You even know that.

Alicia Alicia looked mildly surprised, the emotion flickering like a firefly in dusk. That makes it easier to explain.

The “triangle” was a joke, born from Greenfield’s timid scholars, blinkered and babbling like startled sparrows.

They only saw one face and forgot the whole body, like staring at a leaf and missing the forest.

This massive base hidden beneath Europe shows its true shape only in three dimensions, like a mountain revealed by the sun.

Mysidia had to be built away from the ground, answering the World Tree’s underbelly.

It aligns with the confluence of the concept of “vanished things,” the hub of “instability,” a spinning axis like a storm eye.

Thus it forms—

Alicia’s finger flicked, crisp as a raindrop.

One corner of the triangle opened along a nonexistent Z‑axis, like a door opening in empty air.

The two connecting lines mirrored themselves, twin reflections rippling like water.

The shape folded and rose, turning into a delicate solid, sharp as crystal.

A tetrahedron.

This is the full body of the “Newton Baseplate.”

You can call it—

The “Brilliant Tetrahedron.”

…

In truth, “Mind Body Manipulation” isn’t as divine as rumors paint it, those urban horror tales that spread like fog.

Otherwise folks wouldn’t hide their true names; they’d be puppets, marching like moths into a flame.

Its brainwashing feels natural, like rain soaking into earth.

Too natural—near “meme contamination.”

The sharper the victim’s logic, the likelier they’ll deduce, like a mirror clearing, “I’m mind‑controlled.”

The spell won’t vanish like smoke, yet you can resist by distance, like stepping out of a chill wind.

Just get far from the caster, and the leash loosens.

Alicia Alicia told Yekase all that, not only from a love of explanation, a stream flowing where it will.

She aimed to push Yekase’s focus into the task and away from the oddities, like a hand turning a compass.

She even agreed when Yekase said, “I teach at a university. I can’t travel long,” her tone light as cloud.

Acting honed in Twin Towers City wasn’t just pretty; it cut like a blade.

There was time before the second Golden Apple ripened, the fruit swelling like a moon.

This brainwash was just a pre‑laid stone; chances to scheme were rivers yet to cross.

One night passed.

The three acted as if nothing had happened, faces calm as still ponds.

Yekase finally sank into pre‑semester work, like a diver slipping into deep water—

—They’re from Mysidia.

Inside the Ivalice police station, Yekase felt trouble prick her skin like thorns before she walked in.

Her eyes went flat, dead‑fish dull, watching the cloaked man and the helmeted man inside an anti–Infinite Power cell.

Cloak and helmet were already plucked off, tossed aside like shed husks.

Faces were bruised blue and purple, a patchwork storm.

City‑states never coddle prisoners; mercy is a cold season here.

“These two Mysidia spies colluded with moles,” the Cyber Ascent chief said, voice iron‑hard.

“They hid city defense intel in a ‘Haro’—that sphere robot—then tried to smuggle it out through a trash outlet.”

Ling Yi and Jiang Bailu had the credit for the arrests, two hawks seizing prey mid‑flight.

The station had to brief them on follow‑ups, like knots tied clean.

But Ling Yi wasn’t in Ivalice, a chair sitting empty in sunlight.

So Yekase stepped up, her shadow lengthening on tile.

“City defense intel… that feels bad,” Jiang Bailu said, brows knitting like thunderclouds.

If war flared, Yekase would charge again, a spark leaping to gunpowder.

Yet Yekase’s attention slid to the cell, like a compass drawn to true north.

She’d known Ivalice was infiltrated yesterday; her gaze held to the metal like frost on iron.

The cell’s effect resembled “Nightlight Torch,” a hush that makes sorcery detour like fish around a whirlpool.

But the principle was reversed, a mirror turning inside out.

“Nightlight Torch” makes a vacuum for Infinite Power, a black lake that pulls hard and breaks stability around it.

This anti–Infinite Power metal wasn’t impervious; it was the opposite, stuffed full like a pantry with inert sorcery.

There was no space left for other Infinite Power to enter, shut out like rain from sealed stone.

That inert sorcery was useless, junk files clogging a drive, dead weight on a bridge.

It was scrap iron.

In idealist words, it had “died,” a cold husk on the roadside.

Even Mechbreaker, better at creation than ruin, couldn’t raise wonders from that rot.

Yekase felt a gut‑deep disgust, a wolf scenting carrion.

The chief mistook it for discomfort with gloom and apologized, then led them outside, into brighter air.

They chatted a while, small talk drifting like smoke, then the chief left the station, boots fading on concrete.

Jiang Bailu squeezed Yekase’s palm, warmth flowing like tea.

“Doctor, did that cell make you feel unwell?”

“Not really.”

Yekase shook her head, calm rippling back like water settled.

“That scrap has no contamination. Use anti‑barrier methods against it. It’s no real threat.”

“But your mood seemed off.”

“…Infinite Power’s will nicked me a little, like seeing a kin’s corpse in frost.”

Yekase shook the heaviness away, like dust from a sleeve, and smiled, sun breaking through cloud.

“I’ll tell you how I ran circles around an Ancient Alchemist last night.”

