Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 173: Special Human

Scholomance Athenaeum didn’t have much bustle today. The corridors were holding its breath. The gossiping whispers that usually filled the corridors were now hushed, urgent things, punctuated by fearful glances.

The news of the refectory incident, the slap, the roar, the brutal, soundless dismantling of Arzhen Vasiliev, had spread like a shockwave, leaving behind a landscape of silent dread.

It was into this charged quiet that Professor Baswara and Serayu arrived, their teleportation a stark crack of displaced air in the Headmaster’s private courtyard.

They strode, Baswara’s usual academic rumble replaced by a palpable, bristling urgency, Serayu a silent, violet-eyed shadow at his side.

They found Lazuardi in his office, but he was not at his desk. He stood by the window, staring out at the too-quiet campus, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his knuckles white.

Baswara didn’t bother with greetings. "Where’s the boy?" he demanded, barking into the quiet.

Lazuardi flinched, a minute twitch of his shoulders, before turning slowly. His face was pale, the lines around his mouth deeply etched. He looked... unsettled, in a way that had nothing to do with administrative trouble.

He shook his head. "I don’t think it’s wise to meet him now."

"What do you mean?!" Baswara boomed, taking a step forward. The old battle-mage’s presence seemed to swell, making the spacious office feel cramped.

A slender, cool hand settled on Baswara’s forearm. Serayu. The professor’s furious energy banked, though his glare remained fixed on Lazuardi.

Serayu’s violet eyes held the Headmaster’s. "What happened?"

Lazuardi seemed to gather himself with an effort. He gestured to the chairs, but no one sat. Instead, he led them to a scrying panel embedded in his wall, its surface still faintly shimmering with residual mana.

With a few swift gestures, he called forth a playback of magical signatures and audio logs from the refectory’s security wards.

He explained, his voice tight. He described Cecilia Araceli’s tempestuous entrance, her tears, the shocking slap. Then, the seismic response.

Oathran’ roar, which wasn’t mere sound but a concussive wave of raw, unshielded mana that had spiked the school’s ambient magical readings into the danger zone and physically rattled the ancient stones. The wards had briefly overloaded.

Then came the... correction. Lazuardi’s narrative grew halting as he described what followed. Oathran’s retaliation against Arzhen had been a terrifying display of control so absolute it bordered on the surreal.

There was no visible flurry of blows, no dramatic magic. Just a series of precise, devastating impacts that seemed to occur between heartbeats, delivered with a detached, almost scholarly calm.

The security logs showed mana fluctuations so sharp and localized they looked like surgical incisions in reality itself. The boy had moved with a weight and finality that belied his human form, his power not flaring, but condensing.

Lazuardi confessed the worst of it. The fear. A deep, instinctual, bone-knowing fear that had gripped him when he’d intervened. The boy’s gaze, when it had turned on him, held a dismissive and ancient recognition.

The word he’d used, ’skyborn’, had been a key turning in a lock Lazuardi didn’t know he possessed, silencing him utterly. He, the headmaster of the most prestigious magic academy on the continent, a being of considerable hidden power himself, had felt like a novice facing a wrathful primeval force.

They all knew Oathran was special. Baswara’s ward. But this... this was not talent. This was sovereignty. A power awakening under the lash of catastrophic emotion, revealing a depth that none of them had fully comprehended.

The carefully managed countdown was unraveling, and the ’key’ was no longer a passive artifact awaiting its fate. He was a storm, and he was looking for Cecilia.

Baswara finally broke the heavy silence, his voice rough. He turned his head towards the window, looking across the vast distances between kingdoms, towards a specific point in the sky.

"Is there still no news from Jenggala?"

***

Night descended.

The velvet blackness pressed against the leaded glass of the dormitory window. Inside, the only light came from the soft, steady glow of Cecilia’s vanity lamp, a small island of warmth in the growing chill.

The days had been surrendering to an unseasonable, deepening cold that seeped past the diligent magic heaters humming in every corner. Cecilia lay bundled under her blankets, but sleep was a distant country.

Her gaze was fixed, unseeing, on a single point of light on the lampshade.

