Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 75: Chosen Cage

The Grand Temple, that soaring edifice of marble and faith that anchored the continent’s spiritual life, was built under the aegis of Caledfwlch, the God of War.

Its foundations were laid with stones quarried from conquered mountains, its vaulted ceilings were designed to echo with the hymns of victory. Yet, paradoxically, the believers who filled its halls did not bow their heads to him. They did not whisper pleas for strength into the silent, armored ears of his statues.

They prayed to Morgen, the Goddess of Beauty, his gentle and generous wife. Her altars dripped with fresh flowers and sweet oils, her mosaics depicted scenes of harvest, art, and joyful union. It was to her serene visage that mothers prayed for healthy children, lovers for fidelity, artists for inspiration.

This was not an accident of faith, nor a quiet coup by a gentler deity. It was by the War God’s own fierce decree.

He demanded the prayers of his people be sent to his wife not out of submission, nor from a place of weakness. The truth was far more terrifying. It lay in their hidden names.

For Caledfwlch, the God of War, was also Caledfwlch, the God of Oblivion. He was not merely the patron of battle, but the sovereign of all that battle sought to erase. Enemies, losses, shame, the very memory of pain and defeat.

To pray directly to him was to send a petition into the void, a scream into a silencing fog. His domain was the end of things, the merciful, or merciless, blankness that followed cataclysm.

Prayers offered to him were inherently prayers to be forgotten. They were vessels of pure malice, searing hatred, and unendurable pain, all destined for dissolution in his relentless, annihilating embrace.

And Morgen, the Goddess of Beauty, was also Morgen, the Goddess of Memory. Her beauty was the luminous quality of a moment preserved forever, a love etched into the soul, a triumph that never faded.

She curated the tapestry of time, selecting only the worthy threads, the acts of courage, the bonds of love, the creations of genius, the instances of mercy, and wove them into eternity.

To pray to her was to ask for a moment to be remembered, honored, and made eternal. She granted prayers by etching them into the immutable record of what was.

Together, they were not just husband and wife. They were the dual engines of chronology itself. They were the Gods of Time.

Caledfwlch, the Oblivion, wielded Time’s scythe. He was the ceaseless tide that washed the slate clean, the entropy that made room for new beginnings by devouring the old.

Morgen, the Memory, wielded Time’s quill. She was the archivist of existence, the force of preservation that gave meaning to the struggle, ensuring that not all was lost to her husband’s hungry maw.

The Temple, therefore, was a grand and delicate balancing act. It acknowledged the necessary, terrible work of the God of War/Oblivion by being dedicated in his name, a monument to the endings he governed.

But it directed the living, breathing hope of its people to his wife, the Goddess of Beauty/Memory, for she was the one who could take their fragile mortal moments and grant them the only true immortality any of them could hope for. To be remembered.

It was a faith built on an agreement, that for life to have meaning, there must be both something to fight for, a memory to create, and something to fight against, an oblivion to forestall.

Every prayer to Morgen was, in essence, a defiance of Caledfwlch’s domain. And every victory in war, dedicated in Caledfwlch’s temple, was a new memory offered up for Morgen’s keeping.

This was the divine duality upon which thrones were raised and saints were crowned. A faith forever trembling on the knife’s edge between being cherished and being erased.

This was why the Saintesses of the Temple were venerated. They were the rare, mortal vessels suspected of brushing against the loom of Time itself, able to pluck threads from the future before they were woven.

They were born, not made, appearing every generation or so. And the sign of a true Saintess’s end was not age, but silence. When the whispers from tomorrow ceased, a wise Saintess retired. Gracefully. Quietly. To do otherwise was to court a far more terrible kind of oblivion.

Ruby... by the strictest measure of the faith, should have retired early.

That was, in fact, precisely what had happened in her first life.

By the age of twenty-five, the last faint echoes of foresight had deserted her completely. The divine pipeline had run dry. If she were brutally honest with herself, the clear visions and distinct words had begun to falter a decade earlier, around when she was fifteen.

What followed was a slow, torturous fade, a descent into blurs, muffled murmurs, and frustrating half-truths that felt more like guesswork than revelation.

Her initial response was one of sheer desperate survival. She did what she knew best, what the role demanded. She lied. She lied and lied and lied, spinning fabrications from the faintest divine hints, extrapolating grand prophecies from whispered fragments, praying her constructions would hold.

Then, she noticed something... weird.

At a certain point, no one seemed to care about the accuracy of the prophecy, only its content. The Temple, the Empire, the people, they didn’t want disturbing truths or complex warnings.

They craved reassurance. They wanted to hear about peace, bountiful harvests, good fortune, and joy. The machinery of faith hummed smoothly not on truth, but on comfort.

So, she stopped straining to hear the gods. She started listening to the crowd. She gave them exactly what they wanted to hear.

What else could she do? Step down? And then be... what? A nobody? The love, the respect, the safety, the gilded luxury, all of it was inextricably tied to the title of Saintess. It was the source of her power, her identity, her very survival.

And there was Arzhen.

He called her his pure, true love. She believed him. She knew, in her heart, he wasn’t lying. Not then.

But a cold and logical voice whispered. Who would keep loving a woman publicly abandoned by the divine?

His love felt real, but it was woven around the halo of her station. Without it, what would remain?

