Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 128: The Original

The rain over the capital persisted. It fell in sheets, turning the grand boulevards into long, shallow rivers of reflected lantern light, their gold and crimson bled into watery smears.

In a narrower lane, sheltered by the second-story overhangs of timbered buildings, the rain found a different melody. Here, it dripped from frayed canvas awnings in persistent, fat drops. It pattered on clusters of potted herbs, and gurgled happily in worn gutters.

The light was warmer, spilling from small, mullioned windows in honeyed pools that made the wet cobbles gleam like tiger’s eye. One such pool of light fell across the steamed-up window of a small, unassuming restaurant.

There was a simple wooden sign, darkened with age and moisture, bore the carved silhouette of a bone and the faded characters for "Old Huang’s." This was the place.

Pushing open the door triggered a soft chime and released a wave of atmosphere so thick and potent it felt like walking into a living, breathing creature.

The air was a visible, fragrant haze, rich with the soul-deep scent of broth. Beef bones simmered for days until they surrendered every last whisper of marrow, collagen, and essence.

Underneath it rode the sharp, clean notes of fresh scallions and ginger, the earthy perfume of roasted sesame oil, and the faint, yeasty promise of hand-pulled noodles waiting for their bath.

"We should bring Brother Arkai here sometimes. He’s the only one who hadn’t had the pleasure," Eastiel said, breaking a comfortable silence.

Cecilia narrowed her eyes. "How did you know Oathran had?"

Eastiel chuckled. He leaned back slightly. "I may have... mentioned it. Bragged, perhaps, that I was the one who originally introduced you to this place."

"Hmph," Cecilia snorted, shooting him a glare that held no real heat. "Petty."

The man’s smile softened. Of course he wouldn’t tell her the real reason the topic had come up. Oathran had mentioned that she told him, in what they thought were their final moments, that her last wish was to eat beef bone broth soup.

Her dying wish. Spoken as they lay side by side in the dirt, waiting for the darkness to claim them.

And if they had died... then—

"Eat more," Eastiel said abruptly, his voice a little too rough. He pushed a particularly succulent piece of meat toward her bowl, forcibly interrupting his own thoughts.

But as he focused on her, he became aware of the shifting undercurrent in the restaurant’s usual symphony of slurps and chatter.

The staff, the old man at the broth pot, the young woman refilling tea cups, kept casting fleeting, poorly disguised glances their way.

The low hum of conversation at nearby tables seemed to dip when Cecilia laughed, then rise again in a buzz.

Finally, Eastiel’s sharper feline ears, attuned to whispers in court and alley alike, isolated the thread of gossip weaving through the fragrant steam.

"...she brought a different man not long ago, remember? Long white hair, looked like a noble..."

"I thought she’d broken up with this one. It was quite the scene before, always arguing..."

"Looks like they made up, huh? Good for them. The other one was too... intense."

PFFFF—COUGH!

A spray of broth misted the air as Eastiel choked violently. He doubled over, a fist pressed to his mouth as his lungs seized, burning from the shock as much as the soup.

Cecilia blinked in surprise, patting his back. "What’s wrong? Too much pepper?"

"Cough—cough, cough, nothing," Eastiel managed to rasp, his face turning a shade of red that had nothing to do with asphyxiation. He waved a hand, trying to downplay it, but his mind was reeling.

They thought... he was the original? The steady beau? And when Cecilia had brought Oathran, the majestic Oathran, ancient noblest of noble, they’d assumed she’d traded up, or moved on from a fiery, argumentative relationship? And now, with him back at her side, the good people of Old Huang’s had neatly written it off as a lovers’ reconciliation?

He, the Golden Lion King, was being pitied and then congratulated by noodle-shop philosophers for "working things out" with his "girl," after her brief, mysterious fling with an intense white-haired stranger?

Aaaaaaaaaahhh...

He took a shuddering gulp of tea, the laughter still bubbling dangerously in his chest. He caught Cecilia’s still-confused eye and just shook his head, a real, helpless grin breaking through. "It’s nothing," he repeated, his voice hoarse with mirth. "Just... the soup is particularly good today."

Of course.

Of fucking course.

He felt like the world was his again. Yes. He was the original. The one who belonged by her side. He was the one who was supposed to have her. He was supposed to be hers since the very beginning! Him! As hers! Always!

Not that shaggy northern wolf! Not that... that old fossil of a sky lizard!

Him!

Well, not that he hated them or anything. He just wanted it to be acknowledged.

And the bone broth soup philosophers of Old Huang’s had!

With their nods and their whispers, they had anointed him the returned king of Cecilia’s heart.

Heh.

A smug, ridiculous smile refused to leave his lips.

The rain had finally eased to a gentle mist by the time they finished, the world outside the steamed windows softened and quiet. Eastiel, in a gesture of uncharacteristic largesse, pulled Cecilia from her seat and left a small pile of gold coins on the tray, far more than the meal was worth.

Stepping back into the damp, cool air of the lane, he took a deep breath. The city smelled clean.

"So, our next stop is...?" he asked, tucking her hand firmly into the crook of his arm.

Cecilia grinned up at him. Then she playfully bumped his arm with her entire body, from hip to rib.

"To hubby’s place," she said, her voice a singsong tease.

Eastiel froze.

His feet rooted to the wet cobblestones. Every muscle locked. This. This was the other side of the coin. This was the exact reason he’d spent half his life around her wanting to turn on his heel and flee.

She could dismantle him with a word, a look, a shift of her weight. And she’d just done it without even getting mad, without even gifting him one of those smiles that made him feel shy.

She’d done it with a title and the full, warm length of her body against his.

Fuck.

The triumphant warmth in his chest combusted, transforming into a different, more urgent heat that raced south with alarming speed. The pride from the restaurant was instantly swallowed by the beast within.

He looked down at her.

"Good," he rasped. He started walking again, pulling her along with him toward the quieter streets that led to his official residence in the capital. "Let me finally explain to you why I’m hard half of the damn time."