God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 840

Chapter 840: Brain Vs Brawn

Abigaille had just finished fussing over Evangeline when her expression shifted. Her eyes narrowed, the warmth fading into suspicion, and she placed her hands on her hips like a mother catching her child sneaking cookies before dinner.

“Alright, Kafka.” She said slowly, tilting her head. “Why exactly did you come up here?”

He blinked, feigning innocence, though the smirk tugging at his lips ruined the act.

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Abigaille pointed a finger at him. “I can tell by that look on your face, you’re up to something sneaky again. You’ve got that ‘I’m planning mischief’ look. So go on, what’s your real reason for coming here?”

“Heh. You really do know me the best, Mom.” Kafka chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Of course I do.” Abigaille replied, crossing her arms proudly. “Now spit it out.”

His grin widened. “Well…let’s just say I woke up this morning with a bit of a…problem.”

Abigaille’s brows furrowed. “A problem?”

He nodded solemnly. “A rather pressing one.”

She frowned, genuinely puzzled. “What kind of problem?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he simply looked down.

Both Abigaille and Evangeline instinctively followed his gaze, first at him, then down toward the unmistakable ‘problem’ outlined beneath his loose shirt and trousers.

Evangeline immediately rolled her eyes and turned away, her face unreadable except for the faintest twitch of her lips. Abigaille, meanwhile, sighed deeply, one hand rising to her forehead, though the faint blush creeping up her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment.

“Really, Kafka?” She said at last, exasperated but still gentle. “How childish can you be?”

Kafka just laughed softly, shrugging.

“What? I figured I’d come to my two most trusted women for help.” His eyes glinted mischievously. “You know, the offer’s open for either of you. Or both. I don’t mind sharing.”

That earned him a glare from Evangeline so cold it could have frozen a volcano mid-eruption.

“Unless you want to be blasted into another universe, you’d better not say another word.” She said flatly.

Kafka raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, fine.” Then he turned back to Abigaille, smirking. “But what about you, Mom? Come on, it won’t take long. Just a little help, that’s all.”

“Sure, sure, that’s what you always say!” She groaned, shaking her head while still half-laughing. “‘It’ll only take a few seconds, Mom.’ But then somehow you end up dragging me into the room for half the day!”

He chuckled. “That’s not my fault, you just make it impossible to stop halfway.”

Abigaille gave him a look that was half exasperation, half embarrassment before saying, “No, Kafka. Not today. I’m busy, see? I’m helping Evangeline out with her babies.”

Kafka blinked, tilting his head. “…Babies?”

Abigaille smiled proudly and motioned toward the cluster of pots beside them. “Yep! Meet Legosis, Clementine, Aurantis, and Solara.”

“Wait—what?” Kafka’s brow furrowed.

Evangeline stood straighter, her voice calm but carrying that quiet edge of authority she always had. “They’re our plants.” She said simply.

“You…named them?” Kafka blinked again, utterly lost.

Abigaille beamed. “Of course we did! Look, this one…” She pointed at a small sapling with delicate orange-tinged leaves. “…is Legosis. He’s the strong one, always growing straight toward the sun. Then there’s Clementine, she’s a little smaller but her scent is the sweetest. Aurantis has the brightest color, it’s almost gold. And Solara…well, she’s our diva. She only likes morning sun and throws a fit if it’s cloudy.”

Kafka stared at her, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. “You’ve officially lost it. They’re plants, Mom. Not pets.”

“What do you mean, ‘not pets’?” Evangeline scoffed audibly, crossing her arms. “They’re living beings, Kafka. They breathe, they respond, they grow, they deserve the same respect as any creature.”

She pointed sharply at each pot in turn.

“Not to mention they are all different species, each with unique traits that deserve their own names. Aurantis, for instance, is a hybrid between the sun-bloom variety and the golden grove. Clementine is of the soft-skin species, delicate but rich in sweetness. Legosis is the mountain-bred one, tougher bark, more resilient to weather. Solara…well, she’s just special.”

Kafka blinked, utterly baffled. “You’re seriously describing lemons like they’re your children.”

“Oranges.” Evangeline corrected without missing a beat. “And yes. They are my children. Children I will squeeze and drink when they grow up ”

“See, Kafi?” Abigaille giggled, brushing dirt from her fingers. “You could learn something about nurturing from her.”

