Twenty-Five: Divine Plush...

“Huh? Oh—yeah, you could say that.” Star Canvas blinked, starlight flickering in her eyes like dew on glass. “Didn’t your dragon tutors cover this?”

“What exactly?” Lilith’s doubt rose like mist. Back as a human, her captain loved to ramble on the road; before the army he’d been a priest, a pillar of theology. The System would drop mini-lectures like pebbles into a pond. So her theology wasn’t bad. In the Dragon Territory, she hadn’t chased more doctrine. Her heart had already anchored to Lord Icarus, like a small boat moored under a moon.

“Dragons are born in two parts.” Star Canvas saw the Little White Dragon drawing blanks, and cleared her throat. “On the continent, dragons mate and bring forth flesh. But true life needs a soul. That soul is handed down by a god—by me, personally born. So dragons are children of the gods—at the level of the soul, like rain falling into seed.”

“But I don’t reproduce asexually,” she went on, voice calm like winter water. “There are so many dragons. Before, I had them with other gods in the Divine Realm. Nature’s Goddess has kids everywhere; your earth dragons tie to her more or less. And yes, I slept with her.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, like a river cutting earth.

The Little White Dragon felt the words snag like thorns. If that’s how it is, doesn’t that mean anyone in the pantheon can crawl into her bed? Wouldn’t that make Star Canvas a—

“Do all the gods have children with you?” Lilith picked the safest path, heart clenched like a folded fan.

“Not all.” Star Canvas sighed, a cloudy breeze through pines. “A few—like my two moms—insist on pure love. But most gods aren’t hung up on mortal ethics. So people bring me along when they sleep with their lovers, then toss a soul down to the earth the next morning.” Her voice carried a faint ache, like a violin string under rain; being dragged from arm to arm wasn’t exactly bliss.

“Then you’re basically… a plush…” The Little White Dragon pointed at her, hand half-covering her mouth. The shock fluttered like a startled sparrow.

“Don’t say it.” Star Canvas went red, slapping a hand over Lilith’s lips. Her teeth clicked like frost. She whispered at Lilith’s ear, breath cool as night, “Don’t speak that word. Let me keep a shred of dignity. Or I’ll let you taste what I live with every day.”

“Mmph!” The Little White Dragon shook her head so hard her braid swayed like a willow. Even her tail knew what Star Canvas endured; better a quick death than that.

“No nonsense. Got it?” Star Canvas murmured two more threats at her ear, then let her go. Freedom rushed in like a gulp of spring air.

Lilith drew breath, chest fluttering like a sparrow’s. She lifted her eyes to Star Canvas. “Then… who’s my other mother—or father?”

To her surprise, Star Canvas didn’t answer. She fidgeted, fingers twisting like vines.

“Well… uh…”

“Is it inconvenient? If you can’t tell me, I won’t ask.” Lilith saw the squeeze of trouble on her face and figured her identity might be special. Maybe the truth wasn’t easy to share. She wasn’t chasing mom-love here. Her real parents lived in another world, and her childhood was a warm hearth. This question was curiosity, a cat peeking behind a screen.

“It’s not that I can’t… It’s that I don’t know.” Star Canvas spoke, shy as dawn slipping through fog.

“Huh?” Lilith froze, thoughts skidding like a cart on ice. “Why? You’d know who had me with you.”

“Because that night, the Divine Realm threw a small feast.” Star Canvas’s brow pinched; memory came in gusts. “A bunch of gods showed up to revel. After wine and food, they climbed into bed, five or six of them, and pressed me in the middle like tides on a reef. How would I know which one’s your other parent?” She threw up her hands, like a crane startled. “I blacked out before midnight. Next morning, boom—another daughter.”

“And you’re different from the others,” she added, the words landing heavy as stones. “Before, I birthed souls. You’re the only one born as flesh. It was my first labor. It hurt like hell—like thunder tearing mountains.”

“S-sorry.” The Little White Dragon hunched her shoulders, apology small as folded wings. “So I’m not like other dragons? Then my soul…”

“Came from another world.” Star Canvas’s gaze steadied, like moonlight on a lake. “I asked the God of Souls and the God of Passage. They picked someone whose fate was ending in an alien world, drew that soul, and set it into the body I birthed. That’s how you arrived.”

“But I was gaming, happy and fine.” Confusion rose like fog. “How was my fate ending?”

“It’s complicated. Your old world wasn’t as simple as you think.” Star Canvas lifted a finger, solemn as a temple bell. “Prediction said: next match, your aim would be too good. You’d blow away someone with real powers. He’d get mad, trace you through the cable with his ability, short your PC, and the shock would kill you.”

“Ah?” Lilith’s jaw fell, stunned like a fish caught in sunlight. Her world flipped like a table.

Who kills the other side with superpowers because they lose a game?

“So in that world… I’m dead?”

“You are.” Star Canvas softened, voice a warm shawl. “If you want, you could go back. But not as your old self.”

The Little White Dragon sank into thought, mind a slow river. She didn’t mind this world. Here, she’d found new friends, met mentors worthy of a bow, gained a family, and found someone she liked. But her original world held the family of ten-plus years. She could never abandon them. Her heart tied itself in knots like long grass in wind.

If she’s already dead there, is going back truly good?

“If you can’t find the answer, set it aside.” Star Canvas saw doubt pooling like rainwater. She patted Lilith’s shoulder, light as falling leaves. “Sometimes thinking alone won’t solve it. Better to walk and see. Experience more. The answer may float up like a carp breaking water. And right now, Lamter’s about to see something big. It may help you.”

“What thing?” Lilith tilted her head, curiosity bright as a lantern.

“Not telling. It’s a secret.” Star Canvas grinned, sly as a fox, and pressed a finger to her lips. “If you want it, go hunt it yourself. You’ll be in Lamter for a while. After the Coining Festival ends, it should happen. You’ll know then.”

“I hate riddlers.” Star Canvas’s tease swept away her gloom like wind through clouds, leaving only wholesome annoyance.

“Alright, time you head back.” Star Canvas flicked her bare wrist, as if reading time from the night sky. “Can’t keep you too long, or the continent’s folks will start worrying.”

“So you came just to tell me I’m dead over there?”

“Of course not.” She made a face: What a question. “I came to see my cute daughter. You’re the first child whose body I birthed. I had to look closely—like a gardener inspecting a first bloom.”

“Then I should say thanks. Thanks for a second life.” Lilith meant it. The truth that she’d died before still felt unreal, like snow on a summer day. She’d lived here four years. These memories were solid; those—back there—felt more like dreams drifting. Her not-so-bright head tangled further. She shook it, like a puppy shaking off rain, and tossed the knotted thoughts behind her. “One last question.”

“What?” Star Canvas tilted her head the same way Lilith did, a mirror under sunlight.

“What’s Tartarus to me?”

“A nanny?”