What on earth was wrong with me just now? The question coiled like fog around her mind.

Lucimia curled up, arms locked around her knees, like a leaf folding against the wind.

Were those mad thoughts really mine? The doubt pricked like cold rain.

No. Impossible. The refusal rose like a wall of stone.

She knew she wasn’t a saint, but she wasn’t a villain either; her self-measure sat like a scale in moonlight.

On normal days she only used a bit of acting to trick a few people, or a touch of wit to tease, mischief at most like ripples on a pond.

She’d wanted a salted‑fish life, drifting lazy like a cloud—how could those hands reach out to kill?

Dark Deity... The words flashed like lightning across a night sea.

Just now, her posture and her thoughts matched the Dark Deity in books, like an ink rubbing pressed perfect.

She was edging toward a true Dark Deity, step by step toward an abyss rimmed with stars.

In her past life’s tales, Dark Deities and Evil Entities brought madness and frenzy, chaos and loss of reason; your sanity bar dropped like sand through glass.

Did that fight with the octopus leave a slick of corruption on me? The doubt spread like oil on water.

But doesn’t the Authority Power of Exemption shield me from the eldritch, like an umbrella against acid rain?

Then only one path remains: each Sacrificial Ritual deepens the stain, drop by drop, like ink seeping into white silk.

This taint—the Blessing [Exemption]—clearly can’t handle a Dark Deity’s tier; at best it blunts it, like a dull knife against bone.

Realizing that, a chill crawled over her skin like frost; fear and grievance coiled in her chest like smoke.

Last life was too hard; this life she only wanted joy, yet Heaven rolled its dice, and she became a Dark Deity for no reason.

She was marked by a Deceiver for no reason, and lived in nameless dread like a hare under an eagle’s shadow.

Fear, was the worry she’d turn into a mindless monster; grievance, was the ache that even small wishes shattered like thin ice.

A single day felt like ten; the hours stretched thin like a winter dusk.

“What’s, wrong?” the pink‑haired girl asked, her concern falling like dew.

She’d heard Lucimia hit the floor and the rush of her breath, harsh as a bellows.

Lucimia glanced over; the girl had sat up at some point, reaching out, careful as a moth testing a flame.

Lucimia patted her own cheeks, a light drumbeat to steady the heart, and that voice pulled her back from reason’s cliff like a hand from the dark.

Offered up as a sacrifice, yet gentle as spring water—Lucimia saw her anew, like a window washed by rain.

“It’s nothing,” she made her tone breezy as a willow, “I just fell off the bed.”

“Really, are, you okay?” The words fell like warm rain.

“Of course I’m fine, tiny issue, just my butt’s a little sore...” Lucimia rubbed her pert backside, the ache blooming like a plum bruise.

“If you’re fine, that’s, good,” the girl breathed, calm spreading like tea’s warmth.

Why does she always pause every two words, then keep going? The rhythm hopped like a rabbit—oddly cute.

Still rubbing, Lucimia settled back onto the bed, like a cat kneading into fluff.

“By the way, are we on a bed right now?” The girl spoke first, a curious bird calling from a branch.

“Mm...” A soft hum, like a bee in clover.

“So, it’s a bed,” the girl let out a light laugh, “Very, soft.” Her delight floated like a cloud.

Of course it’s soft; this bed matched her past life’s mattress, cloud answering cloud across time.

Long‑staple cotton yarn, woven with a drape like silk; it wore like river stones, resisted wrinkles like bamboo, and kept from pilling like a calm sea.

The finer the yarn, the thinner the cloth; the thinner the cloth, the smoother the hand—lines run parallel like terraces on a hill.

She had to praise this world’s weaving; the loom here sang like wind through reeds.

If she could, she’d lie here all day, basking like a sun‑lazy cat.

Looking at the girl’s smile, bright as sunrise through mist, Lucimia felt her mood lift like a kite.

“Speaking of which, I don’t know your name yet. What should I call you?” Her curiosity opened like a flower.

The pink‑haired girl turned her face toward the sound, like a blossom to the sun, and whispered, “I’m, Yuna.”

“Yuna? Sounds lovely.” Lucimia praised, then asked, “How do you spell it?”

“Y‑U, then, N‑A.” Yuna answered solemnly, each letter dropping like a bead into a bowl.

Pfft. Lucimia couldn’t help laughing; she’d heard that old bit in her past life too, the joke rustling like an autumn leaf.

