“Evan Bro! Evan Bro!”

The voice floated down the hall, oddly familiar and yet inexplicably out of place.

And then, a blur of blonde hair practically latched onto the staircase railing, barreling down the steps with the speed and coordination of a caffeine-fueled squirrel. It squealed, “Evan!”

“Nemo?” Evan chuckled, entirely too amused by the chaos descending upon them. “Done with the morning study?”

The “blur” revealed itself to be a tiny girl—blonde hair, blue eyes, practically a pint-sized replica of Evan. “Yep! Praise! Nemo good?” she chirped, her speech an unpredictable whirlwind of enthusiasm and questionable grammar.

“Who is this, Evan?” Matthew asked, blinking like he was seeing a magical porcelain doll brought to life by a rogue mana spell.

“Good Nemo,” Evan said casually, as though that explained everything, while giving her blonde head an affectionate rub. “I haven’t told you guys yet, huh? This is my little sister, Mnemosyne di Sator. We call her Nemo.”

Alan, Matthew, and Blair exchanged loaded looks, each trying very hard not to visualize a certain bright orange clown fish with an unfortunate fin situation. It was a battle they were losing.

“Her speech pattern is still a mess. Is tutoring not enough?” Morgante murmured, watching his youngest with an expression somewhere between pride and abject horror.

“I’ll think of something,” Bunny whispered back, her tone a quiet but determined I’m-this-close-to-unraveling kind of reassurance.

The three 12-year-olds, ever the experts in adult subtext, heard every word. Their minds spiraled into the great abyss of speculation, undoubtedly landing on a conspiracy theory or two.

“Greetings!” the pint-sized whirlwind announced grandly, pointing a chubby porcelain finger at herself as though delivering her own thesis statement. “Nemo! Three!”

Morgante and Bunny visibly twitched. It wasn’t just a flinch—it was the kind of simultaneous reaction that only long-suffering parents can achieve. They looked like they weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or throw themselves into the nearest abyss at the sheer absurdity of their youngest child’s… communication style.

The duo shared an expression of shared misery and relief, as if saying, “At least she’s trying. Kind of.” Meanwhile, Nemo, entirely oblivious to the existential crisis she’d triggered in her parents, just smiled like she owned the place.

But then, a tiny, unsettling puzzle piece clicked into place for the trio of teens. Nemo had just announced—loudly, proudly, and with no small amount of dramatic flair—that she was three. And if memory served (and it usually did when it came to juicy details), the madam had only recently recovered from a three-year-long chronic illness.

The timeline was, as they say, interesting.

Could it be? Was Nemo’s birth somehow tied to that mysterious illness? The possibility loomed over them like the ominous final boss in an RPG—something just a little too big and too personal to deal with right now.

And then there was Nemo herself, innocent and silly as a baby duck waddling into traffic. The way she mangled her words and pointed at herself like she was making a presidential address was… endearing, sure. But also? Concerning.

Most kids her age could string together sentences without sounding like they’d just lost a battle with autocorrect. But Nemo? Nemo seemed stuck somewhere between “adorable toddler” and “magical construct prototype in beta testing.”

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It made sense, though, didn’t it? If there was something unusual about her birth—something unnatural or even dangerous—it would explain a lot.

It would explain why Morgante and Bunny had been watching her like she was an emotionally-charged grenade about to go off. It would explain the shared wince when she spoke, as though every word she said chipped away at their carefully-constructed composure.

The three teens exchanged glances, their unspoken thoughts swirling like storm clouds. Nemo wasn’t just an eccentric little sibling. But rather an expanding lore of the Sator. And while part of them wanted to laugh at how ridiculous the scene was, another part felt the quiet, solemn weight of it all.

Because if they were right—if Nemo’s birth really had come at a cost—then her parents’ reactions weren’t just understandable. They were heartbreakingly human.

No. Of course, the teens had gotten it all wrong.

Morgan and Burn weren’t concerned about Nemo’s speech because they thought something was “wrong” with her development. Oh no, their concerns ran far deeper—and far riskier—than mere parental worry.

They weren’t fretting over the adorable little disaster’s coherence. They were panicking because Nemo wasn’t even their child.

Nemo was a construct. A living, breathing doll of pure magic, cobbled together by Morgan’s genius and, frankly, her questionable life choices. She wasn’t a toddler with slow speech development. She was a magical marvel masquerading as a three-year-old. And that “three” she’d so confidently yelled? It was practically a miracle.

Because if these privileged brats—er, young nobles—figured out the truth, it would all come crashing down. The ruse, the carefully crafted facade of “family bliss,” and, most importantly, their own 12-year-olds feeble safety.

You didn’t just let people find out you’d created a magical construct and decided, “Yeah, let’s raise it like a kid. No one will notice.” Especially not when said “kid” yelled out silly-almost-normal-but-not-normal-enough-phrase.

Morgan’s craft had been meticulous, of course. Nemo’s current form was as close to human as magic could possibly make her, perfectly matched to her cognitive and communicative quirks—or so she’d thought.

But then she had to go and yell “three,” throwing her into a quiet panic spiral. Was she pretending? Could she lie? Or was it sheer luck that she’d chosen a number that made sense in context?

The thought that Nemo might be capable of deceit sent a pleasant chill down Morgan’s spine. She wasn’t sure whether to feel proud of her creation’s cleverness or utterly terrified that her construct was already outperforming its design specs all over again.

Meanwhile, Burn looked calm on the outside but was inwardly cycling through twelve stages of existential dread. What if Nemo decided to yell “three hundred” next time, since it was her real age?

What if she started spouting things like “I’m made of magic!” in that same chipper, oblivious tone? Could a construct even blurt out a confession? Knowing Nemo, it seemed entirely possible.

Well, if it happens, it happens. Not like he couldn’t fix it. Still, changing the plan now would be a colossal, looping detour—exactly the kind of mess Burn hated dealing with.

Nemo’s presence was crucial. She had to witness Morgan’s perspective of the loop and send that data back to herself in the next one.

But keeping Nemo as her original form—a radiant floating and talking hourglass entwined with a coiling snake—was not an option. That would be akin to walking into a masquerade ball dressed as a giant blinking neon sign screaming, “Suspicious as hell!”

“We should invite Master Vlad and Isaiah for the next session,” Bunny—Morgan—said thoughtfully, already crafting the perfect excuse.

“This campaign has been successful so far, and we can include the kids in a milder version to help Nemo’s communication skills.” Translation? Let’s consult the experts before this situation spirals further into absurdity.

“They’re good with kids,” Morgante—Burn—added, nodding in solemn agreement. “Let’s bring them along.”

The teens, meanwhile, were utterly blindsided by this revelation of unexpected wholesomeness. Here were Nemo’s amazing parents, working tirelessly to help their daughter thrive despite her “developmental difficulties.”

They even used tabletop RPGs as a tool for education and bonding! This wasn’t just good parenting; it was next-level. And if Nemo’s older brother, Evan, had turned out so kind and cool, clearly these parents were onto something magical—literally and figuratively.

For now, though, Emperor Burn and the Infinite Witch Morgan had unknowingly secured themselves a place of respect in these kids’ hearts. Ironically, the very thing they wanted to avoid—standing out too much—had happened anyway.

“So, shall we start today’s activity?” Morgan scooped Nemo up with the practiced ease of someone holding both a child and a potential PR disaster. She turned to Blair, flashing a smile so polished it could blind.

“Your Highness, do follow us to the training ground. At last, I’ll get to witness the magic my dear son can’t stop raving about.”