Dali Delico, patriarch and scion of a bloodline that had bent the very laws of physical reality to its will, sat in a child-sized chair. His knees, clad in immaculate black, pressed against the underside of a lacquered table covered in sticky fingerprints. Across from him, his son, Lapis—all of five years old and possessed of a stare that could unpick a locked jaw—slowly crushed a piece of bread into a paste.
Desperate for his expertise, Dali's colleagues agree to his shocking counter-proposal: he will accept the mission if they all bring their children to his estate, transforming it into a combination nursery and task force headquarters. "With all our blood and pride... balancing duty and child-rearing—I'll prove it can be done!". Delico-s Nursery