Lucimia hugged a pillow soft as a cloud, and drifted into a warm, honeyed dream.

In that dream, the Deceiver was handled by the Church like smoke from a lamp.

Her identity stayed buried like a stone under snow.

She even made her first friend, a sweet, soft girl like a marshmallow.

From then on she’d live a blissfully idle slacker life, eating and drinking like a cat in the sun.

But the sweetness snapped like a lute string.

"Answer me... answer me... answer us..." The familiar whisper swirled at her ear like damp wind in reeds.

Her mind was seized like a wrist in iron, and dragged downward like an anchor into dark water.

After a long drift, Lucimia surfaced and opened her eyes like a swimmer breaking a black lake.

Around her rose a scene she knew: a high altar like a cliff, and a carved Magic Array like frost on stone.

A priestess in daring lingerie stood beside her like a crimson moth, and below, worshippers bowed like a tide.

She had been pulled again to yesterday’s Sacrificial Ritual, the wheel turning back with a click.

Annoyance flared first, a spark catching dry straw; then Lucimia truly got angry.

What kind of Dark Deity does that?

A reply forced like shackles—no right to refuse?

The thought crushed her chest like a tight corset, and it ruined her sweet dream.

The thought had barely flown when the altar shuddered like a beast; gravel rattled from above like a sudden hail.

The priestess praying before her blanched like paper.

She fell from one knee to both and stammered, "Please, My Lady, stay Your wrath," like a sparrow pleading with a storm.

Huh? Her mood could sway the altar like fingers across water.

That was oddly fun, like tugging a puppet’s strings.

With that amused thought, the shaking eased, and the altar stilled like a pond at dusk.

The priestess let out a breath like a leaking bellows.

That easy control tickled Lucimia’s playful side like a cat seeing a dangling string.

Remembering how they broke her dream, she decided to teach them a lesson, like a teacher tapping a ruler.

She summoned her current troubles, letting them swarm like ants.

The Deceiver lurked in shadow, and the crisis of her identity loomed like stormclouds.

Worry surged hot and restless like a summer thunderhead.

The altar convulsed again, a quake rolling through it like thunder under earth.

The priestess flattened to the floor like a leaf before a gale, begging for calm once more.

Lucimia thought about juicy roast meat, smoke curling like gray silk, and fat hissing like rain.

The altar stopped again, quiet as a windless night.

The priestess wiped sweat from her brow like dew from a leaf.

Then Lucimia let in past-life mistakes, thorny and dark like midnight brambles.

The altar jolted again, a hard tremor like a hammer on a gong.

The priestess pleaded yet again, piling apologies like pebbles at a shrine.

Alright, alright—enough, she thought, her irritation sinking like embers under ash.

Lucimia steadied her mood, breathing even like a tide that knows its shore.

The altar fell silent; the priestess dared not delay, fearing it might shatter like thin ice.

She waved to those below and cried, "Quick! Bring up the offering. Lady Olivya is furious!"

Several figures in black robes heaved a long, oval burden up the stairs like ants with a seed.

It was too far, and the darkness pooled thick as ink; Lucimia couldn’t make out what it was.

Please don’t let it be dead pork again, she thought, the memory sour as old brine.

Yesterday’s pig carcass still sat in her Storage Ring like a forgotten package.

Soon the object arrived, wrapped in black cloth like night folded on itself.

They set it at the heart of the Magic Array with careful hands, bowed, and backed away like shadows.

The priestess sank to one knee, fingers laced and fists pressed like a ritual knot, and prayed.

"Great Lady Olivya, yesterday’s offering must have displeased You—my failing.

But today, the offering we present will surely delight You. We beg You, pour down Your blessing upon us!"

"Ble-sssss-ing—" the faithful echoed as one, their voices rising like steam from a cauldron.

Since Lucimia took yesterday’s offering and left them nothing, maybe they changed the type today like swapping bait on a hook.

Curiosity pricked like a thorn; she fixed her gaze on the black cloth like a cat watching a twitching curtain.

Prayer finished, the priestess pinched a corner with two fingers and peeled it back like lifting a veil.

