She put on a pale violet uniform and a long skirt, inlaid with violet gems that glittered like frozen petals, flaunting how costly they were.

Purple was the sigil of the Lancelot Family, and black hair, smooth as ink, marked its direct bloodline.

With slender legs sheathed in black silk like dusk-wrapped reeds, Lucimia drifted toward the dining room.

Anxious at heart, she drew a deep breath that rolled like a tide, replaying what had just happened and feeling her acting still clumsy.

She’d been so nervous her tongue knotted like vines, and every move turned stiff like winter branches.

Maybe it was the shadow of her last life, a chill that clung like frost.

In that life she’d been an orphan, a weed in a crack, parents unknown; school was a storm of bullying, and her grades fell like autumn leaves.

She worked a plain job, grinding overtime like a millstone, earning coin light as dew; when sick, no one cared, and she lived on thin ice.

If she’d died on that rented bed, the river would’ve swallowed the stone without a ripple.

Here, in this other world, her worries had melted like snow in sun.

She had rare family, a hearth warm as honey; if anything ailed her, they wrapped her in care like a quilt.

Her days were butterfly-light: morning theater or magic shows; afternoon beast duels or showing off spells to kids in town.

She wasn’t the kind of hero from stories and manga; saving the world held no fire for her, only quiet sunlight.

Each day drifted easy, a slow river, and she wanted only to soak in this sweetness she’d never had before.

Like some kids who study like mad through high school, then binge games in college like a flood, she felt that swing in her bones.

Truth is, she just wanted to selfishly enjoy this life; the thought of her Dark Deity identity being exposed chilled her like moonlight on water.

Inhale… exhale. Her breath whooshed like a bellows, and she patted her chest like calming a drum.

She stopped and faced a mirror on the corridor wall, its surface still as a pond, and let a crescent smile bloom.

Just act like you always do, she whispered inside, a thread of voice soft as silk.

No need to fear; even if she was a Dark Deity, she’d done no real harm—her shadow kept clean hands.

She’d even handed out food with the family to the poor in town; bread warm as stones in a hearth—she was a model citizen, really.

What? Those zealots, blood, and offerings? That iron stink and cold altar?

That wasn’t Mia’s business; what believers did had nothing to do with the Dark Deity; they chose it, and Mia hadn’t said a word.

Still, Lucimia braced for the worst; if exposed, she’d scoop up her gold like wind-swept leaves and run.

There was no way to explain through that fog; words would tangle like reeds.

Even if her parents didn’t think their daughter was a Dark Deity, they might think a Dark Deity had possessed, puppeted, or swapped her like masks.

Then there’d be shouts for vengeance, a long sword pale as a winter moon, thrusting hard toward her.

Better to be the wind than the whetstone—better to run.

She smoothed her mood, fixed her mask of expression, and quickened her steps like a stream toward the dining room.

Her parents were already seated; the maid stood by her mother like a willow, and the cook was placing breakfast piece by piece like setting a chessboard.

Her father’s name was Alvis Lancelot.

Her mother was Mei Lancelot.

Lucimia reached her chair, a little harbor, and just as she was about to pull it out, her mother called her back.

“Mia, did you forget your salute again today?” Her mother smiled, soft as spring sunlight.

“…Ah, yes.” The words dropped like pebbles from her lips.

Lucimia lifted her skirt like petal-lifting fingers, curtsied like a bending reed, and said, “Father, Mother, good morning.”

“Mm. Good morning.” Their heads bobbed like nesting birds.

After greetings, she sat, and waited for the head of house to take up his knife and fork before she raised her own, silver glinting like moonlight.

Noble life was a tight shoe in this part.

But her parents weren’t strict; she’d forgotten many times, and they’d only reminded her gently, like soft rain.

She used to cross her right leg over her left without thinking, like twined vines from her old world, and even then they said nothing, steady as old trees.

Time smoothed her, and the etiquette of noblewomen seeped in; now she sat straight, a bamboo shoot.

Breakfast was bread, eggs, and sausages—sun, twin moons, and embers—and Lucimia picked up her knife and fork.

