Beast Gacha System: All Mine

Chapter 304: The Healer’s Reminder

Arzhen’s eyes cracked open.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Vaulted stone, carved with faded murals of gods he could no longer name. His vision swam for a moment, then settled.

The delirium that had gripped him for what felt like weeks had finally loosened its hold, leaving behind a strange clarity and a bone-deep exhaustion that pressed him into the mattress like a weight.

He blinked slowly. The air smelled of incense, myrrh and something floral, maybe dried lavender, and old dust that had settled into the mortar of the walls over decades.

Beneath that, the faint metallic tang of his own sweat and the herbal bitterness of whatever medicines had been forced down his throat. His mouth was dry, tongue thick.

Sunlight bled through the high windows, staining the chamber in shades of amber and deep crimson. Sunset, then. He had lost the entire day. Perhaps more than one.

Arzhen turned his head against the pillow and tried to grasp at the edges of his memory. There had been a dream. He was certain of it.

Something vast, something painful, regret, loss... but the details scattered like moths the moment he reached for them. He was left with only the impression of weight, of pressure, of something looking at him from a great distance.

Nothing remained.

He exhaled through his nose and let it go.

He sat up slowly. Every joint protested. His tunic clung to his back, damp with old sweat, and his hair had come loose, spilling over his shoulders in tangled strands. He could feel the grit of dried herbs still stuck to his temples. A poultice, likely, meant to draw out the fever.

A shadow moved near the door.

A temple serf, a boy, no older than fourteen, dressed in the undyed wool robes of the lower order, stood half-hidden behind the doorframe, clutching a clay oil lamp that had not yet been lit. His eyes went wide when he saw Arzhen sitting up.

"Young Lor—Lord Vasiliev," the boy stammered, bowing so quickly he nearly dropped the lamp. "You’re awake. We weren’t—the healer said you wouldn’t—"

Arzhen raised a hand, cutting off the flood of words. His voice came out rough, scraped raw from disuse. "Water."

The boy scrambled to the table, nearly upending the pitcher in his haste. He poured with shaking hands and brought the cup to Arzhen, who took it and drank.

The water was cool, faintly chalky from the temple well, and it ran down his throat like mercy.

He lowered the cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His mind was sharpening by the moment, pieces clicking back into place. The Dragon Lord was alive, the encounter and his message. Then Ruby.

Ruby.

"Where is the Saintess?" he asked.

The boy’s hands still trembled at his sides. "She—she was here, Lord Prince. She never left your side. For days she sat with you, barely sleeping, barely eating. The healer said she was the only reason your fever didn’t take you."

Arzhen’s chest tightened. He did not remember any of it.

"But then," the boy continued, "she received a revelation."

Arzhen went very still. "When?"

"Just now. She was sitting where I am now, watching over you, and she just—" The boy struggled for words, his young face caught between awe and fear.

"She went very still. Her eyes turned white, my Lord. Not the whites—all of it. White like milk. And she spoke, but it wasn’t her voice. The priests said it was the voice of the Divine Mouth speaking through her."

Arzhen said nothing. His grip on the cup had tightened.

"The High Priest sealed the sanctum after that," the boy said. "No one is allowed in. The Saintess has not come out since. They are waiting for her to wake from the trance."

Arzhen set the cup down on the table. Outside, the last light of the sun bled away, leaving the chamber in deeper shadow. He swung his legs over the side of the cot. The stone floor was cold against his bare feet.

"Help me stand," he said.

The boy hesitated. "Master, the healer said you needed rest, you shouldn’t—"

"Help me stand," Arzhen repeated, and the boy moved.

The temple was quiet at this hour. Through the open door, Arzhen could hear the distant murmur of evening prayers, the low drone of priests chanting somewhere in the inner halls.

The scent of incense grew stronger as the boy guided him toward the doorway, sandalwood now, mixed with something sweeter, the kind burned only for high rituals.

His legs held. Barely. But they held.

He looked down the corridor toward the inner sanctum, where the doors would be sealed, where Ruby lay in a trance.

The boy hovered at his elbow, uncertain. "Lord Prince Arzhen? Should I fetch the healer?"

Arzhen shook his head. He walked down the corridor, the stone cool beneath his feet, and he had only been walking for a few steps. His legs were already trembling.

"No." His voice was hoarse. "Just walk with me."

"That’s irresponsible, my Lord."

The voice came from behind him. Arzhen turned, seeing a man emerging from a different corridor, his robes marking him as a healer, his dark grey hair pulled back from a face that was sharp and tired.

Wolf ears, grey and alert, pricked forward above his head. A tail, the same dark grey, swayed behind him as he walked.

"Please return to your recovery chamber." The man’s voice was not unkind, although cold. But there was something in it that did not invite argument. He was carrying a clay pot, steam rising from its spout. "I have finished concocting your next medicine."

He walked ahead, back toward the chamber Arzhen had left, his steps unhurried.

"Father Rohan!" The boy’s voice was bright, excited. "Lord Prince, this is Father Rohan Raul. He arrived from the Southern Temple yesterday! He is so good at medicine, you woke up just a day after drinking his concoction."

"Bring me a clean bowl, Bimo." Rohan said patiently. "Stop your rambling."

"Yes, Father!" The boy was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Arzhen’s eyes widened. So, this man’s medicine had given his terrified, delirious mind clarity?

He had woken from the nightmare of the clearing, of the Dragon Lord, of the voice that had sent him home like a child, and he had been able to think, for the first time, what had happened to him, thanks to this guy?

"Are you... a priest?" Arzhen asked carefully.

"No." Rohan was pouring the medicine into the bowl Bimo had returned with, his hands steady, his eyes fixed on the dark liquid. "I am the temple’s contracted healer. Please sit down. Let Bimo change your clothes."

Bimo had already disappeared again, hunting for a clean tunic, his voice echoing back, "We call him Father Rohan because he finished training as an Acolyte too! He could be a Priest if he took his oath!"

Arzhen sat. He watched the healer, and the way his hands moved, the way his ears flickered at sounds and the way his tail curled around his leg when he was concentrating.

"Why did you say it would be irresponsible?" His voice was sharper now. He was used to being obeyed, after all. "I was just going to wait for the Saintess."

Rohan set the bowl down. His eyes met Arzhen’s, and there was something in them that was not quite deference, not quite challenge, but something in between.

"The Saintess has been caring for you for days. Everyone understands, the two of you are old friends." He paused. "But now, the Gods require her service. You must reconsider your place by her side."

Arzhen felt a sting in his chest. The words were gentle, but they landed like a blade.

Rohan was reminding him that Ruby was already bonded to Nikolas Delanivis. That the temple had a reputation to maintain. That a prince, letting another man’s wife, who was also the Saintess, linger at his bedside, was not a good look for anyone.

And he was right.

But who was this man to give him such a reminder? A lowly healer. A man with no title, no rank, no power. Did he have the right to comment on the Saintess and a prince?

If he had not been the one who saved Arzhen from delirium, Arzhen would have had him removed already.

"Please take this in one gulp." Rohan said

He handed him the bowl.

This man... handing him a bowl so nonchalantly, as if he had not just risked the wrath of a prince!

"It is not as strong as yesterday’s concoction. It will not be as bitter."