Beast Gacha System: All Mine

[Eastiel: Guys. My mom asks what color theme is the wedding.]

[Oathran: Blue. Blue, silver and gold.]

[Arkai: Would it look good though?]

[Eastiel: Oh, right! Blue is Cecilia’s favorite color! Alright, I’ll write that. And silver and gold... Elder Brother, you also like blue? Since when? You wear black all the time.]

[Oathran: ...yeah. It’s the color of the sky.]

[Arkai: Aww.]

[Eastiel: Aww.]

[Eastiel: ALRIGHT WHAT FLOWER NEXT? ROSES? WE LIKE ROSES, RIGHT?]

[Arkai: That’s fucking basi—]

[Arkai: Cece_red_lingerie_on_a_bed_of_roses.jpg]

[Arkai: Wait. Basic is good. Roses are good, actually.]

[Arkai: Sorry. Sorry. I can’t... I can’t remove that from my mind now. It’s in my frontal lobe now. Help.]

[Eastiel: Cecilia_white_lingerie_on_a_bed_of_jasmine.jpg]

[Oathran: BROTHERS. LET ME COOK IN PEACE PLEASE.]

Cecilia, sitting with her black veil on, in her loose, flowy, black desert dress appropriate for the imperial funeral, had to keep her lips flat with the conversation in her head. The corners of her mouth were twitching. Mourning? She was in the trenches.

These images...

[Oathran: Pulled_noodles.jpg]

[Oathran: Beach_schenery_hmph_I_made_this_noodles.gif]

A wholesome image of the dragon’s kitchen and pulled noodles on a tray like it was shot by a grandpa emerged. Then, an animated man on a beach, smiling with pride under the sun.

...Ah.

[Arkai: Ooh, alright, let me show you mind purifying images.]

[Arkai: Rinne_training.jpg]

An image of Rinne and Arkai wrestling on the ground entered the group chat from Arkai’s perspective. The boy’s head was clamped tight in his dad’s armpit in a tactical noogie. His little face was squeezed, his fangs drawn as he struggled to get away, one eye squinted shut, while the other one burning with I will bite your tendon rage.

What kind of mind purifying—

[Oathran: Good work. Tuff boi. 9/10 solid form.]

[Eastiel: Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Lemme get myself a mirror!]

[Eastiel: chore_selfie.jpg]

Emerged an image of Eastiel in a mirror as he held a hand mirror in front of him. He posed with a peace sign and a bright, sunshine smile that could melt butter. Behind him were the captured prisoners of war, chains connecting their wrists and ankles.

[Eastiel: They’re crying for their mommies, awwww. I told them skill issue tbh.]

Cecilia wanted to close the ’chat’ interface but she couldn’t. Her men were too stupidly funny. Thankfully, after everything that happened to her, she had cultivated the mental fortitude of a god.

This group chat that was full of men with the emotional intelligence of a pack of golden retrievers who just discovered fire was testing her day by day.

That was when the Emperor’s coffin was finally carried out into the hall. The heavy incense hit her nose, and she saw both Damon and Angela leading the procession.

The atmosphere was thick and solemn, everything quieted down into a hush, allowing the footsteps of the procession match the heartbeats of the living.

Unfortunately, Cecilia’s intrusive thought won.

[Cecilia: emperor_funeral_procession.jpg]

[Cecilia: Sorry. Didn’t mean to send that to you guys.]

[Arkai: ...]

[Oathran: ...]

[Eastiel: ...]

[Oathran: 🥀]

...?

Cecilia almost wheezed. An actual, physical snort that she had to disguise as a choked sob into her black lace handkerchief. How did the System even interpret her husbands’ mind like this?!

A single :wilted_rose: ’emoji’, the System called. The sheer, bone-dry, comedic timing. It was the most devastating roast of the Emperor’s death she had ever witnessed.

Seeing her lips grimacing, her shoulders shaking, the people in the pews thought she was distressed to see the emperor’s funeral procession. Ah, what an elegant, soulful lady, they whispered. She was empathetic and generous in her emotions. Truly a treasure.

No.

She was fighting for her life over here. She was going to dislocate a rib from holding in the laughter.

The funeral dirge was playing, and all she could hear in her head was what the System called a "vine boom" sound effect it accompanied into the 🥀, whatever it meant.

She didn’t understand why it was even funny—

What happened to her humor? Was this imported sense of stupidity came from the world where the System originated?

Make it stop...

[Arkai: So, what will be the flower again?]

[Eastiel: Jasmmmm... Cecilia?]

[Cecilia: Any flower will do.]

[Cecilia: Rose, jasmine... Oathran, what is your favorite flower?]

[Oathran: White lilies look like Cecilia the most. White lilies should be called Cecilia.]

"White lilies should be called Cecilia."

...

Cecilia blushed.

[Arkai: Make it all white, then.]

[Eastiel: Date wine as the beverage?]

[Cecilia: ...don’t start with alcohol. Push it to the night.]

[Oathran: Date wine isn’t even that strong. It’s a refreshing beverage. Barely a whisper of fermentation.]

[Cecilia: Please don’t star—]

DING-DONG!!! DING-DONG—

The funeral bell tolled, deep and sonorous. It reached into the chest of the people and rearranged the heartbeat.

The moment the casket was placed upon the dais, draped in the imperial standard, every mourner in attendance lowered their head, hands clasped.

Cecilia bowed her head with the rest of them, but behind her closed eyes, the interface flickered.

[Arkai: Since it’s not that good of a look if I come to pay my respect at the first wave of prayers, I’ll come in the late afternoon. I’ll pick you up then.]

[Cecilia: Thank you, Arkai.]

Ah, this business of kings and funerals. Arkai was a sovereign in his own right. If he appeared at the first wave of prayers, kneeling alongside the common mourners, the court’s rumor mill would grind it into something it was not.

An endorsement to the Empire. An alliance. A statement on the succession, the next in line. Better to arrive later, when the crowds had thinned and the gesture could be read as personal rather than political.

Cecilia, for her part, was already a spark in a room full of dry tinder. Lady Sees, the Dragon’s Physician, summoned urgently to tend the wounded prince, now lingering through the funeral.

The gossips would make of that what they would. But her presence had a paper trail of duty.

The prayer ended. The palace’s head priest, a man whose beard had gone white in service, stepped forward and gestured toward the dais. "A word from a beloved son... to a loving departed father."

Cecilia felt it then. A subtle shift in the air beside her, the rustle of fabric and the intake of breath that precedes action.

Ruby.

She was seated at Cecilia’s right, and she was moving. Rising. Her jaw was set, her eyes bright. She had made a decision and was already halfway through executing it.

This was her chance, Ruby thought. To deliver the accusation, telling the hall that just now, in the sacred quiet of prayer, she had received a revelation from the gods themselves. That it was the Crown Prince who had kille—

GRASP.

Cecilia’s hand closed around Ruby’s arm as if she knew exactly where the tendons lay and exactly how much pressure would render a limb immobile. She yanked the woman back down onto the pew with a force that belied her slender frame.

Ruby’s mouth fell open. Shock first, then anger. She turned, ready to demand an explanation, to hiss what are you doing through clenched teeth, "La—"

"MURDERER!"

The voice did not come from Ruby.

From across the hall, a woman surged to her feet.

It was Lady Vera.