God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 867

Chapter 867: Why Does It Hurt So Much?
Seeing this, Kafka’s heart pounded in his chest, the air around him growing tighter with every passing second.

He watched as that man—his mirror image, his unwanted shadow—moved toward his mother, unhurried, confident, his eyes locked on her lips.

Kafka’s first instinct wasn’t complicated.

It wasn’t philosophical, or strategic.

He wanted to kill him.

Now.

Here.

With whatever he had.

Annihilate him so utterly that nothing of him would be left, not even a shape in the air where he’d once stood.

Because this, this moment, none of it would exist without him.

He was the axis on which this impossible tension turned. Without him, there would be no aching in Kafka’s throat, no torment blooming raw and deep in his heart.

Everything could return to the way it was before.

Smooth. Understandable. Rational.

But the thought didn’t even have time to properly take root before it shattered.

He realized if he moved—if he acted on that vicious, honest instinct—he would destroy more than just a man.

He would ruin her.

His mother. Vanitas.

She was a god, yes. But also the woman who had broken rules and upturned heavens, defied fate, rewritten possibility—all for him.

Every act, every twist of this terrifying drama, had been to shape a future where he would be happy. And if he ended that man now, her new anchor would be gone.

Her only support, her only outlet—wiped away.

The only person who had, somehow, understood the shape of her grief and the weight of her longing.

Kafka saw it clearly.

Without him, she’d spiral.

Slowly. Quietly at first…Her godhood wouldn’t shield her from madness.

She would smile too much.

Speak too little.

Her voice would strain in ways she didn’t notice.

She would touch his hair when he passed by, murmuring words meant for someone else.

And one day—without warning, she would break.

And the world with her.

So he couldn’t do the healthy thing. The rational thing.

He couldn’t pull the trigger, swing the blade, twist the neck, cast the spell.

He had to throw that plan away. Because killing the man might save the moment—but it would murder the future.

And so Kafka stood there, trembling with restrained fury, his power seething beneath his skin like molten fire.

The seconds ticked away—nine, eight, seven—while the other Kafka came closer and closer to Vanitas.

“What do I do?” Kafka whispered under his breath. His throat was dry, his voice barely audible. “What…What am I supposed to do…?”

He couldn’t strike. He couldn’t move. Every instinct screamed for violence, but every rational thought screamed against it.

The distance between the imposter and Vanitas grew smaller—six, five, four—and Kafka’s mind spiraled. His thoughts collided and tangled into one another, chaos swirling through him.

Until—

Until he remembered what the other him had said.

“Understand what you’re really afraid of.”

That had been the challenge.

Not to fight. Not to resist.

To understand his true feelings…The core of the storm inside.

Why he felt like this? Why he couldn’t stand to look at them? Why rage curled like smoke in his belly when he saw that man even glance at her?

Kafka then closed his eyes. Let the noise surge. Let the flood of thoughts wash over him—each a flash, a question, a shard:

Why does this hurt so much?

Why is this making me hate?

Why does this make me feel like something’s being taken from me?

Why does it feel like betrayal?

Why do I want her to stop?

Why did his heart twist so violently at the thought of another man touching her, even one who looked like himself?

It made no sense.

It was irrational.

It was wrong.

After all…What was happening was normal, wasn’t it?

Like, for example, when a mother loses her husband—when she becomes a widow—she grows lonely.

She needs companionship, affection, warmth.

It’s human. It was natural.

So if she finds someone else, if she falls in love again, the son should understand. He should want that for her.

And similarly, Vanitas deserved happiness.

Even if she was god, she was still a woman—a being capable of love, of desire, of needing someone to hold her.

And if that man could give her peace, then he should be happy for her.

That was what any mature, rational, loving son would think.

But then—

Why did it hurt so much?!

Why did it feel like his chest was being torn open just watching her look at someone else that way?

Why did he feel something—something sharp, ugly, consuming—twisting in the pit of his stomach every time he imagined that man’s hands on her?

Why did the very idea of her smiling at another man make his blood boil?

But even though he asked himself that question a million times, the truth was he already knew what that feeling was.

He knew…but he refused to believe it.

Because it was jealousy.

Pure unadultered jealously and possessiveness.

But jealousy was supposed to be reserved for lovers—not for a son and his mother.

That realization made his head spin.

It made no sense. He was supposed to see her as a mother—a guardian, a caretaker, a figure of motherly worship.

That’s how it had always been. That’s how it should have stayed.

And yet, here he was—possessive, angry, desperate.

