Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 21: One Day

Oathran had braced himself for many things. A request for power, for an army, for a reckoning upon her enemies. He was fully prepared to be the weapon in her hand, the storm that would scour her foes from the earth.

He never, ever thought what she truly wanted was to know what had broken him.

But now, seeing the mountain of mana stones, the reality-defying cane, the potential of her ability... he knew. She didn’t need him for revenge. She could wage that war alone and emerge victorious.

Though, he still very much preferred to be the one to personally reduce every last one of them to ash.

After all, he had come to believe this divine second chance, this miracle of their survival, had a single purpose. To see Cecilia Araceli restored to the throne she had been so brutally stolen from.

And after that final duty was fulfilled, his purpose would be complete. He would finally be able to leave this world, his conscience clear, his deepest wish granted.

"I see."

Cecilia pulled her hand from his chest, and the flat, final tone of her voice sent a jolt of cold dread through him.

"Cecilia..." he pleaded. "This is all I’ve ever wanted. To die. And for seventeen years, I have planned the details of that death. To die by your hand."

Cecilia turned to him, her sea-glass gaze piercing deep into his soul. That night, dying beside him in the dirt, their fingers intertwined... she simply couldn’t let it end. She couldn’t let him end.

That was the only reason she had screamed ’yes’ to the gacha system—a final roll of the dice, just as her entire life as the Saintess had begun seventeen years ago with his satisfied departure.

This man was the reason she was breathing now, and also the indirect reason she had ever been crowned, used, and left for dead.

She knew the oath stood between them. She knew he saw his death as a promised release. And she knew, in her heart of hearts, that she never wanted to shackle him to her side with their bond. But—

"I understand," she said, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "By my hand. One day."

Oathran felt the trap snap shut. The wording was wrong. The timing was all wrong. "No, Cecilia. Soon. After you get your revenge, after you reclaim your title, after you rebuild your hea—"

Cecilia shook her head. "You said it yourself," she glared, throwing his own unwavering faith back at him. "If you say I am a Saintess, then I am."

She leaned in, "And this Saintess says she will take your life by her hand... one day."

Oathran’s eyes trembled. "Cecilia..."

"You need to stop begging before I get suspicious," she threatened. "Because if you insist too much, I might start to wonder about the real reason you’re in such a hurry to die."

On that, the man froze completely.

So. She had been suspicious from the very start.

Clever, clever girl.

Oathran Alicei had wished to be her bonded mate in the moment before their death. If he hadn’t, the bond would never have formed, and they would both be cold in the forest dirt. If he had truly, wholly wanted to die, that final, desperate wish... that spark of hope for a future tied to her... would never have ignited.

That wasn’t the wish of a man at peace with his end.

It was the wish of a man who wanted to live, but saw no other path. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

A wish choked with regret.

"Now, about my ’revenge’," Cecilia declared, her tone shifting to something deliberately lighter. "How about we go back to your domain first, Your Majesty? It must have been so long since you’ve last returned."

Oathran narrowed his eyes, a reluctant appreciation dawning beneath his feigned irritation. His wife... was a dangerously cheeky little thing, steering him with a feather when he expected a blade.

"And what, pray tell, do you want in my domain?" Oathran asked, his voice a carefully constructed glacier, pretending to sulk.

"Well," Cecilia shrugged, "we can always visit some interesting people along the way. After all, the best revenge is a dish best served cold. It needs time to marinate. And it requires precise ingredients."

"Why must you complicate this?" he sighed, the cold facade cracking with a flicker of genuine frustration. "Why can’t you just rely on me to—"

"It’s not fun!" she whined, cutting him off with a pout. "Why? Are you really so petty that you don’t want to show off your lovely, charming bonded mate to the world? Ashamed of me already, Your Majesty?"

Oathran closed his eyes, a long-suffering Dragon Lord besieged by a hurricane in a sundress. He held the pose for a couple of heartbeats.

He relented. "Alright."

***

The sun beat down on the golden savannah, a baking heat that shimmered over the grasslands surrounding K’tharr, the jewel city where beast and human forged a rare, bustling harmony.

In its very heart, a palace of white sandstone and gold leaf rose. Sun-bleached towers pierced the azure sky, their bases draped in flowering vines that scented the air with jasmine. Grand arches opened into courtyards where mosaic fountains sparkled, the water a precious, cooling music against the dry air.

Through the main gate, under the watchful eyes of stone lion statues, Eastiel Edengold was a walking dead man.

The Werelion King’s usual golden radiance was extinguished, his skin pale and tight over the sharp bones of his face. His eyes now dull and sunken in shadows of sleepless grief. His magnificent mane was dulled by dust and neglect.

For days, he had wandered, turning a frantic hound, scouring every forest trail, every forgotten ditch, his senses stretched to their breaking point for a scent that had vanished from the world.

The greetings of his people echoed around him. The bowed heads of serfs, the concerned murmurs of ministers... but they were a distant hum in his head. All he could hear was the silence where her heartbeat should be. All he could smell was the void she had left behind.

Arzhen. That bastard. That shortsighted, prideful fool. He had ripped the only true, sharp-witted, good thing from this world, and for what? A simpering prophetess of empty promises?

A wave of grief almost buckled his knees right there in the sun-drenched courtyard. He locked them, his jaw clenching until it ached.

He did not stop until he reached the shaded coolness of his throne room. He turned to his most trusted right hand, his voice a gravelly from overuse.

"Gather the war-party. Quietly. No banners, no drums," he ordered, the words

cold and final. "And bring me pen and paper."