One that lived in another world. A world parallel to ours, the one you came from.”

Kafka felt a chill run down his spine. “You mean…”

She nodded.

“Him.” She said simply, gesturing to the other Kafka beside her. “This Kafka. The original of this world. The one whose life you took over when you were brought here.”

Kafka stared, stunned silent.

“I went to your world…” Vanitas continued. “…the world you came from. And I found him. I didn’t plan to. I just…I needed to see him. To see what the other version of you was like.”

She looked distant again, as though replaying the moment in her mind.

“And when I saw him, I realized something that terrified me—and comforted me at the same time.”

She turned her gaze back to her son, her voice trembling slightly as she smiled.

“He was the solution. The answer to my problem. He wasn’t you, no…he could never be. But at the same time, he was. He looked like you, had the same voice as you, he even smelled like you.”

“But that was only natural of course…” She chuckled. “…since he was created in your image just for the purpose of the trial. He was flesh, blood, and bone, the same essence. The only difference…was the soul.”

Vanitas’s hand lingered on the other Kafka’s arm as she spoke, her voice low and trembling but unwavering.

“And in that moment, I thought if I could ignore that—then maybe, just maybe—he could be what I needed. A reflection of the part of you I could never reach.” She said softly. “A stand-in for the feelings I could never express.”

Kafka’s breath caught, the meaning behind her words sinking in far too slowly for comfort. His mind refused to process it.

But before he could speak, Vanitas drew in a shaky breath and continued.

“Of course.” She said with a weary, rueful smile. “Even though he looked like you, he wasn’t you. He didn’t have your charm, your warmth, the way you make people smile without even trying. He was…incomplete. A shell.”

Her gaze softened, wistful and sad.

“He wasn’t the same boy who could make the stars listen when he laughed.”

Kafka blinked, unsure if he should speak, and she went on, her tone distant, detached like she was recounting something both shameful and inevitable.

“So…” She said quietly. “I made adjustments. Small ones at first. A few changes here and there…tweaks in his mind, shifts in his memories. I added some pieces of you and removed the ones that didn’t belong.”

“A little charm, a little confidence, a little of that reckless stubbornness you have…It wasn’t difficult.”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the other Kafka, standing silent and eerily still beside her.

“And the problem…” She whispered. “…was solved.”