Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 77: Farce

"Yes, I’ve seen Thalia and Gregor. Brother Arkai said it was too late to save them when he arrived," Anton recounted with a hollow voice, full of grief, deepening his frailty. He looked between his wife and son, genuinely bewildered. "But why were we even that far from home...? In the middle of the night, in the snow..."

Arzhen’s face remained stoic. Carefully concerned. He didn’t react much. Elara, beside him, did the same, her beautiful features helplessly sorrowful. They exchanged a glance briefly and sighed in unison.

"We... we aren’t sure, my love," Elara whispered in distress. "One moment you were resting in your chamber, and the next... you were gone, deep into the night. We searched everywhere. The grounds, the forests... we couldn’t..."

"I examined their bodies," Arkai interjected, his tone calm, factual. "The wounds were fresh. The snow hadn’t yet buried the scent trail. I am sorry for their loss, but it was a fortunate break for the investigation. I’ve already ordered my best scent-magic specialists to analyze the residue. We will find who did this. Soon."

His words of course ’meant’ to be reassuring. But it had the subtle effect of making the temperature in the room drop by several degrees. Elara’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. Arzhen’s fingers, resting on his knee, twitched.

"Thank you, Brother," Anton murmured, bowing his head solemnly. "Gregor... we raised that boy together. He was my late right-hand Budimir’s first disciple, and he stepped into his mentor’s shoes without a falter. You remember Budimir, don’t you? Gregor was his."

"And Thalia..." Anton’s voice hitched.

"The girl," Arkai finished softly, nodding. "I heard she was Budimir’s one and only daughter."

Anton nodded, unable to speak, wiping at the tears that now fell freely. "I’ve failed them most of all..."

This was not the Anton Vasiliev the world knew. He was famed as the most ferocious of the Beast Lords in his prime, a tiger whose roar could silence a council.

But Elara knew the private truth. Anton harbored no grand ambition. Not for territory, political supremacy, or vast wealth. Beneath the fearsome reputation was a peace-loving beast who lived by an inflexible code of honor.

She could, if she wished, list every restriction that code had placed upon her since their marriage. Every salon she couldn’t host, every alliance she couldn’t forge, every delicious piece of political gossip she couldn’t act upon. The list would stretch into tomorrow.

She was a capital noble, born and bred in the dog-eat-dog world of the Empire’s heart. To live within Anton’s honorable cage... what a genteel death.

At least if he had been as powerful and unassailable as Arkai Dawnoro, his rigid morality might have been a crown. But Anton would never be an Arkai, not in a hundred years.

Arkai Dawnoro was different. Among beast lords, the Northern Black Wolf was a sovereign category unto himself, a peer to human emperors.

His domain was frozen, but his influence was continental. Wolves, bears, foxes, hares, oxen, owls, tigers, including the Vasilievs and the Delanivis, despite the distance, all acknowledged his de facto leadership.

And now, that very titan was entangled in this situation.

"Come to think of it, Uncle Arkai..." Arzhen ventured, his tone careful. "Why were you in our territory that night? Were you already on your way to us? Was there... something urgent you needed?"

Arkai turned his head slowly, fixing the younger tiger with a gaze that narrowed. A lopsided smile suddenly playing on his lips. "Why? Can an uncle not visit his favorite nephew without a formal diplomatic reason?"

Arzhen flinched, caught off guard by the casual and teasing deflection. "That is not what I meant."

Hearing the slight stumble, Arkai let out a low, rumbling laugh, as if he’d won a minor, enjoyable point. "Your father’s new messenger arrived at my keep at dawn. The message stated, quite plainly, that your father ’no longer knew anything.’ It worried me. So I came."

He sighed, the sound weighted. "You hadn’t changed the courier assigned to me in twenty years. I was... surprised. The boy was Thalia’s adopted brother, wasn’t he? Budimir took him in some years back. Just a kid. I didn’t think the situation in your house had deteriorated so quickly that even the messengers were being purged."

"Ah... did I send him...?" Anton frowned, seemingly didn’t even remember that far back.

