QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)

Chapter 415

Slowly, the webbed finger curls into a little fist.

Daphne reaches toward the basin.

"Should we help?"

Lorelei catches her wrist. Her grip is firm.

"No." Her voice is steady. "They are supposed to do it on their own."

Daphne pulls her hand back.

She waits.

They both wait.

Daphne looks helpless as she continues to watch the little one struggle to come out of the egg.

The shell trembles. Cracks spread like rivers across its surface. The tiny fist pushes against the opening, and for a terrible moment, nothing happens.

Daphne holds her breath.

Then—the other little webbed hand appears. Small fingers, translucent skin, nails no bigger than pinpricks. They grip the edge of the shell and pull.

The crack widens.

A tail emerges.

Both women gasp.

Unlike Lorelei’s tail that is dark as the deep sea, almost black,this tail is a brighter shade of blue. It shimmers in the light, catching the sun streaming through the window, sparkling like gems scattered across the surface of the water.

"So beautiful," Lorelei whispers.

Daphne hums in agreement. But unbeknownst to Lorelei, she is having a mental conversation of her own.

System. Should it take this long?

[Host, there is nothing wrong.]

But it has been seven hours. What if the child is suffocating? What if it cannot breathe?

[That is not possible. The child is merfolk.]

Maybe I should have bought the best kind of ocean water from the System store.

[Host, it is fine.]

Before Daphne can argue further, the rest of the shell breaks off.

The pieces float in the basin, pale and fragile, like flower petals after a storm. And there—curled in the water, free at last—is their daughter.

Her eyes are still closed. The smallest strands of black hair float around her head, soft as silk. Her chest rises and falls;small, steady, alive. The tiny gills on her neck flutter with each breath.

Daphne stares.

"Oh," she says.

She looks at the child. At the small, perfect body. At the tail that shimmers in shades of blue and silver and gold.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" she asks.

She genuinely cannot tell. There are no legs, no obvious signs—just the tail, the gills, the small, perfect face.

"She." Lorelei’s voice is thick with tears. "It is a girl."

Daphne breathes a sigh of relief.

I do not know what I would have done with a son.

She obviously does not say that out loud.

"She is beautiful," Daphne says instead.

The tiny mermaid floats in the basin, her small body curled like a question mark. Her tail shimmers beneath the water, scales catching the light in shades of blue and silver. Her dark hair fans out around her head like a halo.

She looks like a porcelain doll. Delicate. Fragile. Perfect.

"Of course she is," Lorelei says, as if it’s an obvious fact that their daughter is beautiful.

"She is so tiny," Daphne says, leaning closer. Her eyes sparkle with awe, bright and wide and young in a way Lorelei has never seen before. "How can anyone be so tiny?"

She reaches out. Her finger hovers over the baby’s hand, trembling slightly.

"Look at her tiny mouth." Daphne’s voice drops to a whisper. "The nose too. It is so small."

Lorelei watches.

Amusement flickers across her face—soft, warm, fond. Daphne continues to fuss over the child, pointing out each tiny feature like she is discovering a miracle. The curve of the baby’s ear. The translucent nails on her tiny fingers. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath.

Lorelei cannot help her smile.

For weeks,for months she has carried a fear inside her. A small, quiet fear that she did not speak aloud. She was afraid that Daphne would not love their child.

That the human part of her would see the merfolk part and feel distance. That she would look at this baby and see a creature, not a daughter.

Looking now, watching Daphne trace the baby’s cheek with one gentle finger, watching her eyes fill with tears, watching her melt—

It was an unwarranted fear.

Daphne loves this child.

Completely.

"Can I?" Daphne asks.

Lorelei nods.

Daphne slowly reaches her index finger toward the tiny mermaid floating in the basin. She hesitates for just a moment—her hand trembling, her breath held—then pokes the baby’s cheek lightly.

The skin is soft. Warmer than she expected. Alive.

The baby does not wake.

She simply turns her head, following the touch, seeking more.

Daphne’s heart swells.

"She likes me," she whispers.

Lorelei laughs. It is a soft, wet sound.

"Of course she likes you. You are her mother."

Daphne pokes the cheek again.

The baby’s tiny hand curls around her finger.

Daphne stops breathing.

"Lorelei."

"Yes?"

"She is holding my finger."

"I see that."

"What do I do?"

"You hold on," Lorelei says.

This time, she reaches her hand into the basin. Her fingers find the eggshells—fragments of pale white and soft blue, scattered across the surface of the water. She crushes them into smaller pieces, her movements careful and practiced, as if she has done this before.

Daphne watches her.

"What?"

Lorelei looks up.

"It is good for her," she explains. "She will slowly absorb the shells."

Daphne just nods in agreement.

She does not fully understand. But she does not need to.

Daphne looks at their daughter. At the small mouth, the tiny gills, the tail that shimmers beneath the water. The baby floats peacefully, her dark hair spreading around her head like a halo.

This time, Lorelei brushes a couple of strands of hair away from the baby’s face.

"What is her name?" Daphne asks.

Lorelei keeps silent.

She looks at her child. Their child.

She thinks about how, night after night, day after day, when she was alone in the dark cave—when she was hurting, when she wanted to give up, when the weight of everything threatened to drown her—the egg was there. Grounding her. Giving her hope. Faith. A reason not to let go.

The egg was a promise.

A promise that she was not alone.

A promise that someone would come.

"Alira," Lorelei says out loud.

The name floats in the air like a song.

"Alira." Daphne repeats, testing it on her tongue. "I like it. What does it mean?"

"Promise." Lorelei’s voice is soft. "A hope that the tide will return."

She pauses.

"She was my hope. My reason to live... for so long."

Daphne leans over the water, careful not to disturb the baby, and presses her lips to Lorelei’s forehead. The kiss is gentle, and full of unspoken words.

"It is perfect," she says.

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