“Unbelievable.” Kafka groaned, rubbing his temples. “At this rate, she’s going to turn orange from all the juice she drinks.”

That earned him another icy glare from Evangeline, who replied coolly. “Better orange than shameless.”

“Alright, alright, fine! You two win.” He laughed, holding his hands up in defeat. “So I take it you’re both refusing to help me with my…’problem’ then?”

Both women looked at him flatly.

Abigaille gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Kafi. Not today.”

“Fine, fine. But don’t regret it later.” He sighed dramatically and turned around.

“Bye-bye, Kafi~!” Abigaille sang cheerfully, waving at him. “Breakfast’s already made, it’s in the kitchen. Go fill your stomach instead of your ego, my baby boy!”

Kafka could only shake his head and wave lazily as he left, their laughter and chatter fading behind him.

As he descended the stairs, he caught a glimpse of them again through the open terrace door, Abigaille crouched beside Evangeline, both of them animatedly discussing the soil moisture and the ‘mood’ of the plants, as if they were discussing actual children.

Kafka couldn’t help the amused sigh that escaped him.

‘Once upon a time.’ He thought. ‘Mom would’ve dropped everything to coddle me. Always hovering, always fussing, always ready to spoil me at a moment’s notice.’

Now she barely gave him a moment before shooing him away with a smile—and oddly enough, he didn’t resent it.

It made him both proud and a little wistful. Proud, because she seemed so happy, she had friends, a family, people who filled her days with joy. But also a little sad…because he missed being the one she spoiled most.

Still, he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

Just as the thought passed his mind—a sharp thud echoed through the house, followed by another, and a muffled shout. The rhythmic smack-smack of blows being exchanged came from outside.

Kafka’s grin immediately returned. “Oh, I know that sound.”

He followed it down the hall, sliding open the glass door that led to the garden, and was immediately greeted by quite the sight.

The sight of Olivia and Nina exchanging blows with one another.

Both were clad in tight sports shorts and small tops that clung to them with every motion.

Nina’s long, athletic frame moved like a dancer’s, her toned arms and subtle abs gleaming with sweat under the sunlight.

But Olivia was nothing like Nina, her body was plump, overflowing with curves that her tight clothes could barely restrain. Her top strained to hold her massive breasts, round and heavy as watermelons, bouncing wildly with every step until it looked like the fabric might snap.

Her shorts clung to her wide hips and juicy buttocks, the sway of her movements almost as powerful as her punches.

Each twist sent ripples through her body, flesh in motion, a rhythm impossible to ignore. Kafka couldn’t help but watch—half in awe, half in disbelief, that so much softness could carry such force.

The two of them were sparring, a blur of kicks and dodges, their laughter and breathless shouts blending with the crisp morning air.

And Kafka leaned against the doorframe, watching as Nina and Olivia moved across the garden, their bodies glistening with sweat under the soft golden light. It was like watching two entirely different forces of nature collide, and yet somehow, they balanced each other perfectly.

Nina moved first, her bare feet kicking off the stone with explosive power. Her punches were blindingly fast, sharp arcs of motion that cut through the air with audible whooshes.

Every swing of her arm carried strength that could probably shatter bone if it landed clean. Her tall, athletic frame twisted and pivoted with feral energy, the muscles in her abdomen rippling as she drove forward, relentless.

But Olivia didn’t retreat, she pivoted.

Her movements were smaller, tighter, more controlled. She didn’t waste motion; she redirected it.

When Nina’s fist came toward her ribs, Olivia angled her body just enough to let it graze past her shirt.

When a kick swept toward her side, she dipped and countered with a light jab that tapped against Nina’s stomach.

Kafka couldn’t look away. The contrast was fascinating, Nina, all fire and instinct, her blows full of brute force and speed, while Olivia was calm water, deflecting, flowing, using leverage and timing over strength.

It was a battle of passion against discipline.

Sweat glistened on their skin, catching the light like morning dew. Nina’s face was alight with excitement, her sharp teeth flashing every time she grinned mid-swing, clearly enjoying herself.