“Hold on, Mia.”

She paused with a startled flutter, as her mother’s voice chimed like a bell.

“What is it?”

Her mother gave her a kind look, soft as silk, and murmured, “I’ve heard from the maid about what happened this morning.”

Her father smiled and nodded, solid as a stone by the river.

So it was that. The feeling in her chest was a fog; they’d likely misunderstood.

To be fair, this body still hadn’t had its… arcane time, hm.

Maybe she was developing slow, like a late spring.

She glanced at her chest, two small hills under dawn.

Maybe that was it.

Her mother rose, crossed to Lucimia, and gently stroked her head, a warm breeze smoothing feathers.

“In any case, Mia, don’t panic. It’s normal, all right? You’re not sick, you’re not dying, so don’t be afraid.”

“Mm…”

Lucimia’s feelings tangled like threads; she didn’t know what face to wear.

It hadn’t come; and her soul was, in the end, a man’s, so being treated as a girl felt a touch off, like a song in the wrong key.

But she was moved, a candle warming a cold room.

The cook set down a cup of hot tea before her; steam curled like morning fog.

“Drink this and it won’t hurt,” her mother explained, voice gentle as a hand.

“Okay.”

Lucimia cupped the cup in both hands, blew softly, and took a small sip.

Warmth flowed through her like a river of amber; comfort unfolded like a quilt.

“Thank you, Mother.” She smiled as she spoke.

For all its medieval skin, this other world was a shade more advanced; common knowledge lit lamps in the dark.

The morning interlude ended. After they finished eating, her father—Alvis—cleared his throat and spoke, a gong in the quiet.

“Ahem. I’ve got something. The day after tomorrow is Exorcism Day. The Purification Church will send people tomorrow. Mia, mind your etiquette then, all right?”

What? Exorcism Day?!

Her heart dropped like a stone into a well. She counted the days, and yes—Exorcism Day loomed in two dawns.

Dark Deities really did exist here, like wolves in the wood, so the Church picked one day each month for an Exorcism Ritual—to shield the people from influence and taint.

The ritual was simple: first, they handed out Holy Water to wash away any hidden taint, then performed the rite to drag Evil Entities from shadow, and cut them down.

Lucimia had taken part before, passing under lantern light without being seen as an Evil Entity or Dark Deity.

But now, who knew. One sip of Holy Water, and she might be Purified on the spot under a sky of staring eyes.

“Exorcism Day, hm? I heard the Church just appointed a Purification Knight who can wield part of the Purification Power. They’re coming too. And they’re close to Mia’s age—fourteen or fifteen? So young and already a knight. Remarkable,” her mother said to Lucimia.

“…Yes. I understand.” Lucimia nodded, a practiced motion, masking the storm.

Inside, she hurt like a sea with no shore.

She’d barely handled the blood this morning, and now they told her Exorcism Day was tomorrow.

A Purification Knight was the Church’s blade against Evil Entities, a shield bright as dawn.

The Church’s deity was the Purification Deity, who held the Purification Power; Purification freed knights from Dark Deity influence and control.

It also stripped other Authority Powers away, letting knights fight at full strength, clear as wind after rain.

Hence the name Purification Knight, a title like a clean spring.

They said it was the only god not a Dark Deity. Its Blessings had tiny side effects—almost none—and to gain power, you only needed sincere prayer, candles in the night.

Unlike other Dark Deities: to gain power, believers had to sacrifice on blood-black altars, and using a Blessing carried crushing costs, chains that bit.

Whether the Purification Deity’s gift had hidden costs, she couldn’t say; that mist was thick.

This world was crowded with Dark Deities and Evil Entities; people lived under the Purification Church’s shelter like sailors under a lighthouse.

Beyond its light, Evil Entities ran wild—true hell on earth, flames in the dark.

Lucimia had asked her father how their family fought Dark Deities and Evil Entities; he’d only told her, whatever it was, it wasn’t the Purification Deity.

She buried the question like a seed in her heart, waiting for spring.