“You can joke?” Her grin lit like a lantern.

“Someone, taught me.” The words left a faint trail, like footprints in sand.

“Who? Someone important? Parents, or a friend?” The questions lined up like stones across a stream.

“Mm...” Yuna hesitated, and then a warm smile bloomed like firelight on her face. “Yes. Very, important. Also, a friend.”

I see. Then that person must be interesting, a firefly in a night field.

How was the girl captured? Where had she been, what was she doing? Lucimia’s curiosity rose like a tide.

More than that, maybe Yuna could offer outside information, lanterns to light this world’s streets.

“Where is he now? Is he still alive?” The thought cast a shadow, like a swift cloud over sun.

If the friend had been there when Yuna was taken, he might’ve met a blade; the worry spread like ink.

And Yuna’s eyes didn’t work well; if he cherished her, he’d have stood close—if Yuna was harmed, his odds dimmed like a fading wick.

As soon as she said it, guilt dropped in her chest like a stone in a well.

“About, that... still here, and also, not here,” Yuna said, hands clasped to her breast like a small prayer.

Realizing she’d prodded a wound, Lucimia murmured an apology, her voice soft as a falling leaf.

Silence drifted in, light as snow.

Friends, huh. The word steeped like tea in her mouth.

To break the hush, Lucimia thought a moment; her lips curved like a new moon. “Yuna, be my friend.”

“Okay.” Yuna didn’t hesitate at all; her answer fell clean like a pebble’s splash.

It surprised Lucimia; no pause at all? To her, I should still be a Dark Deity, right? Be friends with a Dark Deity? The thought cracked like distant thunder.

No—she seemed not afraid of her, seeing her not as a Dark Deity, but as a person, clear as a lake at dawn.

“What’s, wrong? Dark Deity, ma’am.” The title fluttered like a banner she didn’t want.

“...Nothing. Also, don’t call me Dark Deity.” If her parents heard that later, trouble would swarm like bees.

“Then how, should I address you? Great, Lady Olivya?” The mock‑grand title chimed like a tin crown.

“...Don’t call me that either. I’m not a Dark Deity. I’m just an ordinary girl from an ordinary family—I’m Lucimia Lancelot. Call me whatever you like.” Her correction stood simple as a straight road.

“Alright, then, Sister Lucy.” The girl answered obediently, sweet as a ripe peach.

“What did you call me?” The question fluttered like a finch.

“...Lucy, sister.” The words landed soft as cotton.

Lucimia’s voice carried a cool, airy grace, like shade under bamboo; Yuna’s voice was sweet as cotton candy melting on the tongue.

So that one “sister” stirred a strange warmth, honey spreading through her chest; she didn’t mind at all.

She blinked, playful as a fox. “Say it again.”

“Lucy, sister.”

“Again, again.” Her hands clapped lightly, like a sparrow’s wings.

“Lucy, sister...” The echo stretched like caramel.

“Can you say it together? Sweeter, if you can.” She couldn’t resist and pinched Yuna’s cheeks, soft as steamed buns.

“Lucy‑sis~” The note curled like pink sugar.

That’s the feel, exactly. The satisfaction melted like sugar in tea.

Hehe—Lucimia’s brows arced like a slim crescent; a soft joy rose like spring wind, and the earlier gloom blew away like dust.

The girl’s laughter was a sprite named Joy, hopping across the bedroom like motes in a sunbeam.

...

They lay back on the bed again, two small boats on a quiet lake.

Yuna spoke first, her voice a wind‑bell in a gentle breeze. “Lucy, sister. You sound, happy.”

“Mm. I’m very happy,” Lucimia answered, honest as clear water from a mountain spring.

Yuna pressed her face near, a candle leaning into the night. “Laughter, can, drive away darkness.”

Lucimia turned her head toward Yuna, like a sunflower seeking light.

“Laughter can drive away darkness...?” she repeated in her heart, the words rippling like rings on a pond.

Laughter can drive away darkness. Yes. After laughing, her irritability had blown off like a passing squall; her reason returned like a steady tide; she was herself again.

Thank you, Yuna. The gratitude warmed her like a cup of tea.

She closed her eyes, shutters drawing at dusk.

Sleep a little more. Tomorrow, I’ll make your presence settle in without a ripple, weaving you into the day like a silken thread.