Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 111: First Steps

As they waited for Angel’s Baby to churn out the required gallons of diluting potion, Cecilia finally had a stretch of uninterrupted time. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

She settled into a quiet corner of the vast castle and dove deep into her System. It was inventory-sorting time. A chore, yes, organizing the glittering, sometimes-embarrassing haul from her recent gacha sprees. But it was necessary.

Between evaluating potions and contemplating the strategic use of the artifacts, she would occasionally drift down to the alchemist’s work chamber.

During one such visit, the System chimed softly in her mind.

[Excellent quality potion! Cecilia, your contracted craftsman is exceptionally talented!]

A tiny smirk touched her lips. "More talented than the Dragon Lord and the Lion King at this, I suppose?"

[In the specific, refined craft of potion synthesis, yes!]

The System confirmed in admiration.

[She achieves a purity and potency comparable to the legendary elixirs of gods and monarchs... and does so in a fraction of the time. Her efficiency metrics are off the charts.]

"True," Cecilia murmured, watching the shimmering liquid settle into perfect, opalescent clarity. The woman was an artist. A genius trapped in a broken system.

But alas...

"I want to pay the favor. After that, please leave me alone. No further contact."

Too bad.

It seemed the only alchemist who wasn’t a swindler was the one who had sworn off the craft entirely.

Therefore, Cecilia was surprised when, standing on the path to her cottage, with the dragon waiting in the background, the same woman had stammered out a different future.

"A-as long as you bring me back here after each batch is done... I-I-I’m fine with helping out... occasionally."

...

...

...

"Your Majesty!" she squealed, whirling to slap Oathran’s arm with excited, open-palmed thumps. "She agrees! She’ll work with us!"

Oathran’s eyes warmed. "Good," he rumbled.

Cecilia turned back to the stunned alchemist, her expression shifting to one of warm delight. "That’s a wonderful decision," she said, her voice softening. "Truly. Now, let’s do proper introductions. My name is Cecilia Araceli." She gestured beside her. "And this is my first husband, Oathran Alicei."

"And my name is Bessa—what?" Bessa’s brain short-circuited completely. Her eyes, wide with processing the first name, snapped to the horned man, then back to the beautiful, smiling woman. "...who?"

Cecilia Araceli. The reportedly fake and disgraced Saintess.

No. No, wait.

Oathran Alicei—first husband...?

No, no, no, no, not that yet—

Her gaze locked on the man with the majestic horns, the memory of the impossible castle, the casual reality-altering magic. The pieces she’d been too terrified to properly examine now slammed together with a boom.

"ISN’T HE THE DRAGON LORD?!"

***

Nikolas Delanivis rode north with the two vials of shimmering liquid against his chest. Each jostle of his discreet carriage felt like a punctuation mark on his humiliation. How could it not? He, the White Wolf Prince, heir to the frozen reaches, yet he had been reduced to a clandestine courier for a back-alley remedy.

Qinryc’s smug smile, the casual mention of a pre-order, the whole sordid transaction conducted in shadows. It was galling. He was stooping so low the permafrost scraped his chin, all for the man whose weakness had made this necessary.

His own father.

Ha.

The landscape hardened around him, the verdant edges of the south giving way to the skeletal trees and iron-grey skies of his territory. The air grew sharp, biting through his furs. His father’s fortress, the seat of Delanivis power, loomed ahead as he crossed the final ridge.

It was an imposing structure of dark stone and sharp timber, built to intimidate, yes. But as its silhouette cut into the twilight, a different and older memory surfaced. One that twisted the knife of his present resentment.

He’d been a boy, perhaps ten, when his father had deigned to send a delegation to a rare autumn celebration hosted by the Dawnoros. It had been meant as a lesson in observing rivals. The journey had felt like entering another world. And then he’d seen it.

Winter’s Keep.

His child’s eyes had been wide, taking in the sprawling, formidable bulk of the fortress city of Winter’s Keep. He’d thought it the pinnacle of power, the largest, most grand residence he could imagine. A true king’s seat.

Now, as a man, the comparison was a fresh bruise on his pride.

His family’s fortress residence was imposing, carved from the living granite of a glacial moraine, its towers like sharpened teeth against the grey sky. It was everything his people valued. Unyielding, practical, dominating.

But seeing it now, with the memory of Winter’s Keep overlaying it, made it look... puny. Not in dignity, perhaps, but in scale. In sheer presence.

Arkai Dawnoro’s domain was a fortress-city stamped into the frozen earth of a vast, glacial plateau. It spread outward, an expanse of smoke-dark timber, black iron, and mortared stone the color of storm clouds. All ringed by a palisade of entire sharpened pine trunks twice the height of a giant.

Where the Delanivis stronghold was a dagger of granite, Winter’s Keep was a sprawled, low-slung war beast, its back laden with industry.

Forge-halls whose vents belched heat-haze into the cold, squat armories, barracks complexes that resembled stacked stone teeth, and granaries dug deep into the permafrost.

The central keep was a colossal, fortified mound, a man-made hill of layered stone and iron-reinforced timber. Its roof was a steep, angular slope designed to shed meters of snow. It blotted out the sky as much as it dominated the horizon.

Power. It screamed power, and that’s it.

It spoke of an Alpha who commanded a territory so vast and rich it required a literal city to administer its defense and its yield. This was arctic spartanism expressed through staggering scale.

His father’s stronghold, for all its history and sharp pride, was a well-crafted spear. But Arkai’s was the entire armory, the forge that made it, and the frozen plain upon which an army could be assembled to wield ten thousand more.

Nikolas dismounted in the inner courtyard of his own, comparatively slender fortress. The familiar scents of pine smoke, wet stone, and wolf greeting him felt like buzzing noise.

He had secured the means to perhaps wake his father, to salvage their crippled, concentrated power. But the victory tasted like ash.

He’d stooped, he’d bargained, and he’d been reminded that even at their full strength, they were still looking across a vast, occupied plain at a power that had mastered the very ground.

The healing would be just the first step.

But why did it feel like just another first step after failed first steps?

When would the opportunity come?

"Nik?"

That voice. A sound like spun sugar, piercing the grim shell of his thoughts. It was a voice that could soften steel in one breath.

Nikolas didn’t have a choice. The sound of it was a hook in his sternum. He turned stiffly.

"Ruby..."

She stood framed in the arched doorway leading to the family quarters, backlit by the warm, golden glow of firelight that did nothing to reach the winter in his veins.

She was smiling wearily, showing shared burdens and gentle concern. The Saintess’s smile. His Ruby’s smile.

"You’re back."

Ahh...

The light that no longer warmed him.