Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 58: Trigger

"We made it in time... please...!" Cecilia whispered. She forced the neck of a vial between Anton’s bloodless lips. The Miracle Elixir, bought with rounds and rounds of gacha rolls the previous days.

"Father! Father-in-law, please—" she begged. She tipped the vial, watching the iridescent liquid trace a path down his frozen throat, then hauled his limp torso onto her lap, cradling the broken king against the winter.

Beside her, Arkai shifted back into his human form. His face furious, grim, gaze scanning the violated clearing. "Anton," he growled. He grasped the man’s wrist with a deliberate, painful pressure, the kind of shock meant to jolt a soul back into its vessel. "Get a grip of yourself."

But the Miracle Elixir’s work was sluggish, wrong. Instead of the near-instantaneous knitting of flesh and flood of vitality Cecilia was used to, it seemed to seep into Anton slowly, fighting against a deeper, stubborn corruption.

DING!

[Cecilia, this person has been poisoned by a potent toxin! One Miracle Elixir may be insufficient for full purging and recovery!]

Poisoned.

Fuck.

Cecilia didn’t hesitate. Her hand dove into the unseen inventory at her chest and emerged with another glowing vial. She forced it past his teeth, tipping his head back.

"Come on," she commanded the universe.

This time, the reaction was visible. A faint warmth seeped back into Anton’s waxen skin. The terrible stillness receded, replaced by the shallow but steady rise and fall of his chest. Yet his eyes remained shut, his consciousness locked away.

"Do we need the Heavenly Elixir...?" Cecilia whispered.

Arkai turned to her, his eyes widening in horror. Something stronger than a medicine that snatched his life from the jaws of a volcano?

"He’s stabilized," Oathran’s calm voice cut through the panic. He knelt beside Arkai. "His body is mending. We just need to get him out of this cold and let the elixirs work. He may sleep for days while his spirit recovers."

"Are you sure?" Cecilia’s gaze flew to the dragon.

He met it with a firm nod. "I am. Now, come. The other two are healed but bleeding warmth into the snow. We must leave this place now before the cold finishes the job."

The pack of werewolves moved efficiently and the three half-dead burdens slung across their broad backs. Arkai, running at the flank, issued orders to the rear guard. "Cover the tracks. All of them. I want this clearing to look untouched by anything but the snow and the wind."

As they surged west, Arkai glanced over. Cecilia was cradled securely in Oathran’s arms, the dragon moving with a ground-eating stride that spoke of millennia crossing continents. Effortless was the word for it.

It was the first time in years Arkai had needed his full, towering wolf form to keep pace on a run, and Oathran hadn’t even broken a sweat, hadn’t so much as hinted at a shift. The disparity was humbling.

Still, his instinct had been right. Anton had been in danger. He just hadn’t fathomed the depth of the rot. He’d imagined slipping into a sickroom, thwarting a clumsy coup, maybe breaking a few traitorous noses. Not this. Not a son hunting his father in the frozen dark like a stag.

"What do we do now, Cece?" Arkai asked, holding his wrath as they raced for the closest, defensible shelter. "I can turn this pack around right now. We can be upon them before dawn. We can end this."

"Even in the Vasiliev house, there are people who tend the hearths, who till the fields, who know nothing of tonight," Cecilia’s reply was calm. "Blind retaliation paints everyone with the same blood. It creates unnecessary martyrs and orphans."

Of course she’d say that. The part of him that was pure protector, pure alpha, hated the cold truth of it.

Ahead, they saw Piotr. The lean tiger was straining, his breath pluming in ragged gasps as he fought to match the elite wolves’ pace. When his eyes found the three limp forms being carried, recognition and horror dawned simultaneously.

"L-Lord...? S-Sister Thalia... Mr. Gregor...?!" He tried to veer closer, his voice cracking. "What happened?!"

"Questions later, Piotr. Warmth first. Move!" one of Arkai’s warriors barked, not unkindly, urging the messenger onward.

As the main group pushed ahead, Arkai, Oathran, and Cecilia, guarding the rear, continued their tense council.

"Bloodshed," Arkai insisted, his black eyes burning. "It will come regardless. Waiting only lets the wound fester. More people will die anyway if we don’t stop them now."

"Not yet," Cecilia countered, shaking her head. "Both the Delanivis and Arzhen are ruthless, but they are also princes. They care about the story, the justification. They need to build their narrative, paint themselves as the wronged party, before they can march openly."

Arkai scoffed in disbelief.

"Is the reason you hadn’t started your revenge," Oathran’s voice cut colder than the winter night, his grip tightening around Cecilia, "because you still seek to spare the ’innocent’?" He glanced down at her. "Think carefully, my love. Are they truly innocent? Or merely complacent? Silence in the face of evil is its own endorsement."

The dragon was angry. Arkai could feel it vibrating through the bond he now shared with Cecilia. A fury that mirrored his own. That she would extend her mercy to a people who had, through action or apathy, allowed her to be driven to her death...

"Elder Brother is right," Arkai growled. "Affiliation is a choice. To stand in that house, to wear that crest now... it is proof enough. There are no bystanders in a kingdom built on a murder."

Cecilia looked between them. Both poised to unleash hell on her behalf. Soft warmth bloomed in her chest.

She gently smiled. "You two might be right," she said, her voice softening. "But people can also be ignorant. They can be fed lies and call it truth. It is not always their fault to be blind."

Cecilia let out a soft sigh. Yes, the warmth of their rage was a fortress around her, but she was still the strategist within its walls. "For now... let’s focus on the man who set this particular stone rolling."

She didn’t need to elaborate. The two men were not stupid. After some contemplation, the same name would click into place in both their minds.

That morning, the two Werelion messengers from the Edengold Pride had stood in Arkai’s study with a proposition.

"Our Lord, King Eastiel, extends to you an invitation to join our war."

The lead messenger, a lion with a scar tracing his jawline, had met Arkai’s gaze squarely.

"Our King believes you are one of the rare lords of this world who truly heeded the previous Saintess’s warnings. Who respected her intellect, not just her title. But that era has ended now, too unfairly."

The words truly were chosen with care. Each one felt like a brick in a foundation of shared grievance.

"We are gathering those she saved. The tribes, the towns, the leaders who listened when others mocked. We are building a coalition of debt. A debt of blood that must be repaid."

The Lions, Arkai realized... were more wicked than he had thought.

"With us... we take revenge against the villains who wronged our savior Saintess. The Delanivis... the Vasilievs... the Iondora Empire... and... the Temple itself."

"King Eastiel wishes to meet you. And the others he has gathered. He has something of great importance to convey."

Eastiel Edengold.

What a man.

Then, almost as an afterthought, the second messenger added.

"Ah. Also... you should know. Last night, the Delanivis lord was attacked in his own fortress."

"We decided it was the Vasilievs’ doing."