"Do you regret it?"

The voice was quiet, a vibration felt through the mattress more than heard. A hand, warm and familiar, reached over. It gently stroked the stray golden hair from her temple, then settled, its fingers combing slowly, rhythmically through the length of it.

"Regret what?" Cecilia asked, her own voice barely a murmur in the quiet room.

"Bonding with me." Oathran, lying besid—no, under her, as she half-rested against his chest, answered.

Cecilia closed her eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her ear. "Should I?"

A low, almost imperceptible chuckle rumbled through him. "I see you’re in the mood to joke around."

Silence reclaimed them, but it was a different silence now. Softer.

In any normal circumstance, his presence here would be a scandal warranting immediate suspension. The rules were absolute that no boys were allowed in the girls’ dormitory after curfew. But tonight, the dorm manager on duty had seen them walk in together and had simply looked away, saying nothing.

Some lines were not worth enforcing in the face of certain forces.

In the dorm room, Oathran started explaining everything. His origin, the truth, everything.

"What are you thinking?" he asked after a long while, his fingers still moving in her hair.

Cecilia shifted, burrowing closer into his side, seeking his warmth. The movement made him close his eyes, a faint sigh of bliss escaping him. "A solution."

Oathran’s arm came up to embrace her, secure but not constricting. "For this world’s me, or..."

"Both."

"Greedy," he sneered.

Cecilia retaliated by pinching his side, hard.

"Mmmhhh..." he groaned, a purely human sound of protest. He caught her wandering hand and held it firmly. "Don’t pinch. It hurts. I’m a human in this world."

"I don’t care."

"You little..."

"Why are you afraid of ghosts?" she suddenly asked.

Silence.

More silence.

Then, a stiff, defensive mutter. "...I’m a human in this world."

A snort of laughter escaped Cecilia before she could stop it. "Pffft—"

"You’re scared of ghosts too," he retorted, swift and petty. "You screamed first."

"I actually thought I saw one. You screamed just because I screamed."

Another beat of quiet, this one slightly petulant on his end.

"Don’t tell Eastiel and Arkai about this," Oathran finally grumbled, the command utterly lacking in his usual authority.

This time, Cecilia’s laugh was a full, helpless sound. "Pff—hu... aahhh!"

It cut off in a sharp yelp as he, annoyed, pinched her nipple in retaliation. She scrambled off him, rubbing the offended spot with a fierce frown, and smacked him with her pillow.

He tilted his head with lazy grace, dodging the blow, and fixed her with a flat glare. "Payback."

The brief moment of levity evaporated as quickly as it came. Cecilia’s expression sobered. "You know I don’t want to return yet, right?" she said, her gaze intense. "If we escalate and have sex, you’re going to die in five days."

"Who cares?" Oathran shrugged. "This is not the real world."

"Then I can’t get the harem ending and the potential reward," Cecilia scowled, throwing the System’s ludicrous terminology back into the space between them.

"What the fuck again are those?" he asked, exasperated, before his own words registered. He frowned at himself. The modern cadence felt alien and juvenile on his tongue, reminding him of the body he currently inhabited.

"Shut up and let me think of a solution," Cecilia muttered, giving him a light shove. "You’re not helping."

Oathran obligingly rolled to face the wall, giving her space. His mind, however, didn’t quiet. He contemplated his own state in this universe.

He wasn’t a four-hundred-year-old Dragon Lord here. He was... a normal teenager. A normal boy. Cecilia’s age.

So... this was teenage love!

The thought was unexpectedly thrilling. The clandestine meeting in the dorm, the whispered conversations under blankets, the petty, intimate bickering. It was all so... mortal. So wonderfully temporary and intense.

Why was he so eager to drag her back to the real world? Why not enjoy it a bit more?

He rolled back towards her, his grey eyes thoughtful in the dim light. Serious.

"Cecilia," he began, his tone deceptively casual. "What counts as ’sex’ for your mysterious power to recognize?"

Cecilia turned her head to look at him, her face scrunching in immediate disgust.

"Why?" seeing her disgust, he demanded. "I can’t fuck my girlfriend?"

"WHO IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?!"

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