Why did he feel this way?

Why did the mere sight of her with another man, even one who looked exactly like him, make his blood boil?

Why did the thought of her lips belonging to someone else make him want to destroy everything?

He clutched his head, trying to suppress the madness growing inside.

“Why…why am I like this…?” He whispered hoarsely.

He wanted to scream, to claw at his own mind, to tear out this twisted confusion that had taken root inside him.

But no matter how hard he tried to reason, he couldn’t. The emotions wouldn’t leave.

And then out of sheer pain he was going through he decided to look at the one place that he knew would soothe his suffering.

He looked at her…His mother.

And right now, Vanitas wasn’t looking at the other Kafka anymore.

She was looking at Kafka instead.

Her expression was soft yet troubled, her eyes glimmering with concern, confusion, and something deeper—something that made his heart ache.

For a brief second, the noise in his mind quieted.

And then, like a spark in the darkness—a memory flickered.

It was from just a few weeks ago.

A quiet evening, when they’d been talking casually—about life, about love, about dreams.

He remembered asking her, half-teasingly. “Mom, what’s your greatest desire?”

Vanitas had smiled then, thoughtful, her tone light.

“My greatest desire?” She’d repeated. “That’s easy. To have your child. That’s always been my greatest wish.”

He had groaned. “No, no, not that. I mean something other then that—something else you want, something you’d love to have. You should have some other desire right?”

She had tilted her head, thinking deeply, then laughed softly.

“Hmm…no, not really. I already have everything, don’t I? A wonderful son, a family, power, peace. I could have anything in the world if I wanted it. But…”

She had paused, her smile shifting, becoming almost shy, almost mischievous.

“…if there was one thing.” She’d murmured. “…one thing I’d want more than anything…”

“What is it?” Kafka had watched her curiously.

And she had laughed in excitement, her eyes shining.

“To marry you, Kafka!” She’d declared cheerfully. “I want to experience the human tradition of marriage—wear a beautiful bridal dress, walk down an aisle, and have you standing there with me.”

Hearing this absurd wish, he had stared at her, flustered, before groaning.

“Mom, come on, you can’t just say stuff like that.”

But she had only pouted, her tone playful but earnest.

“No, that’s really my wish. You asked, and I answered. That’s my second greatest desire in the entire universe.”

At the time, he had just sighed and laughed it off.

But now—

Now that memory hit him like lightning.

He saw her again in his mind—Vanitas in a flowing white bridal gown, pure and ethereal, the veil draped over her shimmering hair, the soft smile on her lips.

And then he imagined her standing at the altar—not beside him, but beside someone else.

Any other man. Any being. Any version of himself.

That image alone made his stomach twist, his chest clench, his jaw lock.

He could feel the rage, the envy, the despair all flooding back.

He hated it.

He hated it so much that he wanted to tear that image apart.

He wanted to destroy the world that allowed anyone else to stand by her side.

But when, just out of curiosity, he imagined himself there—himself in that place, beside her—and something strange happened.

The anger disappeared.

The jealousy faded.

And what replaced it was…peace.

A quiet, overwhelming peace.

His heart softened, the tension in his body melting away as he imagined holding her hand, seeing her smile at him, whispering his name with affection.

In that single moment, every ounce of pain and confusion inside him seemed to dissolve.

It felt right.

So right that it terrified him.

And then his eyes widened as the realization hit.

He…loved her.

Not just as a mother.

Not just as the woman who gave birth to him, held him, sheltered him from every storm and kissed his forehead while the cosmos burned outside.

He loved her as a woman.

A woman who had smiled for him, cared for him, protected him, coddled him, teased him, loved him—so wholly, so intensely—that somewhere along the line, his heart had learned to beat for her in a way it shouldn’t.

And he didn’t know when it started.

Maybe it had always been there, buried beneath layers of “shouldn’t” and “can’t” and “never.”

Maybe it had started when she teased him in the bath, asking to join in.

Or maybe it bloomed when she began pressing her body a little too close during naps, wrapping her arms and legs around him, breathing so softly against his neck.

Maybe it was in the way she let kisses linger, or the way her gaze lingered when she thought he wasn’t watching.

But now, he realized it was never her that frightened him.

It was himself.

Because he had fallen for her—slowly, inevitably—and he had never noticed until now.

And standing there, heart pounding, jealousy and longing twisting together in his chest, Kafka whispered to himself the truth he could no longer deny:

‘I’m in love with her.’

‘I’m in love with my own mother.’