Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 151: The Same Choice

A sharp, tired sigh cut through the tense air. Angela rubbed her forehead, trying to physically push back the coming migraine.

The sight before her was a small comfort, though. Oathran Alicei, whole and breathing, sat sprawled with deceptive calm on the plush sofa. The prophecy was, for now, just vile words on paper.

But words had power. And the words Ruby threatened to unleash were the kind that started wars.

"Even if we all see him sitting right here," Angela muttered, "the prophecy itself is the problem. The moment it leaves that woman’s lips and touches the ears of the faithful, it becomes a fact in the minds of millions. A fact that the Dragon Lord has died and is meant to be turned to a weapon."

She looked up, her eyes sweeping over the three men in the room. Oathran wasn’t the only dragon in this world. And if they heard that their Dragon Lord was prophesied for slaughter and plunder by a human ’Saintess’... not even a weapon forged from his own bones could stop the firestorm that would follow.

The dragons’ wrath wouldn’t discriminate between the orchestrator of the plot and the empire that harbored her. Iondora, and the Temple itself, would be ash.

"It’s a damned good thing we caught this early," she conceded. "My men are good at listening in shadows, at scribbling down secrets... fragments... But seeing the whole picture from those pieces..." She shook her head. "That takes a different kind of mind. As expected of Cece."

Eastiel, who had been pacing like a caged lion, stopped. His golden eyes fixed on Angela. "How do you have people inside the Temple? Is your network really that extensive?"

Angela shot him a look that was equal parts exasperation and contempt. "Do you think every soul wearing a robe is a fanatic blind to reason? Some people’s loyalty is to their faith, to their God."

"And your people," Eastiel pressed, his voice dropping. "Their loyalty is to God?"

A cold, mirthless smirk twisted Angela’s lips. "No," she said. "To money."

Stevan, standing stiffly by the door like a condemned man, had the decency to look pained. Eastiel’s jaw tightened.

Even Oathran, from his reclined position, let his gaze linger on Angela with a flicker of something that wasn’t quite disapproval, but a profound understanding of the world’s grubby mechanics.

Only money could buy the kind of silence and access needed to pluck a princess from a royal dungeon. Only money could turn pious eyes conveniently blind.

From the sofa, Oathran’s voice emerged. "I will not be able to stop the dragons from unleashing hell if she decides to spread this prophecy. My word would mean little against the scent of such an insult."

He paused. "And you will not be able to stop her from announcing it. A ’vision’ can strike at any moment."

"And we can’t kill her," Angela sighed, the frustration evident. It was the central, maddening knot of their problem.

"We can kill her," Eastiel countered, the predator in him rising to the surface. "Assuming Cecilia’s theory is right, and she’s just regressed."

Arkai, re-entering the room, moved to stand by the fireplace, the flickering light casting sharp shadows across his face. "Even if she only regressed, are we certain that killing her here ends it? What if her soul just... jumps? To a new timeline? Our problem solved, only to become some other world’s nightmare?"

Eastiel scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Are we seriously going to start caring about the moral implications for a different timeline now?"

"That is not how time works," Oathran interjected, his sigh deeper this time, tinged with the weariness of an elder listening to children debate the nature of the sun.

It was at that moment that Cecilia, who had entered silently behind Arkai, finally stepped fully into the room. All eyes, instinctively, went to her.

But her gaze landed on one person.

On Oathran.

"How... does time work, Oathran?"

Oathran unhurriedly straightened from his reclined position and rose to his feet. It was an act of deference, honoring her entrance into the space, and into the heart of the matter.

He met her intense gaze. "Time is... more unforgiving than that," he began, his voice a low rumble. "And sometimes, our decision alone can’t change anything."

A faint, pained line appeared between Cecilia’s brows. "Why?"

"Because it’s not just our decision," he explained, his tone patient but firm. "It’s the decision of all the living souls in this world."

A river was shaped by every stone, every root, every drop of rain. One could not will a single current to flow backwards without the consent of the entire watershed. A timeline was a collective decision. One pulled thread might unravel a pattern, but the weave itself was held by millions of other hands.

He was speaking of destiny, of probability, of the immense, inertial weight of existence. Her brilliant mind understood the theory, but her heart rebelled against its implications.

"But one singular change had given you, me, and Arkai more time in this wretched world," she countered, her voice gaining a sharp edge. "Ruby’s decision to leave before the coronation... and let me be crowned instead. That was her choice. A single thread. And it changed everything."

Oathran shook his head. "No, my love. You mistake the catalyst for the cause." He took a step closer. "It’s not because she left. It’s because you chose to replace her."

Cecilia blinked, caught off guard. The logic seemed inverted. She had been a pawn, a substitute, a last-minute solution to a scandal. Choice? What choice?

But—I had no choice...

The protest died in her throat, unvoiced but screaming in her mind. The ceremony, the expectations, the crushing weight of duty, it had felt like a landslide carrying her forward, not a path she had willingly walked.

Or was it?

"Answer me," Oathran pressed, his voice softening but losing none of its insistence. He needed her to see it. To truly see.

"If that woman didn’t leave that day... what would’ve happened to you?"