Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 91: Princess

"Umm... then... Uncle Dad...?"

Rinne’s voice hesitantly cut through the comfortable dinner chatter.

"BHWAHAHHWAHAHAWHAHAHHAHAH—"

BLAM!

Oathran immediately passed away. He doubled over, his horns thumping against the solid oak table, shoulders shaking violently as he gasped for air between wheezing, honking paroxysms of pure mirth.

He looked less like the great Dragon Lord and more like a man who had just been spiritually assassinated by a teenager.

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"

Arkai followed a split second later, his own roar of laughter deeper, more ragged. He clapped a hand over his eyes, as if trying to physically shield himself from the title, but his entire body was convulsing.

He slid halfway down his chair, dignifiedly wrecked.

Across the table, Anton Vasiliev froze, a spoonful of broth suspended halfway to his mouth. He was confused, his jaw unhinged in shock, his throat trying to remember how to swallow.

Cecilia simply closed her eyes and brought her fingertips to her temples, applying steady pressure. A deep, soul-weary sigh escaped her. Of course.

The person in question, Eastiel, the Werelion King, the newest and most volatile addition to this chaotic constellation, blinked. Then, the blood rushed to his face in a single wave. His sun kissed skin turned a shade of crimson so vibrant it seemed to glow.

"WHO’S YOUR UNCLE DAD?!" he roared, the title tearing from his throat like an insult.

"But you’re barely twenty years older than me!" Rinne protested, his young face earnestly confused. He pointed a finger. "Lord Father is 102 years old!" The finger swung. "And God Father is... uh..." He paused, brow furrowed, and leaned toward Cecilia, dropping his voice to a stage whisper the entire table could hear. "God Father is how old, Lord Mother...?"

"Four hundred and thirty," Cecilia supplied dryly, not opening her eyes.

Rinne’s eyes went wide with realization. He turned back to the steaming Eastiel, his voice rising with logic. "Four hundred thirty! You’re barely older than that bad cousin of mine!"

He then promptly leaned back toward Cecilia, whispering again, this time with genuine awe. "What? God Father is that old...?"

It was the final blow.

"BHAWHAHAWHWAHHAHAHWHAHAH—"

Oathran saw the light.

From the depths of the table, a fresh, wheezing keen emerged. Oathran had been trying to recover and was sent right back over the edge.

"Who wants to be called anything by you?!" Eastiel shot to his feet, his chair screeching back. He pointed a trembling finger at Rinne, his face still a spectacular, mortified red. "Just call me ’Lord’ or ’Your Majesty’ like every other person!"

Rinne, unfazed by the fury, tilted his head. "But you’re not even my uncle’s age," he reasoned. "’Uncle Dad’ is already a compromise. Do you... want me to call you ’Brother Dad’ instead? That sounds weirder."

"BRO—" Eastiel’s protest died in a strangled gasp as another wave of hysterics hit the table.

"BAHWAHHAHWAHAHWHAHWHA—Cec—Ark—anyon—end my sufferi—" Oathran leaned sideways on the chair, deflated.

Arkai, who had managed to regain a sliver of composure, lost it again at ’Brother Dad’. A choked, wet sound escaped him— "—ugh—pffft—" before he buried his face in his napkin, his shoulders quaking violently.

Ah. The Lion King’s dignity was in tatters.

"STOP LAUGHING, YOU OLD FOSSILS!"

Before the dinner dishes were served, Arkai had gathered his captains and the guards of his own keep. He posed one question. How did she get past you?

The answers, when pieced together, painted a familiar picture. Elara Vasiliev, of course, had not used magic or muscle. She had employed the oldest, most insidious weapons in a courtier’s arsenal. Social manipulation, strategic distraction, and the presumption of privilege.

She’d used the standard noblewoman’s playbook. A dropped handkerchief requiring assistance, a sudden, fainting spell near a post, a request for directions delivered with vulnerable, wide-eyed distress.

When subtle bribery with jewels that was instantly reported by his loyal wolves, failed, she switched tactics. She cleverly exploited chain-of-command confusion and the natural deference to a ’lady of her station’.

’Cousin Arkai summoned me for a private word.’

’I only wish to catch a glimpse of my husband’s window, to ease my heart.’

She’d never asked to be taken directly to Arkai’s wing. She’d asked for innocuous, adjacent things, weaving a path herself from one ’helpful’ servant to the next, each thinking they were aiding a grieving wife, not a venomous infiltrator.

Arkai’s jaw tightened as the report concluded. The failure was systemic. Perhaps more like a breach in their cultural defense against guile, not their physical security.

Of course, he moved to fix it. Those who had been willfully negligent were punished. Those who had been naively trusting were disciplined, re-drilled on protocol until the words ’access is never granted without direct, verified permission from the Alpha or his Beta’ were etched into their bones.

It would not happen again.

The man returned to Cecilia’s side and ate dinner with everyone else, only to get into this situation.

Family, huh...

Cecilia finished her meal quietly amidst the lingering aftershocks of the ’Uncle Dad’ incident. Pleading a need for air, she excused herself. She waved off the immediate offers, from Oathran’s raised brow, Arkai’s concerned look, even Rinne’s and Eastiel’s eager hop to their feet.

But when Anton Vasiliev slowly pushed back his chair, offering an arm, she accepted with a small smile.

The Father and Former-Daughter-in-law walked side by side through Winter’s Keep’s moon-drenched corridors. It was silent. The only sounds were the whisper of their steps on stone and the distant howl of the wind beyond the walls.

After a few peaceful heartbeats, a shared chuckle passed between them. Of course, what the fuck was their life now, right?

"How’s your body, Father?" Cecilia asked warmly.

Anton’s smile was small in the dim light. "Not bad at all," he said. "The body remembers how to live, it seems. Especially when given a reason."

"I see," Cecilia nodded.

They walked on, their path diverging from the well-trodden routes to the keep’s older architecture. The bones of the fortress, untouched by recent renovations. The air grew colder, smelling of ancient stone and packed earth.

This was the deep, silent spine of Winter’s Keep, a place of storerooms, old armories, and... well, secrets.

They arrived at a heavy, iron-bound door at the end of a narrow passage, far from any murmur of life. A pair of Arkai’s personal guards stood watch, their postures relaxed but their eyes missing nothing.

They recognized Anton immediately, and their gaze flicked to Cecilia with a flicker of something like awe. Without a word, they bowed at them and pushed the door inward.

The room beyond was a secure infirmary. Spartan, clean, warmed by a banked hearth. And in it, three figures who had been resting on cots or pacing the limited floor space jolted to attention at the sound of the door.

Three tigers. Their forms were near-humanoid or half-beast now, still with the predatory grace and the keen tension.

Gregor. Thalia. Piotr.

Their eyes landed first on Anton. Their lord, alive and walking. Relief washed over them. "Lord—"

Then their gaze slid to the woman beside him.

"Huh? P-Princess...!"

Princess. What a nostalgic title.

How long had it been since they’d seen her?