Beast Gacha System: All Mine

"I understand that you have made supervising me your priority." Roarke said dryly. "But for this particular matter, I prefer taking the trip to explain to the Lady myself."

He said this without making any move to hide anything. His hands remained visible and his posture remained open. The raven, Lost, had relocated to his shoulder and was preening indifferently. It had witnessed far worse than this minor standoff.

Bimo’s smile did not waver. If anything, it brightened. Which was, in Roarke’s experience, the most dangerous possible development.

"Then," Bimo said, tilting his head innocently, "how can we determine whether you are telling the truth about whatever message you receive or not?"

He leaned forward, folding both arms on the windowsill and resting his chin atop them. Lazy, casual, like a boy with nowhere to be and nothing to hide. Which was, of course, the most damning thing about it. Bimo always had somewhere to be. Bimo always had everything to hide.

Roarke pulled the message capsule from Lost’s leg. The tube was small and unremarkable, the usual message container that could hold anything from a love note to a death warrant. He held it between two fingers, letting Bimo see it clearly, then extended his hand.

"You hold it." The tube hovered in the space between them. "But do not open it. We will go to the Lady together, then I will open it in front of her."

Bimo’s eyes lit up like a child who had just been handed a festival sweet. "That is what I am talking about!"

The tube disappeared into the seam of Bimo’s robes with a speed that would have impressed a stage magician. One moment it was there, glinting in the candlelight, the next, it was simply gone, swallowed by the fabric as though it had never existed at all.

"Should we go out to collect medicinal herbs that only grow at night, Father?" Bimo asked brightly, helpfully, like an acolyte eager to assist his mentor. "The ones that bloom under starlight?"

Ah. The ones that were very rare. Very plausible too.

Roarke listened to this boy deliver his prepared excuse. He sounded like he had been doing this since before he could walk, and felt something between admiration and exhaustion settle in his chest.

This was why Bimo had been placed with him. Not merely to watch, but more accurately, to handle him. To provide the cover that Roarke, for all his skills, could not manufacture on the fly.

Because here was the uncomfortable truth. Roarke knew just enough about healing to maintain his cover. His line of work as an assassin this past decade had taught him anatomy, poisons, the precise locations of organs and the exact pressure required to stop them functioning.

But that was not the same as healing. He was a man using someone else’s medicine, someone else’s knowledge, someone else’s credibility.

If pressed, he could fabricate an excuse. He could lie with the best of them. But confidence? The unshakable, butter-wouldn’t-melt conviction of a true healer discussing rare nocturnal herbs?

That might be more of Bimo’s territory.

And Bimo knew it.

Rather than fumbling for excuses, Roarke’s instinct was to wait. To let the temple fall into the deep silence of midnight, then slip through the shadows undetected. That was what he was good at.

But Bimo’s way was faster. Smoother. Louder in its invisibility.

Roarke prepared his equipment. His winter, unbadged priest coat, plain, serviceable, the garment of a humble temple healer. His bag, filled with the tools of his supposed trade, plus a few items that would not bear close inspection. He was ready.

Bimo, by contrast, wore nothing but his simple acolyte’s robe. He reached out and plucked Roarke’s bag from his hands, the way an assisting servant would.

"Do you think we will see fireflies today, Father Rohan?"

The question was innocent and Bimo’s eyes were wide, a young man finding wonder in the mundane.

Roarke looked at him.

And despite knowing exactly what this boy was, what he had done, what he was capable of, Roarke felt the familiar ache bloom in his chest.

"I do not know." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Let us see."

It was the boy’s youth that did it. The roundness of his cheeks. The brightness of his eyes. Every time Roarke looked at Bimo, he saw Rinne. His own son. His boy, with eyes like the sky had collapsed, with a face that had crumbled in real time as words that could never be taken back reached his ears.

Roarke had made his own son hear something he was not supposed to hear.

The image of that night looped endlessly, a wound that refused to scar over. Rinne had heard something Roarke could never explain, never justify, never undo. And now, every young face became Rinne’s face. Every bright-eyed boy became a reminder of the one he had failed.

Roarke was deep in this familiar, exhausting spiral of guilt when they turned a corner in the temple corridor—

And passed the very person he had been sent here for.

Saintess Ruby Vaiva.

"Ah, S-Saintess Vaiva! Good evening!"

Bimo’s voice stumbled exactly the right amount. Not too much, not too little. Exactly the way a lowly temple servant caught off-guard by the sudden appearance of his spiritual superior was.

His bow was a fraction too deep, his eyes a fraction too wide, his entire demeanor radiating the harmless awkwardness of a boy who had never done anything more scandalous than forget to sweep the eastern corridor.

Flawless, Roarke thought, not for the first time.

"Hello. Ah, Father... Rohan Raul, was it? And..." Ruby’s voice trailed off exactly where Bimo had calculated it would. Her eyes passed over him like water over a stone. Just like that, Bimo was immediately forgotten.

She did not know his name or ever bothered to learn it. Why would she? There were hundreds of servant boys like him in this capital temple. That was just how good the boy was.

He bowed, casually dignifiedly. After all he was just a healer who had nothing to prove. "Yes, Saintess. Good evening." he gestured slightly toward his companion. "This one is just Bimo. He has been helping me around the temple."

"Oh, yes. Take care."

Ruby nodded, waved, and continued past them. She looked like she had more important places to be and Roarke wasn’t about to protest.

Roarke and Bimo resumed walking. Their pace did not change since both of them were seasoned professionals in the arts of infiltration, disguise, and espionage. A near miss with a Saintess was barely worth acknowledging.

Which was why, when Ruby’s voice rang out behind them, neither of them flinched.

"Excuse me, Father Raul."

They turned. Synchronized and just as unhurried.

"Yes, Saintess?"

Ruby’s smile was pleasant as she made idle conversation. "Weren’t you the healer who helped Prince Arzhen Vasiliev regain his consciousness?"