Thus, when she awoke in her younger body, memories intact, she didn’t see it as a tragedy. She saw it as divine pity. A second chance granted by the Gods of Time themselves.

The Goddess of Memory had preserved her knowledge, the God of Oblivion had wiped the slate clean for her to rewrite it. She would redo everything. She would be smarter, more strategic. She would secure her power, her love, her future irrevocably.

And she had succeeded. Spectacularly so far. Cecilia was dead, discredited. Arzhen was hers. Nikolas was hers. The Temple was hers. The throne of influence was hers.

So why?

Why did this old, familiar specter, this clawing, hollow anxiety, now unfurl once more in the sanctum of her chest, blooming like a poison flower?

Why did it feel like the threads were slipping again, like the narrative she’d so carefully rewritten was developing a stubborn, chaotic will of its own?

Wasn’t she supposed to be winning already?

"He’s... declaring war?" Ruby’s eyes went wide. "W-why? Arzhen... Arzhen is not that kind of perso—"

"Why can’t you get it through your head, Ruby?" Nikolas’s voice was a low, furious seethe. "That man is a beast. Just like I am. He doesn’t have a line he won’t cross to get what he wants. Nothing. Just like me."

He stepped closer, his gaze pinning her. "Like me, he wants you. Your foresight, your prophecies, the status of being your husband. That’s the prize. Don’t you see?"

But...

Why are they still waging war with each other? In this life too?

She’d taken every precaution! She’d abandoned the Saintess role at eight to avoid the pressure! She’d gone straight to the Delanivis, secured their trust! And Arzhen... his love was supposed to be pure, unwavering!

Why? Why?! For her sake, why couldn’t they just be at peace?

Was her consideration, her careful maneuvering for both of them, not enough?

Were they just using her? Was she nothing but a living cheat sheet of the future for them to exploit?

No. That couldn’t be. Arzhen was different. He truly loved her.

He’d killed Cecilia Araceli for her!

"Nikolas... you’re being too... mean..." A single genuine tear traced its way down her cheek. "I’m sure... it’s all just a misunderstanding..."

She looked up at him, her eyes luminous. "Why would Arzhen ever want to hurt me...?"

Nikolas’s face contorted into an ugly scowl.

Women.

Always led by their feelings. Their willful stupidity had no limit.

Why cling to a man who’d attacked her own father-in-law? Why choose that tiger when Nikolas was right here, just as strong, just as powerful, just as devotedly in love?

"You want to see him? Fine." He spat the words. "Follow me to the front. See his real face on the battlefield. Just don’t come crying to me, begging to be taken back, when you do."

"Nik!" Ruby’s hand shot out, clutching his sleeve. "I don’t want to meet him, I just want to know the truth!"

"THEN ASK YOUR GODS FOR THE TRUTH!" he roared, finally snapping. He loomed over her, every word a hammer blow. "You. Are. The. Saintess."

Ruby flinched back as if struck.

The title... her weapon, her shield... everything that made her special... turned into the sharpest accusation.

KNOCK—KNOCK—KNOCK!

A frantic knock at the chamber door cut through the tense silence.

Before Nikolas could snarl a dismissal, a subordinate, pale and breathless, shouldered his way in, his eyes wide with urgent news.

"Sir! A report from the western scouts," the man blurted, bowing hastily. "Anton Vasiliev. He’s been found. He’s in the Dawnoro fortress, and he’s just issued a statement."

Nikolas’s furious attention snapped to the messenger. "What did he say?"

The man swallowed, his voice dropping to a bewildered tone. "He said... he doesn’t remember much, Sir. Claims total amnesia from the attack."

Before the implications could sink in, the messenger delivered the second, more immediate blow. "And... the main Vasiliev army at the eastern border. They’re pulling back. They’re retreating."

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Important A/N:

Let me tell you a story about why the privilege tiers of this book are very expensive. In the app, when you set the tiers of the privilege Chapters, it will also give you the calculated approximation of the tiers coin cost you need to set. So I set it as recommended.

Until I found out that as an author, I am supposed to set it way, WAY lower than the recommended cost. Which is baffling. I found out that the average cost of privilege tiers is only around 300-600 coins for the third and fourth tier. Wild. Why would Webnovel recommend such a high coin cost each tier then? Why not recommend us authors just the average cost? I’m very, very confused.

But I know that this is all totally my fault and thus, I will fix it as much as I can. For my three biggest patrons, Cherie_Valentine, Maggie_Stovall, and Amaterasu_Cross, I am very very sorry that you’ve purchased an overinflated tier price. But you still purchased them without complaints anyway. You are built different. The true OGs. The Greatest of All Time. Since Webnovel will not let me reimburse you with coins, I will do you something special and I beg of you to have the honor to name three first children of Cecilia and the boys.

You can send me an e-mail with screenshot proof that you are my beloved first three generous patrons at [email protected], and you can send me the name and the gender of the child, one each, with a suggestion of which dad you want them to have (Oath, Ark, or East)! I’m begging you, please e-mail me because I will not sleep until you do. It will be a special spoiler only each three of you and I know and you can look forward to them when they arrive in the story.

From next month, I will set the privilege tiers cost to be the average cost like most books in this platform. Again, I am very, very sorry for this blunder. I wish you a happy holiday, and thank you so very much for the gift you’ve given me. Please enjoy the book, and I love you so, so much.