Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 27: Self-Blame

Mount Saede.

Just those two words, and the world tilted on its axis. Cecilia understood instantly, the intimate heat of moments ago flash-freezing into a block of ice in her veins.

"It erupted?" Cecilia stood frozen, rigid, the entire universe narrowing to those two devastating syllables. Everything else was forgotten.

Chief Hettor nodded, his expression carved from stone. "Yes, my Lady. It’s... devastating."

"What do you mean?" Cecilia’s voice was too low, too tight.

"Mount Saede’s eruption had been predicted for years. And three months ago, I sent letters. I warned them to be extra vigilant during this exact window. The planet’s rotation... the polar motion... the seasonal deformation of the crust..."

The scientific terms tumbled out as a desperate litany against the horrifying news, her body beginning to tremble uncontrollably.

"Cecilia..." Oathran immediately pulled her stiff form into his arms. "I know, my love. Breathe. Just breathe..."

"What do you mean it’s devastating?! I sent letters!" she snapped at Hettor, her body a rod of tension in Oathran’s embrace. But then, her eyes widened in dawning horror. "Oh... they... could it be they didn’t send my letters...?"

Three months ago. That was right around the time Ruby had returned, and the quiet, systematic dismantling of her authority had begun.

Cecilia’s legs suddenly gave way. All strength fled her body, her breath stolen. "No..."

Oathran’s arms tightened around her, his voice calling her name. Hettor’s attempts to explain became a muffled, dull hum, drowned out by the roaring in her head.

Tears fell without restraint, hot and grievous, until her vision blurred and swam.

It was her fault.

All her fault.

She should’ve known.

She should’ve checked.

She should have made absolutely sure those final, crucial warnings had flown from her hands and into the world.

Everything... this entire catastrophe... was her fault.

Across the room, a small sitting area was arranged around a low table of gnarled, ancient wood, its surface holding a polished gourd filled with fresh, untouched water.

The floor was layered with thick, plush rugs made from the incredibly soft under-fur of jungle beasts, muffling all sound into a suffocating hush.

Into that silence poured her shattered sobs, Oathran’s patient, gentle murmurs, Hettor’s heavy regret.

From the open canopy above, the distant, rhythmic chorus of nocturnal insects and the occasional, lonely call of a night bird only seemed to swallow their voices further. In this space that felt both primal and deeply luxurious, this nest suspended between the earth and the heavens... Oathran’s own heart shattered into a million silent pieces.

She hadn’t cried like this when she discovered the violation of her own body.

But the way she was now crushing her own soul over the fate of countless strangers—

Cradled in his arms, her body wracked with a grief he couldn’t absorb, his own rage began to simmer. A promise taking root in the ruins of his compassion.

Death.

Before his own end came, every single one of those responsible for her pain would die.

***

The air in the northern mountains was a crystalline shard, so cold it felt like it could fracture lungs. It should have smelled of pine and frozen earth. Now, it was a foul, gritty cocktail of scorched stone, acid, and death.

Arkai Dawnoro stood on a ridge, a silhouette of contained fury against a sky still bruised with ash. Below, the land was a fresh wound.

Mount Saede had vomited its guts across the valley. A river of black, hardened rock had swallowed forests and villages whole. What remained of a nearby settlement were skeletal timbers, jutting from a blanket of grey like the ribs of a long-dead beast.

His pack moved with a grim silence around him, but their alpha was a statue of ice. His features, always sharp, were now carved from permafrost. His jaw was a vise, clenched so tight a muscle ticked relentlessly beneath the skin, a throbbing vein a stark, angry line against his temple.

The rescue team he’d mobilized with brutal speed now seemed too pitiful and laughable against the scale of the carnage. It was like bringing a spoon to clear a landslide.

"Rolen! Kael!" The names cracked through the devastation like a whip. Two wolves snapped to attention. "Back to the fortress. Now. I want every able-bodied warrior, every healer, every spare hand on the march by dawn."

"Borak, send people to the Arctic-Fox clans and the Polar-Bear fiefs. Tell them Arkai Dawnoro calls in every favor, every blood-debt. We need their strength."

As they vanished into the gloom, the real storm brewed behind his eyes. Shame burned in his gut.

The Saintess’s warnings. Her meticulous, annual reminders of Saede’s near-sixty-year cycle hadn’t slipped his mind these last four years. He’d heeded them, reinforced stockpiles, reviewed evacuation routes. Until these last few months.

Months he’d spent obsessing over her other prophecy, the southern lords’ assassinations. A worthy cause, he’d told himself. A political threat that required his sharpest focus.

He’d sent the standard orders north, of course. Be ready. But he hadn’t been here. He hadn’t pored over the maps himself, hadn’t drilled the scenarios, hadn’t envisioned a hellscape this complete.

He had relied on her word as his calendar, his alarm bell. And he was a fool for it.

Yesterday, when that saccharine, insulting prophecy of ’peace’ had arrived, he should have seen it for the lie it was. He should have immediately dug out every single one of Cecilia Araceli’s past predictions and treated them as gospel.

He’d been so distracted by the southern intrigue, so certain the north was managed, that he’d let his own domain falter.

Of course her warning hadn’t come this time. The saintess had changed.

It wasn’t the same one as before, damnit!

And his people had paid the price for his distraction.

"Lord, are you alright? We’ve burned through every magic communication crystal we have. The news is spreading across the continent. Aid will start flooding in by tomorrow," Borak reported, his voice gruff with effort and concern.

"I know," Arkai’s reply was clipped, his gaze still fixed on the devastation. The crystals were a start, but they were a shout into the void, hoping someone would hear.

"But the nearest lords, they respond faster to a blade on their doorstep than a whisper on the wind. Send our fastest runners. Directly. Have them personally escort the first waves of help back here. No delays." He turned, his eyes sweeping over his weary pack, a general marshaling his forces in the face of hell. "Let’s get to work."

As his men scrambled to execute the orders, a thought cut through the strategic clamor in his mind.

Cecilia Araceli.

His request for information about her had gone unanswered. Where was she? What was she doing now, while the mountain she had warned about for years finally tore itself apart?

What a lead weight in his gut.

He hadn’t just failed his people by being distracted, he had failed her.

He needed to apologize.

To his people for his lack of foresight, and ultimately... to her.