Leaving the place that doubled as a restaurant and a food storehouse, the steam and grain dust clung like a thin fog.

Vittor still couldn’t rest easy. He stood at the doorway like a lone pine until he saw her head toward home, then he finally turned back.

Yeah, Vittor really was a good man, steady as a warm hearth.

Lucimia played the part, walked a while with calm steps, then pivoted into a narrow alley like a cat slipping off a path.

The bookstore was across town, so to keep Vittor from noticing she hadn’t gone home, she had to detour, drifting like a leaf on a side current.

She already had a rough target—the Deceiver, Elyssus, a name like a shadow stitched to rumor.

If the legends were true, Elyssus’s followers wielded Authority Power that slipped past the Purification Church’s tests like smoke through a mesh; the trouble was how to find them.

And once she found them, what then? Make a trade, have them copy a version of Lucimia that could pass inspection, like carving a mask that fools the gate?

Or win them over with virtue, let them “volunteer” to help her step through the net like a fish led by gentle hands?

If that failed… seduction?

No. Absolutely not, she told herself, the thought snapped like a shut fan.

Or maybe find the Deceiver and claim she was a faithful of Elyssus, ask them to lead her to Elyssus and receive its Blessing, like seeking rain from another cloud?

But she herself was a Dark Deity; could one Dark Deity receive another’s Blessing, two storms sharing thunder without clashing?

Would Dark Deities help one another, or collide like opposing tides on a rocky shore?

Ugh, what a headache, she thought, raking her hair like combing tall grass.

It was the ache born of thin information, a map full of blank seas.

Now she finally tasted what it meant to hate an empty shelf when you need a book, a thirst that cracks like dry clay.

Truth was, aside from knowing she was a Dark Deity, she didn’t even know her Authority Power, a blade still hidden in its sheath.

If Lucimia could use Authority Power, the path would open wide like a sunlit road.

Speaking of which, those believers seemed to call her Olivya, the name floating like a feather in a quiet room.

Fine, back to books—see if there’s a Dark Deity named Olivya sleeping between lines like a snake in tall grass.

Her thoughts slowed; the quiet pooled around her like still water, and she glanced back with a prickle at the nape.

A dim alley, walls on both sides pressed tight, windows shut like eyelids; at the far mouth, a few figures drifted past like pale shadows.

She recalled the black‑clothed boy; the look he gave as he left lodged in her chest like a thorn that wouldn’t pull free.

She looked ahead; sunlight was blocked by jutting roofs like broken teeth, leaving a tunnel of shade that screamed perfect ground for a crime.

Mm… Lucimia frowned, emotion tightening like a knot, and then she stopped.

Maybe I should take a different detour, she muttered, and she spun cleanly and ran out, swift as a startled swallow.

Deep in the alley, two silhouettes poked their heads out like rats from a crack, watching Lucimia leave the shadows.

“Hey, why’d she leave? Did she spot us? Does the Exorcist Family actually have a way to detect us?” said the one playing the mother, her voice buzzing like a fly.

“Idiot!” The one playing the boy slapped her head with a sharp smack, anger flicking like a whip. “We’re Deceivers. Can Deceivers be found? Even the Purification Church can’t detect us; how could a mere family sniff us out?”

“Besides, I asked around about this Lucimia. She apparently never got exorcist training from her family, so there’s nothing to worry about. She probably just thought this place was unsafe and changed paths, a weak girl who can’t stir up any waves.”

“I see, I see,” the fake mother murmured, thoughts drifting like smoke. “But tell me, how does this Exorcist Family even expel evil? Why have I never heard of it?”

“Who knows. She definitely doesn’t know it. Enough chatter—keep up,” he snapped, the command cutting like a knife.

Lucimia didn’t know someone was crouching on her trail; her gut simply said that stepping into a place tailor‑made for crimes would bring no good, a red flag fluttering like a torn banner.

It wasn’t fear; she did know magic, a little flame tucked behind her sleeve.

She’d crossed into another world; magic—once only in stories and comics—now shimmered like a rare bird, and of course she wanted to try it.

Her mother had never strictly barred her from magic, though she never taught it; so she secretly learned a few spells, little sparks like fireflies cupped in her hands.

If fighting didn’t burn time like a slow wick, she wouldn’t have doubled back to detour again, her steps trimmed like a careful seam.

Right now, Lucimia only wanted to reach the bookstore fast, like wind chasing fallen leaves down a lane.

For the first time, she felt a thirst for knowledge, a dry mouth that made her want to shout, I love studying!, the words bubbling like spring water.

Hood up, she walked for a long while, crossed to the far side of town, and found a shabby little house squatting there like an old tortoise.

The paint had long since scabbed off, exposing gray mud bricks like tired bone.

Most roof tiles were missing; a few broken shards clung like chipped teeth to the ridge.

The window boards were rotted, left to wind and rain gnawing for years like patient ants.

The wooden door was just as worn, split by several horizontal cracks; when Lucimia pushed, it groaned creak creak like a dry hinge, as if the door might drop like a loose jaw.

She stepped into the bookstore; under a bright oil lamp like a small sun, she saw rows of shelves neatly lined and several long tables for reading, islands in a paper sea.

“Huh? Someone actually came?” A man’s surprised voice plopped into the air like a tossed pebble.

Lucimia looked over; a golden‑haired man sat at the counter, features young as fresh spring, and behind him a table crowded with bottles and jars.

Through the glass, liquids in bright colors swirled like trapped rainbows, mysteries corked and gleaming.

She had no idea what those things were, only reflections like fish in a jar.

“Huh? And it’s a little girl?” he added, the words flitting like a bird.

“Has no one been coming to this shop for a long time?” Lucimia asked, her voice soft as cloth over wood.

“Yep. Reading costs money here, and buying books isn’t cheap,” the blond man said, shrugging off the fact like a loose cloak.

She’d never seen someone admit it so bluntly, words sweeping like a broom meant to shoo customers out.

Near her home, the bookstore let you read for free and even borrow; here, even reading cost money, a gate shut like a drawn bolt.

“Do you charge so high because your books differ from other shops?” she asked, curiosity pricking like a needle.

“No. Same content. I’m purely greedy,” he said, with a crooked smile like a fox showing teeth.

Lucimia was speechless for a beat, her thoughts blank as chalk on slate.

She had thought he had something special; a shop like this getting customers felt like a ghost story told in daylight.

His temperament was odd; he spoke straight, didn’t care about others’ judgment, and disdained hiding, laying himself bare like an open ledger.

One more thing tugged at her curiosity: the shop looked old as dust, yet the owner seemed barely in his twenties, young as a fresh leaf.

She’d expected a grandpa or grandma sitting like old stones behind the counter.

But whoever he was, however the shop looked, this was her only channel to gather knowledge, a narrow bridge over a wide river.

The counter stood high; Lucimia gripped its edge with both hands and tiptoed, reaching like a small bird for a branch, so her eyes could meet his.

“If I want books on Dark Deities, how much would that cost?” she asked, the question dropping like a coin into a deep well.