In the altar’s weak glow, Lucimia finally saw, like dawn slipping under a door.

First came a spill of pink hair like peach blossoms in wind.

Then a delicate girl’s face, eyes bound with a black strip like a night ribbon, mystery pooling like ink.

Below, a chest bound in white bandages like snow-white vines.

Then a bare, graceful waist and a smooth lower belly like porcelain.

The secret place was likewise wrapped, and at the end were long legs with perfect curves like sculpted jade.

It was a girl dressed scandalously, a lantern with only the flame covered and all the glass exposed.

Only the vital parts were concealed, and the rest was pale skin like milk, likely by design.

Her build matched Lucimia’s, the ages close like two buds on one branch.

Her expression held no panic, only stillness like a lake under moonlight.

Seriously? Dead pigs didn’t work, so they offered a living person, like tossing a lamb on the altar?

Did they hear that Olivya was a lecherous Dark Deity?

Is that why the faithful dressed saucy like courtesans, and offered a maiden too?

You can deal with dead pork like chopping kindling, but what about a living girl?

If family saw a naked woman appear on her bed like smoke, they’d think her tastes peculiar.

That was only for this identity’s sake, she told herself, like a sheet thrown over a mirror.

In her past life she’d been a man, so of course her compass leaned toward girls like a needle to north.

Worse still, bringing a half-dressed girl home to lie on the bed looked like a dissolute young master’s trick.

That would blacken Lucimia’s name like soot on silk.

Could she refuse an offering, like pushing a tray back across the table?

The priestess knew nothing of Lucimia’s thoughts; she danced again, hips twisting like a serpent.

She splashed red liquid over the Magic Array like wine on stone, and chanted a strange song that coiled like smoke.

Darkness dimmed Lucimia’s awareness again; black mist wrapped the pink-haired girl like a cocoon.

In her heart she repeated like a drumbeat.

Don’t want this offering.

Don’t want this offering.

Don’t want this offering.

She could only pray the world would shift with her will like reeds bowing to wind.

Perfect proportions or not, if the girl landed on her bed, the cleanup would be a mess like spilled oil.

Black fog swallowed her sight like a falling curtain, and her consciousness blew out like a candle.

She opened her eyes to a familiar ceiling, the room still dim like predawn ash.

The window sat gray in the corner of her gaze like a cold pane.

It looked not yet morning, a sky holding its breath like a swimmer.

She turned her head toward the bedside like a sunflower to light.

Sure enough, the pink-haired girl lay on her side, warm and real as bread, her face toward Lucimia.

A black cloth covered her eyes like a blind moon, and cherry-soft lips were slightly parted.

Lucimia let her gaze rest on the bared skin like sunlight on porcelain, and extended one forefinger.

She poked the girl’s soft belly, light as tapping a drumskin.

She’s real, and so soft; the thought bubbled up like spring water.

Well, hers was soft too, but poking yourself and poking someone else felt different, like humming versus singing.

Each poke gave a tender yield, a small hollow blooming like a dimple.

Poke, poke, poke—poke; the little rhythm ticked like rain on paper.

She poked belly, side, thigh, and calf a few more times; still unsatisfied, she pinched with her fingers like catching a dumpling edge.

It felt wildly satisfying, an odd relief like squeezing a stress ball.

She pinched the girl’s cheek, soft as a steamed bun.

Still no response; Lucimia romped like a kitten on a quilt.

If not for the rise and fall of her chest like waves on a pond, Lucimia would have thought her dead.

Staring at the black cloth over those eyes, Lucimia guessed the faithful had a kink, a blindfold like a costume piece.

With that, she reached to take it off, eager to see the girl’s eyes and full face like a sunrise.

The instant her fingers touched the cloth, the pink-haired girl’s hand rose and blocked her like a fan snapping open.

At the same time, a pleasant voice sounded at her ear like a silver bell: "Please don’t take off my blindfold."

Eh?

Lucimia froze, stiff as a deer in a lantern’s light.

Wait a second—had she been awake the whole time?!