After Lucimia left the bookstore, the blond man rubbed his skull and rose like a swimmer breaking a dark pond.

He had been out cold; his mind had flickered back mid-way, like a candle guttering in wind.

He hadn’t rushed out to call the guards; the Blue Ringed Octopus had misted venom at the doorway like night rain, and without magic he was a bird in a snare, so he kept playing dead like a fallen leaf.

Lying flat, he slit his eyes open and watched Lucimia fight the Blue Ringed Octopus, a storm in a glass room.

Her small figure moved like a sparrow on a branch, black hair streaming like ink ribbons; the white flower atop her head was frost over spring, quick and alive.

Her fearless face was granite under moonlight; inside, her will stood like a mountain ridge.

She stayed cool yet cunning, tipping lies like cards on a table; she faced a strong foe without tears or shrieks, a blade meeting the wind.

Her magic poured out like calligraphy in one breath; the craft stunned him like thunder over a clear lake.

Most mages cast by rote, chalk-dusted drills stamped by teachers; they knew jack about magic, fire without a hearth.

Only Lucimia held the elements like rain in a cupped hand; she cast as she pleased, a true mage in full bloom.

Poisoned by the Blue Ringed Octopus, she chose flame against rot, a phoenix burning through ash.

That courage hit him like a bell at dawn; admiration rose like warm smoke.

He knew he couldn’t do it; his own heart was a locked door in winter.

It seemed he took her spontaneous blaze as a deliberate spark, a torch lit by choice.

And that parting kick she gave him on her way out—outrageous—well, maybe not; a gust that left him blinking.

In short, that petite silhouette was etched into his heart like a seal in wax.

Luckily, Lucimia had gone; she didn’t see the heroic tale spinning in his head like silk.

Likewise, he didn’t know the octopus’s fate; the unknown sat like fog over a river.

Black ichor kept writhing like a centipede in shadow; it slipped into floor cracks like rain into earth and vanished.

…

After a few quick steps, Lucimia, cloak on and hood drawn, stopped before the city guard’s outpost, a gull before stone cliffs.

The outpost crouched behind a wall of well-hewn stone, each block polished like bone under sun.

Two watch posts climbed high like pines; Lucimia studied them, and found no guards on duty, an empty nest under a bright sky.

She let her gaze slide to the yard within, a pond behind a gate.

In the center stood a church-like watchtower, its flag snapping like a hawk in wind, showing the guard’s weight and honor.

A passing soldier noticed the girl at the gate, steel eyes under a dull helm, and walked up like a tide rolling ashore.

“Got business, little one?” His armor clinked like pebbles; a sword hung at his hip like a sleeping fish.

“Yes.” Lucimia nodded, voice soft like a reed, mimicking a child’s tone. “I just saw a fight in that bookstore over there. Someone said ‘followers’ and all that. So I ran to tell you, sirs.”

“What? Followers?!” The soldier stiffened like a bow, nerves drawn taut.

“You sure you’re not joking? False reports are a heavy crime!” He tried to scare her, voice cold as iron.

“No! It was loud like drums. Didn’t you hear? If you don’t believe me, go look.” Lucimia pointed toward the bookstore, a willow leaning toward the stream.

The soldier wavered like grass in wind, then nodded, a pebble settling.

“Fine. I’ll go notify the others.” His words moved like boots on gravel.

“Mm.” She let it go like a kite string.

She only needed to drop the news; she wouldn’t stir muddy water, and let the guards hold that headache like a hot coal.

One thing still puzzled her: why no one was on duty; were they slacking, fish drifting in shade? What a pain.

After all, the Town of Tranquility hadn’t seen a case in ages; the name itself was a quiet lake.

Their laxity was expected, a cat sleeping on a warm sill.

But it wasn’t a good sign; neglect breeds weeds.

With Deceivers around, Lucimia’s trust thinned like frost on glass; everyone felt like a mask under a lantern.

Wait—what if the soldiers were Deceivers too? Is that why no help came, a drum not struck?

She startled herself like a sparrow in sudden thunder.

Damn; the town felt less beautiful, flowers wilting under a hidden chill.

Brooding, she quickened homeward, footsteps like beads; Father needed to hear this.

In the Lancelot Family, inside Alvis’s office, the air sat heavy like old wood.

Maid Kaeli stood straight before Alvis, posture like a ruler, reporting what she’d seen and heard.

“So, Lucimia slipped out to study knowledge of the Dark Deity?” Alvis’s voice was a low bell.

“Yes, sir,” Kaeli answered, calm as still water.

“She was attacked by Deceiver believers, then turned the blades on them?” His words cut like a whetstone.

“Yes, sir.” Her reply was a thread pulled tight.

“You said she was poisoned, and burned herself to purge it?” His finger paused like a hawk mid-flight.

“Yes, sir,” Kaeli echoed, a grain repeating in a mill.

Alvis tapped his forefinger on the desk, a metronome like rain. “That should be our family’s exorcism method. The form differs, but the outcome matches, a path to the same peak.”

He sat back facing the wall, winter shoulders squared; the family crest hung there like a moon.

Its diamond base was a hard gem; the motif severed a ghost like a blade of dawn.

Dark violet flowers adorned it, night blooms that showed the Exorcist Family’s will to cleanse.

“Ah. So Deceivers truly exist.” His sigh spread like smoke. “Looks like they’ve lurked here for long seasons… maybe most of our dead Holy Knights were taken in the dark by Deceivers.”

He fell silent for a long stretch, a shoreline after storm.

He felt the family’s days thinning like sand through fingers; the start of the infiltration was a blind well.

Even his lady, Mei, no matter how she tied Lucimia’s steps, couldn’t change the mark; as heiress of the Exorcist Family, the Dark Deity would knock like winter on a door.

You can’t run; shadows follow like your own.

Alvis made his choice; he’d tell Lucimia about the Dark Deity and the family roots, a lantern lit in night.

Even if his wife opposed, he’d speak in secret if needed, a whisper behind screens.

After a time, Alvis spoke again, voice steady as a beam: “Notify the Church tomorrow. Our fallen house may not handle Deceivers alone. Only hand in hand with the Church do we have a road.”

“But Deceivers can’t be detected by the Church. Where do we start?” Kaeli asked, a question like a seed.

“Where to start…” Alvis paused, then turned sharp as a blade. “Kaeli, by your account, when Lucimia fought the Deceiver, the noise was huge, like thunder. Yet Guard Squad Six on the outskirts didn’t react, right?”

“Yes. From what I later saw, they didn’t even have sentries posted, an empty nest.” She was puzzled by his turn, yet answered with duty like a lit candle. “Should we discipline them? Or…?”

After all, Alvis was not only head of the Exorcist Family, but an earl, a pillar managing the Town of Tranquility.

“Follow the standard law,” he said, firm as stone. “And give me a full roster for that squad. I want to see who’s on it.”

“I understand, my lord earl.” Kaeli nodded, a lily bowing in breeze.

“Where’s Lucimia now?” His question moved like a shadow.

“Miss is on her way back,” Kaeli replied, a thread returning to the spool.

“Good. When she gets home, have her come see me tonight.” His final words sat like a seal pressed in wax.