Beast Gacha System: All Mine

Morning came quickly in the palace. The corridors that had held hysteria and blood and the silence of conspiracy now held something else. Efficiency, protocol, the machinery of state that continued functioning even when the head that had directed it was removed.

The Emperor’s body had been cleaned, the blood that had pooled and sprayed and soaked now washed away by hands that did not tremble.

The wounds were stitched, the claw gashes that had opened his torso and arm drawn together by professionals, embalmers who understood that the dead must appear asleep rather than slaughtered.

Ones who could create a suggestion of peace rather than violence, viewable by those who would need to believe in the continuity of power.

Prepared for the casket.

Zircon Iondora now reduced to object, to cargo, to the weight that would require carrying and lowering and covering with earth or stone or whatever ritual the new emperor would decide appropriate.

The announcement... of his death, emerged through channels that had been established for this purpose, though not recently used.

Heralds at the palace gates. Riders dispatched to provincial centers. The system of bells that rang in sequences comprehensible only to those who had been trained to interpret them.

The people heard.

Not specific people. Just the people, the collective, the mass that was also the foundation of imperial power, the substrate upon which all performances rested.

They heard that their emperor was dead.

The reaction was not immediate. First, the silence of many people in many places stopping their activities, their conversations, their thoughts, to receive information that did not yet have meaning.

Then the murmur, the sound of meaning being constructed, of narrative being assembled from fragments that had been circulating for days.

The Saintess’s prophecy.

The connection emerged from the organic networks of rumor and interpretation, the same channels that had carried the prophecy itself, that had transformed Ruby’s announcement into common knowledge.

The people remembered. Had never stopped remembering, in fact, for the satisfaction of prediction fulfilled.

They had been warned.

The water had been cupped, and the water had run through, and now they stood in the aftermath. The wetness of it... felt strange.

They were not used to it.

Arkai Dawnoro’s death prophecy was inaccurate. The prophecy was framed as the truth already. Yet it was wrong.

But the Emperor’s death was... fulfilled? The prophecy was framed as a warning. Yet it was inevitable.

The Saintess’ prophecies felt... strange!

People couldn’t help but to compare. The former Saintess, the one branded a fake... her prophecy never felt strange.

She gave them hope. She gave them a sense of humanity where everything could be prevented with enough preparation. She gave them... security.

Strange, because all the ’fake’ predicted was disasters.

So why... why did this true Saintess’ prophecy, although more reassuring, sweet, palatable... felt... vague?

The Emperor was dead. The water had found its level.

And somewhere in the spaces between these facts, the people began to construct the next phase of their belief and suspicion.

The next thing they’d want to know was ’who’.

’Who’ killed Zircon Iondora?

***

Ruby sat in her guest room, the mourning saintess robe settled around her. The black fabric absorbed what little light filtered through the high windows.

A round magic crystal on the table before her glowed with its own internal luminescence, the blue-white of distant communication.

She had arranged herself carefully for this, posture straight but not rigid, expression composed but not cold, the balance of bereavement and capability that her role required.

The Saintess who had prophesied death must now perform its aftermath and embody the gravity of her function while maintaining the accessibility that made her prophecies believable.

The crystal flickered, resolved, revealed.

Nikolas Delanivis looked at her with a gentle smile. His face was thinner than she remembered, the cheekbones more pronounced, shadows beneath his eyes that the crystal’s glow could not disguise.

The war, she understood immediately. Did they lose a lot?

"Thank you for your hard work for the world, Ruby. You must’ve been tired."

"No. It can’t be compared to you... The war... How is it?"

"Honestly, it has been a struggle." His smile faltered. "Father is angry all the time, except when he hears about you. Your prophecy had pleased him a lot despite our losses. The Edengold is indeed a difficult enemy."

Once again, her value was confirmed. Her position was secured through the satisfaction of her father-in-law. The Delanivis patriarch, angry, pleased by death, measuring victory in prophecy rather than territory.

Pathetic.

"Nik... You look gaunt. Did you lose some weight?" She asked. "I’m sorry I can’t be there now..."

"It’s okay. You go do what’s best." Nikolas dismissed. "I... I will be fine. We will win. Father is sure we will win."

"I will always pray for our victory."

Ruby didn’t so much as to sweat. This was just as expected when she heard about the war.

"Right. Also..." Nikolas’ tone shifted, the gentle smile transforming into something else. Stern. Dark. "Please, Ruby. Since the prophecy has been fulfilled, make sure to bring us victory."

Here we go. These demands again.

Ruby gently smiled, the expression that matched his earlier gentleness. "Of course. I will ask the gods who killed the emperor. And then... I will reveal it all to the world."

She had her own plans.

"Be careful. Make sure everything you said is the truth."

Nikolas’ warning was also instruction. Thanks to their recent experience, it was also the recognition that her power was fragile. Now, a single wrong prophecy would collapse everything she had constructed.

"Of course. See you soon."

"See you soon."

The crystal cracked and burst into sparkling dust, the connection severing. Ruby sat in the silence of her guest room, disgusted. It had ended when those men showed her who they truly were.

But with them attached to her like this, she had no choice but to find a way to control them.

Power, again, was the answer.

The water had run through their fingers, and now she must predict where it would flow next, must cup it again, must be seen to cup it, must be believed.