So it might be just a conjectured Dark Deity?
Loss welled in Lucimia’s chest, a cold fog climbing the ribs.
If it doesn’t exist, how does she find Elyssus? How does she gain a sliver of the Deceiver’s Authority Power?
Beyond disappointment, she gathered other bits of knowledge, like shells left by a retreating tide.
The Church had once faced such an incident; a spark of interest in history flared like struck flint.
By that account, Deceiver believers stalled a raid, and another sect reversed the kill, a spear turned back mid-flight.
Do Dark Deities help each other, crows flocking in a storm? Or did a Deceiver trick Holy Knights, harvest emotion, and offer it to Elyssus?
She shut the thick compendium with a thud and drew another—Relations Among Dark Deities.
After a short read, understanding thinned in, like mist parting at dawn.
Relations were delicate as spider silk; most Dark Deities were enemies, only a rare few stood close.
So the Holy Knights’ last stand might be pure deceit, a net cast for despair; Deceiver faith cut down Knights, souls fed to Elyssus.
Another bucket of cold water drenched Lucimia, rain sheeting off a slate roof.
If Dark Deities are enemies, Elyssus won’t grant her a Blessing; the deity would spot her at a glance, a hunter reading tracks.
Its followers might miss the mask, but a fellow Dark Deity wouldn’t, hawk eyes on the ridge.
What do Dark Deities seek? Why the feud? Origin of Dark Deities offered only guesses, stars seen through smoke.
One guess said they aim to take the continent, enmity like rival nations at war, banners whipping in the wind.
“Ugh.” Lucimia sprawled over the desk, breath sighing like a tired bellows.
She deflated; humans knew little about Dark Deities, knowledge thin as frost on stone.
She wanted a Deceiver to help her slip past Church checks, yet there was no trail, and the path itself might be a mirage.
Only one hope flickered—Exemption.
Exemption means being spared; in theory it could bypass Purification Church detection, if her Authority Power truly is Exemption.
Time slid grain by grain, sand in an hourglass; Lucimia flipped a few books, learning the Purification Church and Authority Power research.
The Purification Church formed around believers of the Purification Deity, Walsh, an order like white stones stacked at a shrine.
The Purification Deity wards calamity for mortals, drawing faithful like moths to a lantern.
Its Blessing brings no harm, demands no heavy price; pray daily toward its shrine in Yucheng, and the chosen gain a share of Purification.
For example: [Purify Filth], [Purify Fainting], small lights in dark rooms.
It sounded like a proper righteous god; yet a bold thought sparked—could the Purification Deity also be a Dark Deity?
It was only a thought; there were no side effects, and it shielded humans from other Dark Deities, walls holding against a storm.
Research on Authority Power meant learned scholars dissecting the word itself, testing how a concept acts, how its boundary bites.
An Authority was a concept, a single word; yet a single word could unfold in many ways, origami from a flat sheet.
And when Authorities clash, which one takes hold?
For instance, [Absolute Severance] versus [Absolute Defense]; if they contradict, which Authority bites first?
Do outcomes scale with a Dark Deity’s strength, heavier stones sinking first? That would thin the feel of “concept.”
Scholars could only guess; no conclusion held solid, footprints washed by surf.
Nothing else mattered much; Lucimia had learned plenty, yet the key problem sat like a cold iron lock.
How do I dodge the Church’s inspection?
Maybe… I should just run.
She whispered it, heart fluttering like a sparrow against a window.
Sweep the family gold, vanish to some far-flung town beyond a hundred-thousand bends, live quietly to old age?
She wanted decadence; the last life was grinding; after rebirth, why not taste sweetness, warm wine after winter?
Nothing else needs to touch her; she wants to savor life, a reed drifting on calm water.
It wasn’t her choice to become a Dark Deity; how could that be her fault, rain blamed for falling?
Taking the coins and leaving her parents was a bit immoral, yes; but should she wait for the Church’s arrest, lamb to a knife?
She was reborn; her tie to Lucimia’s identity felt thin as paper; whatever happens to this world might as well be smoke.
Even if she runs, her parents should be safe—anxious perhaps, not in mortal danger, clouds passing without lightning.
Right—don’t blame me; blame the world, a crooked mirror.
She kept justifying, weaving reasons like straw into a mat; she truly meant to bolt.
While she weighed it, the wooden door pushed open again—creak—sharp in the quiet bookstore, a knife on glass.
No one was supposed to come; why someone now?
A woman hugged a bundle of vegetables, leading a black-clad boy, stepping in like shadows crossing a threshold.
Lucimia knew the pair too well; the boy chased her two streets this morning, gloomy eyes after leaving the food depot.
A bad premonition tightened her chest, a cold hand over a candle; the mother and son looked more and more suspect.
She scanned the room; besides the front door, there was only a small window boarded with planks.
She could squeeze through, but ripping those boards would cost time, prying nails with bare fingers.
Do I spook the snake or slip away and hide, a fox vanishing into reeds?
While she weighed choices, the blond man spoke to them from the other side, voice bright as brass.
“Strange—two more customers, huh.”
He said it, but joy showed plainly, sun breaking through cloud.
“All right, ten silver coins to read here; buying costs extra; if you don’t accept, please leave.”
The pair didn’t answer; they just stared at him, still as statues.
“Why not talk?” The blond leaned out from the counter and waved a hand, a fan testing heat.
Suddenly both faces split in a grinning crack, lips rising, eyes narrowed, a smile eerie as a moonlit grave.
“Holy crap—what the hell?!” He jolted back; his body slammed the table; bottles and jars clattered like hail.
“Oh no—my research!” He didn’t get to mourn; the pair kept smiling, stepping in, dolls wound and walking.
“Don’t—don’t come closer!” He snatched a glass jar and hurled it; the arc glittered like ice.
The woman’s head snapped left, a ninety-degree bend, dodging in a blink, a bird folding mid-flight.
“Shit!” Panic flooded him; he hadn’t expected to fall here today, a tree cut at the root.
The woman came nearer, nearer; then her mouth yawned open, a blood-dark maw.
The opening grew wider than the man’s height, a cave of flesh ready to swallow him whole.
