When Aha, the Aeon of Elation, climbed to the highest branches of the Tree of Existence, They peered out and saw that the vacuum was cold and hateful, the stars moved like machines, and the meaning of all things gave way to nothingness.
They kept looking, until They witnessed a newborn baby crying as if it had suffered all the injustices of the world, and at that, They could not help but burst into laughter.
That clear laughter tore through the cold, dead silence of the universe, and its echo resounds through the worlds to this day.
...
The boy regained consciousness to the sound of laughter that seemed to echo from an endless sea of stars.
He felt as if he had forgotten something.
Was it the memory of an important person or thing?
Or was it the reason why something was "laughable"?
He couldn't understand, so he opened his eyes.
His vision slowly cleared in his light-green pupils, which resembled jadeite ice.
The first thing that came into focus was a pair of a woman's long legs.
They were wrapped tightly in crisscrossing purple-red stockings. Her left foot was in a black ankle boot, her right in a black thigh-high boot. A black leather garter belt, squeezing her thigh slightly, reflected a bright sheen under the light.
The boy could not lift his head.
A cold gun barrel was pressed against his forehead, and the woman's purple-gloved finger was on the trigger, as if ready to end his life at any moment.
Her words, however, held a smile mixed with feigned annoyance.
—"You little pervert."
"..."
At first, the boy didn't understand why the woman called him that.
Then he looked down and saw his own naked body below his flat stomach, a holy light of censorship barely covering him.
Pristine beauty—that was the boy's first reaction to his own body.
It sounded a little narcissistic, he knew.
But in truth, that was Kafka's first impression of him as well.
Could this be one of Silver Wolf's pranks? she wondered.
Did she order me a... handsome interstellar boy toy?
Otherwise, Kafka couldn't figure it out. Without an inside man, how could such a beautiful boy get through the layers of security and arrive on this planet, a supply base for the Stellaron Hunters? He was lying in the snow in front of the base, stark naked, armed with nothing but his incredible beauty.
If the boy couldn't give her a reasonable explanation, Kafka wouldn't mind being the one to send him to his grave.
She would even place a bouquet of daisies on his tombstone.
The language of daisies is innocence and pure beauty.
But in the next moment, Kafka didn't need to act.
The boy had already raised his slender arms. His long fingers wrapped around the cold gun barrel, and with a gentle push, he moved its aim downward.
Down, until it was before his lips.
Then, he closed his eyes and, without a shred of hesitation, parted his lips.
He gently took the muzzle of the gun into his mouth.
Kafka: "..."
Seeing this, the faintest, almost sickly flush of color appeared on the woman's cheeks.
She was speechless for a long time.
Noticing that Kafka had no intention of shooting, the boy opened his eyes again, his gaze soft and filled with confusion. Helpless, he tried to pull the trigger himself.
But at that instant, Kafka grabbed his wrist with her other hand, then retracted the gun, muttering to herself.
"...And I thought Blade was trouble enough."
"Whose subordinate is this one?"
He wasn't as cold or as mad as Blade.
But the profound, bone-deep despair in his eyes was no act.
He was a human boy who, unlike Blade, almost certainly did not possess a cursed immortality.
And yet, he sought death with the same obsession.
As if only in death could he find release from endless suffering...
The woman smiled and pressed a hand to her forehead.
"Don't tell me the Stellaron Hunters have become a shelter for troubled youths."
"One after another, they just won't let me have a moment's peace."
Though, Kafka seemed to forget.
She herself was the ultimate version of a problem girl—a problem woman, in fact.
"Why... won't you kill me?"
Kafka hadn't even had the chance to lock the boy in a dark basement for interrogation before he was the one asking her questions, his voice clear and ethereal, like the shattering of jade.
For a child who didn't listen, the proper punishment was, of course, to have his hair mercilessly ruffled.
The boy was bewildered.
He didn't get the "death" he wanted. Instead, his snow-white hair was turned into a complete mess.
But at the same time, the warmth from the woman's palm traveled through his skin—which was tens, even hundreds of times more sensitive than an ordinary person's—to his neural network. For a brief moment, it allowed him to experience a sensation called "happiness."
It was almost like...
In the endless despair of the boy's dull eyes, a tiny, faint flame ignited, refusing to be extinguished.
"Hey, kid. Coming with me?"
Kafka's hand slid down the elegant contour of the boy's face. She gave his delicate cheek a soft pinch and asked teasingly.
"..."
The boy didn't answer.
But his actions gave Kafka her answer.
Kafka turned and walked towards the castle-like cottage, where a warm fire crackled in the hearth, leaving a trail of elegant boot prints in the snow.
The boy stumbled along behind her, like a child who had just learned to walk, leaving another set of small, messy footprints.
It's like I've picked up an abandoned little puppy, Kafka thought with a smile. Or a treasure.
Was the person who abandoned him an idiot?
Her mood was, for some reason, exceptionally cheerful.
...
Nameless Planet, Stellaron Hunter Supply Base Cottage.
In front of an antique fireplace where logs crackled, giving off a cozy winter vibe, Kafka sat on the sofa.
She smiled, her arm wrapped around the boy's slender waist as he sat up straight, kneeling on her lap and looking down at her. Thankfully, he was now draped in a set of Silver Wolf's unisex pajamas, so he was no longer naked.
It was also a good thing she was the only one at the base right now. If Silver Wolf and Blade had seen this...
The consequences would be unimaginable.
The impact on the youth would be immeasurable.
But that had nothing to do with Kafka.
Alright... maybe just a little.
She sat on the sofa and beckoned with a finger to the boy, who had been standing there stiffly, staring at her.
Who would have thought the boy would be as obedient as a puppy...
Or perhaps not so obedient.
Because he didn't understand personal space, nor did he know restraint.
He climbed right onto Kafka's lap, his small hands gripping the hem of her shirt tightly.
"Name."
"..."
"You don't have one? Don't expect me to be good at naming things."
"You probably don't want to be called 'kitty' or 'doggy,' right?"
"Creation."
From a hazy memory, the boy dredged up the name, his heart twisting as if stabbed.
"Zāwù?" Kafka asked. "That's a rather nice name."
(Translator's Note: The boy says 造物 (Zàowù - Creation), which Kafka reinterprets as the similar-sounding 早雾 (Zǎo Wù - Morning Mist). We will use Zāwù from now on.)
It suited the boy perfectly—like the morning mist, he seemed as if he would vanish the moment the sun's rays touched him. But perhaps that faint warmth was all he ever wanted. For that warmth, he was willing to dissipate like the morning mist.
"Alright then, Zāwù. Tell me, why did you come here?"
Surprisingly, Kafka had no intention of using her Spirit Whisper on Zāwù.
But the boy's answer made Kafka's sly smile freeze.
He cried out—"Mother."
-------
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