Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 60: Eastiel Edengold

"Brother, they’ve all arrived," Elias announced.

Eastiel looked up from the map scarred with potential troop movements and gave a single, tight nod. "What about Arkai Dawnoro?"

The Black Wolf King occupied a specific chamber in Eastiel’s mind, one of the few lords whose respect for the Saintess had been pure, untainted by political maneuvering. Age and seniority aside, Eastiel held a deep, genuine regard for the man. He was a king in the old mold, like Eastiel’s own father, Eliam.

When Eliam had finally succumbed to his old battle wounds seven years ago, Arkai had come to pay his respects. The Werelion King had been a century older, but both knew the Black Wolf’s monstrous vitality would far outstrip Eliam’s lifespan. In their world, strength dictated longevity as much as it did territory.

At the funeral, Arkai had sought Eastiel out. His words had stayed with him, even until today.

"Your father was one of my greatest role models. A better king than my own father ever was."

"But he wasn’t as strong as you, my Lord," the younger Eastiel had replied.

Arkai had shaken his head, a smile touching his lips. "Being a leader is not about brute force alone. Yes, it helps in our world. But wisdom is the true scepter. You, boy, inherited that from him." His dark eyes had assessed him, seeing beyond the grief. "And I see now you’ve inherited far more strength than you’ll ever need."

He’d patted Eastiel’s shoulder then.

Eastiel had understood. They were the same.

Offspring who had vaulted past the diminishing returns of recent generations, a return of the primal legacy. Kings born not just to rule, but to redefine what their lines could be. Destined to restore a dimmed family name to its former glory.

Eastiel and Arkai were far stronger than their recent forefathers.

The truth of it had been proven in fire and ash just days ago. The new Saintess’s prophecy, that he should have died heroically deflecting Mount Saede’s fury, and the reality that he lived, the eruption tamed, was all the confirmation the continent needed. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

Whether by his own impossible power, sheer luck, or that Ruby Vaiva’s prophecy was just bullshit, which, let’s be honest, it likely was, Arkai Dawnoro’s name had ascended from legend to something nearer to myth.

His presence here would sway eighty percent of the gathered lords without a single word. His endorsement would transform a revenge pact into a righteous crusade.

But...

"Not yet, Brother," Elias said. "I think he’s neck-deep in his own territory’s recovery. A tragedy of that scale... then a betrayal from the Vasilievs, and that brazen power grab by the Delanivis? His plate is full."

"Wouldn’t that make him more inclined to join us, then?" Eastiel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The logic was there, but Elias’s point held weight. "You’re right. We’re being hasty. We’d be asking him to look outward when his people still need him inward. It would be... presumptuous."

He was a good king, after all. The kind who put his people’s well-being before even a perfectly justified war.

"No matter. For now, we go greet them all," Eastiel declared, pushing himself up from his seat.

The moment he rose, the world tilted. His body swayed like a ship caught in a sudden squall. His knees buckled, almost depositing him back onto the chair.

"Brother!" Elias’s hand shot out, gripping his arm. "I think we should tell them to rest first. You need to rest. Brother, you cannot afford to look weak if you mean to seize control of this war!"

Eastiel steadied himself, but instead of agreeing, a grin stretched across his gaunt face. Wicked. It was fever-bright, but it didn’t touch the dead ice in his eyes. "You have it backwards, Elias," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Grief, too, is a potent weapon. And from a shared well of grief, we can draw up a tide of shame. I’m not just their host, Elias. I’m still selling them a righteous cause."

He turned, his hands coming up to grasp his brother’s shoulders, the grip vise-tight. He leaned in, his gaze locking onto Elias’s, the warmth of family replaced by something far colder.

"But look at me, Brother," Eastiel growled. His eyes were narrowed, stripped of all pretense, all softness. "Do I look weak at all to you?"

Elias’s own eyes widened, his breath catching.

Despite the all-consuming sadness that hollowed his cheeks, despite the frail frame that seemed carved from shadow and sleepless nights, Eastiel had never looked more dangerous.

The grief of a broken man?

No.

It was the rage of a man who had turned his own shattering into a weapon. The sorrow was the fuel, and the flame it fed was pure wrath.

His brother today... was wrath given flesh.

"Let’s go," Eastiel said, releasing him. He straightened his spine, forcing his gait into something regal. The more he ignored the grief and exhaustion written plainly across his body, the more terrifying the contrast became.

Here was the broken Lion King, marching himself toward a battlefield.

And Elias could only watch, a cold knot of awe and dread tightening in his chest.

Brother... he thought, is it too late to simply wish for your happiness?

It was in fact... too late.

The summons had been specific. Gather at the Zenith Hour, within the high-walled Courtyard of Sundered Stone, deep in the heart of the Edengold Pride’s desert fortress.

It was not at all a gentle midday. The sun should have been a hammer on an anvil, beating the world into bleached silence. Instead, a broiling storm had coiled over the Badawi Wastes since dawn.

A ceiling of bruised, swollen clouds smothered the sky, turning the searing light into a diffuse glare that pressed down without illuminating. The heat remained, trapped and heavy, mingling with the promise of rain that refused to fall. The desert’s fury held in check, making the air thick enough to choke on.

The courtyard, open to this oppressive vault, was a crucible. Light fell not in beams, but in a dull, metallic sheen, making the ancient stone walls and the assembled lords look etched in tarnished silver.

Tribal chieftains whose people had escaped slaughter because of a letter. Merchant lords whose caravans had avoided ambush. Ministers whose necks had been saved from political, or literal nooses... And among them, the opportunists, seeing a ladder to climb.

Then, the great carved doors at the courtyard’s far end groaned inward.

All movement ceased.

Eastiel Edengold emerged from the shadowed archway into the muted, storm-lit noon.

The sight of him was a shock.

Gaunt was too soft a word. He was pared down to essence, to bone and sinew and a will that seemed to vibrate just beneath his skin. The formal, light-colored desert robes hung on his frame like a banner on a spear, highlighting every hollow, every sharp line that spoke of a body consuming itself.

In the flat, ominous light, the shadows under his eyes were gashes of fatigue. Yet, within them, his gaze burned. A focused, gem-like intensity that saw through the gloom, through pretense, straight to the core of every person present.

And then he smiled.

Yes, in a way, it was still the warm, generous smile of the golden prince they remembered. But also... different. It was a sudden fracture in the storm-light. Brilliant. Incandescent. The sun, breaking violently through the iron cloud-veil for one impossible second.

He was the sun that appeared during a cyclone. A breathtaking, dreadful beauty that spoke not of calm, but of the eye of the storm, of a temporary stillness before the final, devastating wind.

Even behind a veil of dark clouds, a sun is still a sun. And one could still blind.

He stopped before them.

"Thank you... for coming, my lords and ladies."

He began.

"I am sorry to deliver you... grave news."

Eastiel’s gaze, that burning, sun-through-clouds intensity, swept across them before it faltered, his eyes cast down.

"Our Saintess... Cecilia Araceli, has passed."