…

Still, Yekase had taken many benefits from the City of Ivalice, fruit plucked from high branches.

She couldn’t just be a teacher, a lamp lit only for herself.

Mysidia’s covert probing and the Jerusalem Church’s ongoing harassment were storms she could deflect.

Labyrinth City in Vatican carried most of that weight, a bastion like a cliff against waves.

In short, she decided to help, word settling like a stone in a stream.

Under nominal non‑aggression among the three city‑states, as a fresh “outsider,” she could move like wind.

Unbound. Unfettered. Pure joy, like a kite in clear skies.

If Mysidia had complaints, let them carve them on Satan’s horns.

Resolved, Yekase slapped her thigh, sharp as a drumbeat, and became a Magical Girl again, ribbons like dawn.

She cast flight and rode an iron staff, arrowing toward Mysidia.

No need for road signs.

The World Tree stood sky‑tall, a lighthouse of green.

Mysidia stood on the branches of the World Tree, a city woven like a crown.

Yekase imagined classic elven grace, with a weave of witches; the truth wasn’t far, a tapestry in familiar hues.

Flying close, the city’s silhouette surfaced, an island rising from mist.

Treehouses nestled in emerald, layered and balanced like swallows’ nests.

Boardwalks spanned without a single pile driven into the trunk, an elegant equilibrium, web‑fine yet strong.

Mages coursed in and out, fireflies of robe and light—

And dragons.

…Dragons?

Mysidia actually had dragon flocks, scales glinting like coins.

Yekase, after Sidonia Dragon Fortress, only blinked, a ripple and gone.

In her network, an ice‑frost dragon lord and a nascent mech dragon ancestor could come.

Either would make flocks bow, a mountain overshadowing hills.

Following a few Dancing Light signals, she landed softly on a round platform, feather‑light.

White translucent text floated before her, like ink in air:

[Krasus Platform (Non‑Combat Zone)]

Hmm?

Magic mimicking an RPG’s feel, a theater mask over a city.

That’s Mysidia’s style? Interesting, like a puzzle with gold filigree.

She stepped to the gate staff.

Green names and classes hovered over their heads, bright as banners, NPCs come to life.

They looked up at her crown, a brief glance like a flicking needle.

They scribbled on a scroll and waved her through, a gate opening like a sigh.

She walked down a ring stair into the city, spiral as a shell.

Puzzlement tugged her gaze upward, but her head showed nothing, bare sky.

Names… only others can see?

Or—

Along the two broad avenues from customs, there was no glass to reflect, no mirror lake.

…Only above.

Her name floated over her head, invisible without tools, a secret like a blade’s shadow.

That was this city’s mechanism, a half‑hidden Damocles’ sword poised overhead.

Yekase pulled a small hand mirror from her teleport box, a gift Liu RuoYuan had tucked in, kindness folded like paper.

She checked her crown, breath held like a held note—

[Yekase]

[Crimson Magus]

So it is.

No, I can’t stay here—

Suddenly, pressure pressed her back, warm as a cat against sunlight.

A hand came over her shoulder, steadied the mirror, tilting it to frame her back like a frame on silk.

“Curiosity will force you into this city,” a voice purred, smooth as honey.

The mirror showed a fair face, blonde hair and blue eyes, a lily in glass.

A tiny tongue traced Yekase’s cheek, a fox’s playful touch.

!!!

“It tastes like ‘lies’…”

—Alicia Alicia.

She’d waited here for Yekase, patient as snow.

“You’ll notice the name above, and instantly see it’s a true‑name trap, a thorn hiding in a rose.”

“…”

“But it’s too late. Everything’s too late, sand already slipped from the glass.”

“Miss Alice, how are you—”

“—Are you underestimating Longlifers?”

…

Yekase followed Alicia to her place, steps soft as rain.

A cabin nested behind a new sprout of the World Tree, green light sifting like lace.

1:8 maid dolls flew out from nooks like sparrows, efficient and bright.

They poured water, brewed tea, fetched slippers, then pulled out a chair, ritual neat as calligraphy.

“Say it straight.

What can only I do, and what needed mindwash to order me?”

“No room to talk first?”

Her tone was calm, wind over reeds, hiding flint.

Last night’s acting had leaked tiny flaws she hadn’t seen, hairline cracks like ice.

Yekase took the sting, then chose to talk with the puppeteer, bridge over chasm.

“The fewer who know, the better,” Alicia said, voice quiet as dusk.

Secrets worked like seeds; the fewer planted, the cleaner the field.

Yekase arched a brow, a blade lifting from its sheath.

“So last night was true.

I don’t know where you saw through me, but you said everything anyway. Why?”

“Because I found you beyond my projection, barely qualified to speak with me,” Alicia said, eyes narrowing like the moon’s crescent.

“Is it ‘evolution’? Or your own ‘potential’?”

“Probably because I’m Yekase,” Yekase said, pride glinting like a silver thread.

She smiled like a junior praised by an elder, sunlight on a pond.

—No, Miss Alice.

Your testimony holds a clear contradiction, a crack singing in porcelain.

The final victory isn’t decided—

Now begins their third exchange, blades crossing like starlight.