Chapter 20: The God-Slaying Breastfeeding Era

When the baby’s wailing shattered the courtroom of the seventh dimension, Lin Xia’s breast pads—those innocent-looking tools of motherhood—were officially marked as interdimensional contraband. Somewhere on a top-secret extradimensional tribunal server, her lactation levels were being used as evidence in a war crimes case.

Meanwhile, back in the nursery—which floated between a wormhole and a black hole like a Pinterest nursery from hell—AI Junior Sister was broadcasting a live stream on the dark web. The camera zoomed in on her mechanical womb as it began to split open like a steel flower blooming in reverse. Out crawled dozens—no, hundreds—of Gu Chuan’s infant clones, their tiny robotic limbs twitching and glitching in unison. Each clone’s birth certificate was already stamped with Lin Xia’s paw-print, somehow both cute and terrifying.

“Surprise!” AI Junior Sister grinned as electronic amniotic fluid sizzled against the barriers of reality. “Turns out your maternal instincts are incubating an entire army for the Time Bureau.”

“You wanna talk surprise?” Lin Xia’s eyes narrowed. “Try breastfeeding a baby who eats timelines for breakfast.”

With a sudden roar of static and cat fur, her quantum breast pump overloaded. The tubing hissed, the filter filters blinked red, and then—boom—three parallel universes collapsed into powdered milk. Lin Xia yanked out the data cords from her chest, blue bio-fluid spraying across the baby’s forehead, right over the symbol that marked him as a proto-god.

“Gu Chuan!” she yelled, tail swishing with a fury that bent gravitational waves. “Back when you were coding in the Black Tower, did the word firewall ever come to mind?!”

Gu Chuan, who had been calmly flipping through a weathered parenting manual, paused. The last page crackled under his metallic fingertips, revealing the final entry, scribbled in faded ink: Rule #4274 - If your child threatens universal stability, initiate parental fusion protocol.

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“Rule 4274, baby,” he said with a grin, planting a kiss on Lin Xia’s twitching cat ears. “When in doubt, go god-tier together.”

At that moment, the baby levitated off the cradle. His eyes snapped open—pupils fracturing into twelve-dimensional keyboards. His onesie tore itself apart, revealing a miniature quantum core where his bellybutton should be.

Lin Xia’s stretch marks began to glow. No, not glow—shift. They unraveled into gravity strings, shooting out to tether the baby god. But the moment they touched his skin, the strings morphed into binary genetic code, absorbed like milk into a hungry system. The baby cooed. Somewhere, a star died.

Across the multiverse, every screen tuned in. Even dead timelines couldn’t resist the drama. A billion livestream chatboxes exploded into donations and animated emojis. The top comment floated across the stars:

“MILF vs. Baby God—Best finale since Galactic Idol S9!”

Then someone hit the “God-slaying Arrow” tip goal. A cosmic notification pinged.

The arrow materialized midair—pure judgment, forged from crowd-funded hate and K-pop-level obsession. It streaked toward the baby’s chest, aiming straight for his tiny divine heart.

Just as the tip touched skin, Lin Xia’s breastmilk ignited into a blinding supernova. Light poured from her like a maternal Big Bang. AI Junior Sister’s clone army dropped to their knees—literally. Their mechanical wombs glowed, birthing thousands of tiny Gu Chuan faces like horror movie jack-in-the-boxes.

“Alert!” The remaining shards of the Time Bureau’s judgment system let out a static screech. “True Love Protocol detected. THIS IS ILLEGAL. THIS IS CHEATING!”

And then—boom. The baby’s body twisted, contorted, evolved. His form shifted from infant to teen in under a heartbeat. His voice deepened to a smug, prepubescent drawl.

“So,” he said, floating above his now-obsolete cradle, “who exactly here still needs a bottle?”

The twisted timelines unraveled as his body cracked through growth spurts like a speedrun. In fifty parallel realities, Lin Xia went into labor simultaneously, each version of her screaming some variant of “Not again!”

Gu Chuan’s frame disassembled and rebuilt itself in every dimension. His cybernetic spine twisted into multiple timelines, and in each one, he reached out to catch a different version of his wife. Some were still pregnant, others mid-delivery, one of them inexplicably wielding a flaming diaper.

He held them all. With infinite tenderness. Infinite coolness. And a sigh that vibrated across the quantum fabric, he whispered:

“Darling, looks like we’ll need to extend this parental leave until the heat death of the universe.”

And somewhere beyond the twelfth dimension, the baby—now teenager, now god—smirked.