Beast Gacha System: All Mine Chapter 412: Who She Was With

eting two of the three n in this apartnt was one thing. To discover that they might own it... was another.

Well. Actually, that made sense.

Thalia and Gregor had already t Oathran. They knew he was a dragon. Whatever he did for money, he couldn’t be broke, right? Dragons are the guardians of the world!

The McKing gig was clearly a sham. Or a hobby. Or a cosplay...? You know what, it could be so incomprehensible dragon thing that mortals were not ant to understand and they’d accept it. Again, a being like that wouldn’t be broke. Of course he would live well.

The other two n must simply be his roommates. Friends, perhaps. Brothers-in-arms. They were probably relying on the dragon’s wealth to subsidize their living situation. Were they the two other n who...? If that bitch Ruby Vaiva’s testimony was true...?

Thalia and Gregor had just settled on these assumptions when the introductions began.

Oathran stepped forward first, his eyes calm and welcoming. "You rember Thalia and Gregor, yes? They brought Cecilia’s belongings."

The two n nodded and smiled. The black-haired one, the wolf, with his black eyes and his steady presence, extended his hand toward Thalia. "Arkai Dawnoro. Nice to et you properly."

Thalia’s and Gregor’s brain stopped working.

Arkai Dawnoro. The na hit them like a freight train. Aro Industry. The largest private infrastructure and containnt corporation in the world with governnt contracts on every continent. It was the company that had single-handedly revolutionized the purification chamber system!

Also, the company whose owner was famously reclusive, private, and never photographed—that Arkai Dawnoro?!

The golden-haired one, the lion, with his sunny smile walked over. "Eastiel Edengold. Thanks for bringing Princess’s things. You truly are her best allies."

Edengold. The na hit them again like a second freight train, right on the heels of the first. The Edengold family. Old money—no, ancient money!

The kind of money that didn’t make headlines because it owned the headlines, and was asured not in billions but in centuries of accumulated power and influence.

Eastiel Edengold, the eldest son, the one who had famously walked away from the family business to "do his own thing", was living in this apartnt!

Thalia turned to Gregor. Gregor turned to Thalia. Their eyes t in the silent communion of two people who had just realized that every single assumption they had made about this situation was wrong.

Could it possibly be—that the dragon was the poorest one here?

No. No, that wasn’t right either. The dragon was a dragon. His wealth was probably asured in hoarded gold and ancient artifacts and the intergenerational wealth that made human economics look like pocket change.

Which ant—

Their Madam. The astrophysicist and the billionaire’s divorcee... was the poorest one here.

They didn’t know they’d go out today to discover that their employer’s new roommates were, collectively, worth more than the GDP of several small nations.

***

Usually, CCTVs were installed only in certain places. The logic was simple though. It was usually dictated entirely by the priorities of the owner of the establishnt.

For example, in the night club, you placed caras where the money was. The cash registers, the back offices where the nightly take was counted and stored, the locked rooms where the safes sat bolted to the floor.

You placed caras where theft was most likely to occur. The stockrooms, the employee entrances, the shadowed corridors where soone might slip away with a bottle of top-shelf liquor tucked under their jacket.

You placed caras to track routes, the path a thief would take from the scene of the cri to the exit, the path a suspicious employee might walk when they thought no one was watching, or the path money traveled from the custor’s hand to the vault.

Thus, a CCTV would rarely capture the entire dance floor. What was the point?

The dance floor was chaos. It was bodies and motion and flashing lights, a churning sea of people that no cara could parse into useful evidence.

Theft did happen on the dance floor. But it was not the business of the establishnt. Money did not change hands on the dance floor either. The main thing that happened on the dance floor was dancing, and dancing was not a liability.

But this club was different.

The owner, a shrewd, business-minded man who had built his empire on the twin pillars of general exclusivity and viral marketing, had insisted on full dance floor coverage.

Every corner. Every angle. Every square ter of writhing, ecstatic humanity captured in high definition from multiple caras mounted in the ceiling.

He owned a streaming account, you see. A popular one. Every night, he broadcast the dance floor live to hundreds of thousands of viewers who tuned in to watch strangers lose themselves in the music.

"Well, I often invited local celebrity DJs," he would explain, if he was questioned about the unusual cara arrangent. "It racked up views! To the millions!"

And now, Arzhen Vasiliev had gotten his hands on the recordings from that night.

His n had scoured hours of tape, cutting and compiling, isolating every fra where that woman appeared. And they had delivered the edited footage to him on a secure tablet.

Now, alone in his study with the curtains drawn and the door locked, Arzhen pressed play.

He saw her in the back first. She was covered up in a long, dark trenchcoat that fell past her knees, its collar turned up, its fabric swallowing her lean fra.

Her blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her face, pale as moonlight, was the only thing visible. It was the only confirmation that it was really her.

She was dancing. Gently. Alone. Her movents were small and quiet, her body swaying to the music in a self-contained grace, trying not to attract attention.

She looked so pale. Almost sick.

And every ti the spinning lights swept over her, red, blue, gold, white, she would catch the glow and hold it, her skin illuminated like sothing holy, like a figure in a stained-glass window.

n started to surround her. Arzhen watched them drift toward her like moths toward a fla, their bodies angling in her direction, their drinks held loosely in their hands.

They offered her their glasses, half-empty cocktails, bottles of beer, shots of sothing dark and potent, and she accepted.

She drank. She danced. She moved from partner to partner, n and won both, her body gradually picking up montum, her feet carrying her deeper into the crowd. Toward the center of the dance floor.

She was drinking more now. He could see it in the way her movents loosened, the way her head tilted back, the way her smile spread across her pale face like the sun breaking through clouds.

She laughed.

Too bad, though, the CCTV footage only had low-quality audio. The bass of the music drowned out everything else, reducing human voices to faint, tinny whispers.

He had never seen her laugh like that. Apparently, he would never hear the sound.

Then the five n appeared.

They were dressed in flashy clothes. Shimring shirts, designer jackets... You know, peacocking attire that scread money and status. It gave them this confidence. Like they were people who were used to getting what they wanted.

For a while, they seed gentle. They danced, they smiled, they moved through the crowd of won easily, charmingly like hunters who knew exactly how to approach their prey.

It was not clear when it changed.

The footage was grainy at the edges, the lights disorienting, the motion constant.

But at so point, the n’s touches beca too intimate. Their hands lingered too long. Their bodies pressed too close.

Arzhen watched one of them reach for a woman who was not Cecilia, watched her try to pull away.

And then he saw Cecilia. She had raised her arm over her body like a shield, her elbow angled to keep distance between herself and the man who was leaning toward her.

Her face was still glowing under the lights, but had lost its smile. She was trying to back away. But she was pursued.

That was when the three n appeared.

Two in dark overalls. One in a bright red uniform with a yellow logo emblazoned on the chest.

Arzhen rembered Ruby’s words.

"I even saw one of them wearing a McKing uniform. Kissing her. Getting down on her. The other two were wearing dark worker’s overalls. There were three of them, Arzhen... On her. At the sa ti."