"You did," Arkai affirmed. And with his solemn tone, he left no room for doubt.

A fresh wave of discomfort visibly tightened Arzhen’s frame. He gripped his knees before forcing himself to relax. "Uncle, we are eternally grateful you saved Father. But... we were frantic with worry. Why didn’t you bring him directly home to us?"

Arkai didn’t answer immediately. His dark eyes swept over Elara, then back to Arzhen, holding them in a long beat of silence that seemed to scrape at the veneer of their concern. Finally, he shook his head slowly, as if reluctant to voice something.

"I’m not supposed to say this," he began, his voice dropping.

Arzhen’s eyes widened a fraction. Was this it? Did the Wolf King suspect them? Was that the real reason for the detour to Winter’s Keep?

Arkai let the tension stretch for a cruel second before delivering his blow with apparent regret. "Seeing how desperately ill Anton was... I knew no healer in your territory would have the skill or the resources to cure him. That is why I brought him here. To the one place I was certain he could be saved."

Elara’s eyes widened. She was clearly baffled, her dignity wounded. Her gaze, however, didn’t seek solace in her husband. It fixed directly on Arkai, turning glassy with a pitiful sheen meant for him alone.

"What are you implying, my Lord?" she breathed. "That we... that I... did not care for Anton with every resource at my disposal? That is... a cruel thing to suggest."

"We have the finest physicians gold can buy from the Empire’s capital to the southern isles," Arzhen jumped in, his frown deepening, riding the wave of her offense. "Uncle, what possible lack could we have that your frozen fortress in the north possesses?"

"You truly sound so sure it’s better than whatever we have?"

"Of course I’m sure," Arkai replied, his tone flat, their indignation didn’t mean shit to him. He shrugged, indifferent. "You don’t have a Dragon’s physician, after all."

...What?

Both mother and son stared, their offended postures freezing into disbelief.

Before they could muster a retort, a soft, wheezing chuckle broke the silence. Anton.

"My love, my son, don’t misunderstand," he said, patting Elara’s hand with an affectionate gesture. "Brother Arkai had... remarkable assistance at Mount Saede. He didn’t lose a single survivor’s soul that was buried and breathing their last, thanks to this person."

"Who...?" Elara blinked, her shock now genuine. Funny how the script of her performance was now momentarily forgotten.

"We were aided by the Dragon’s physician," Arkai stated, closing his eyes. "A person who has cured internal wounds of a dragon even the dragon himself could not heal. Who brought one back from the very brink. That is the help I secured."

Arzhen’s jaw went slack. The concept was ludicrous. Dragons were mythic forces of nature, their biology a mystery sealed by strength and rarity. No physician could study them, let alone master their treatment in their lifetime. The title ’Dragon’s physician’ was an oxymoron, a fantasy.

Yet, from Arkai’s mouth, it was presented as a simple fact.

"She cured Anton with two vials of her Miracle Elixir," Arkai continued reverently. "It was... precisely that. A miracle. But I had to rush him back. When I left for your territory, she was already preparing to depart. She does not linger in one place."

He sighed. "That’s why I was glad I could catch her and beg her to save Anton before she left. I am already more than grateful for her aid at Saede. That particular hellhole... if not for her..."

The old tiger king sighed, as if just remembering a great weight. "I didn’t even know Saede had erupted... So, that child’s prophecy finally came true..."

He trailed off, then seemed to brighten, turning to his son with a sudden fatherly demand. "Ah, right! Arzhen! You inconsiderate brat! Where is your wife? You haven’t forced her to languish in that cold temple again, have you? Bring her home. Please. Let this old man have a proper chat with her. I’ve missed her."

Arzhen froze.

Cecilia.

Now it was Arkai’s and Elara’s turn to stare at Anton, their surprise mirroring each other’s.

How much... just how much of his memory was truly gone?

Beneath the table, hidden from view, Arkai had to dig the sharp point of his own claw deep into his thigh, the sharp pain the only thing preventing a wicked grin from spreading across his face.

Crazy.

Anton wasn’t just playing confused. He was expertly and cruelly plucking the single most sensitive string in his son’s soul.