Olivia, though focused, couldn’t hide her own small smile, a quiet, satisfied curve of her lips as she analyzed each movement, predicting Nina’s rhythm with uncanny precision.

But despite how fierce it looked, it wasn’t anger that drove them.

There was no resentment in their strikes, no hostility, just the shared exhilaration of challenge.

This was their morning ritual, a kind of unspoken language between them, a mutual respect forged through fists and sweat.

Kafka remembered how it started.

Nina had always been like this, even when she was younger, she was the kind of girl who never backed down. A tomboy to the core, wild and untamed.

She used to fight the neighborhood boys, sometimes for fun, sometimes because they’d said something stupid, but mostly because she could.

She’d always had something to prove, always eager to test herself, to see how far she could push. Fighting wasn’t violence to her, it was expression, energy, joy.

Olivia, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more different. She’d always been quiet, studious, the kind of woman who preferred books to confrontation.

But during her college years, she’d joined a martial arts club out of curiosity, and fallen in love with it.

Not for the thrill of the fight, but for the discipline, the history, the flow of movement. She admired the philosophy behind every technique, the poetry hidden within combat.

And that unlikely overlap, Nina’s raw enthusiasm and Olivia’s refined understanding, was what had brought them together.

They’d started sparring out of curiosity, but before long, it had become something deeper. A ritual. A way to connect.

For Nina, this was the only real outlet she had. She couldn’t spar with Camila, she’d end up breaking something fragile, and Abigaille would panic if a single scratch appeared on her arm.

Evangeline would just vaporize her with a glare, and Bella…well, Bella was too delicate for that kind of thing.

But Olivia, Olivia could take it.

She was quick, practiced, and precise enough that Nina didn’t have to hold back completely.

For once, she didn’t have to treat her partner like glass. She could throw real punches, real kicks, without the guilt of worrying she’d hurt someone. And that freedom thrilled her.

Olivia, too, found something she didn’t expect.

Normally, people like Nina intimidated her. Bold, brash, loud, she never knew how to respond to that kind of personality.

But Nina wasn’t like most people.

She never mocked Olivia’s quietness, never scolded her shyness, never made her feel small for not being outspoken. Instead, she dragged Olivia along, gently, stubbornly, insisting she could keep up.

And, surprisingly, Olivia could.

It had taken time, but now the two moved together seamlessly.

Nina lunged again, sweeping her leg in a roundhouse kick. Olivia ducked low, caught Nina’s ankle mid-motion, and twisted, forcing Nina to hop backward to keep her balance.

“Not bad!” Nina barked, grinning, straightening her back.

“You’re overcommitting.” Olivia replied evenly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re also using too much power. You’d lose your center of gravity if I’d followed through.”

“Maybe.” Nina countered with a smirk. “But you’re leaving your left side open every time you shift back.”

They circled each other again, both smiling now, both too caught up in their rhythm to notice Kafka’s amused watching.

Their personalities couldn’t have been more opposite, yet in this shared space, they fit perfectly.

Nina admired Olivia’s intellect, the way she spoke with such quiet confidence when explaining a stance or a technique, the sharp mind behind her calm expression.

Nina had never been the ‘smart one’ and she knew it, but she respected intelligence deeply. Camila and Olivia were both examples of that kind of brilliance, and she adored them for it.

Meanwhile, Olivia envied Nina’s confidence.

That fearless way she carried herself, how she could say or do whatever she wanted without hesitation. To Olivia, who’d spent much of her life second-guessing herself, Nina’s boldness was magnetic.

The two of them had found balance in each other, muscle and mind, storm and calm.

And Kafka, watching from the door, couldn’t help but grin wider.

Each blow, each dodge, each burst of laughter between them was like a living testament to the family he’d somehow built.

They weren’t fighting because they had to. They were fighting because they wanted to. Because they trusted each other.

And as Nina’s laughter rang through the garden, sharp and bright, and Olivia countered her with a calm, precise strike that nearly grazed her chin—Kafka thought, with a strange warmth rising in his chest.

‘They’re all growing. All of them.’

And he couldn’t have been prouder.

“Well…” He also murmured to himself, eyes glinting. “If the angels won’t help me…maybe the fighters will.”

Your support means the world! Cast your powerstones and let’s take this book to new heights!