Fear pricked her while she held the wilted white flower; Lucimia stood frozen, like a deer in sudden moonlight.

She hadn’t spent much time with Julie, yet that gentleness stayed bright in her mind, like lamplight kept alive through a long winter.

Julie was good, truly good; in a season when everyone scraped by, she took in a flock of orphans like a patient shepherd.

Sure, the family supplied some food, month by month, like grain from a small jar.

But their daily living fell on Julie alone, and now she was gone—what about them?

Don’t get it wrong—she never saw herself as a saint, no halo in her mirror.

Lucimia wasn’t holy water; she was just a girl who saluted kindness like a swallow skimming a pond.

She only wondered what ending those orphans would meet without Julie, like seedlings left in a sudden frost.

She didn’t want her days disturbed, didn’t want the people she cherished hurt; her care was a narrow stream saved for the few.

Her ideal life was simple: food and drink steady, that old tree by the door unchanged, favorite pastimes kept like well-worn kites.

The shop she loved still open, flavors unmoved, small moments with the important few, daily glances like sunlight across a courtyard.

Life should flow on, calm as an eternal lake.

If a task would disrupt that flow, she wouldn’t do it; if someone shattered it, anger and sorrow rose like storm clouds.

That was her small wish, fragile as a soap bubble.

Two soldiers with distinct armor stood by the corpse and exchanged words, like crows arguing over a bleak branch.

The regular guards wore silver-white; these two had purple patterns on each shoulder, a clear mark of rank, like plum petals.

Lucimia was close enough to hear them, the words ringing like pebbles dropped in still water.

"Captain Cole, what do you think?" The green-haired man with a teardrop mole half-squatted, voice low as wind over grass.

Cole was a burly soldier, standing a head taller than most, like a pine trunk among shrubs.

He crossed his arms, two fingers on his chin like a closing gate, and said, "This looks like a human homicide, likely last night."

"But the wound is strange," the green-haired man frowned, pointing at the neck. "It looks more like an Evil Entity’s work."

"Captain, see the cut ring—it's smooth all around, which means the weapon was razor-sharp."

"But even so, the head wasn’t severed."

He shifted his squat, and kept going, words falling like rain.

"Look at the remaining connection; the flesh looks battered by blunt force, blood and meat blurred like trampled clay."

"It's as if the blade suddenly lost sharpness there and turned into a club; that’s not normal."

"If the weapon was sharp, how do you explain this wound? Even without severing, the last bit should be smooth. And—"

Cole coughed twice, a harsh bark that cut the air like a snapped twig.

"Ritch, remember your place," he said. "I’m captain; my word stands. Understand?"

"Our town is under an Exorcist Family, seated in the capital and backed by the Church."

"How could Evil Entities invade here? If they did, humanity would already be finished."

"You think the wound is off; maybe the weapon was short and failed to sever."

"Then the killer tried brute force and didn’t succeed, that’s all."

"And the motive?" Ritch’s temper flared first, like a spark in dry straw.

He’d had enough of Cole’s lofty posture; today was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

He stood and faced Cole, dropping the honorific like a stone: "Don’t give me vendettas."

"We’ve confirmed the victim’s identity; her reputation in town was good."

"Or she witnessed a crime and the killer wanted to silence her?"

"I had other soldiers check for murders or theft nearby—nothing."

"How do you explain that?"

"And if the killer was caught, trying to silence her—why slice the neck?"

"Kill her, then not dispose of the body, just leave it here?"

Cole dug at his ear and tapped his foot, impatience rising like heat off stone.

When he heard Ritch had already sent others to investigate, his sense of power bristled like a porcupine.

"Enough, Ritch!" Cole grabbed his shoulder and roared, voice crashing like thunder.

"I’m captain, I decide. You sent soldiers without my say—violation of the code. Go back and take your punishment."

"Tch." Ritch clicked his tongue, shook off Cole’s hand like rain, and left without looking back.

After Ritch left, Cole turned and raised his hands to the onlookers, like a priest calming a tide.

"Everyone, rest easy. This wasn’t done by Evil Entities; it’s an ordinary homicide."

"Our town guard will catch the culprit, like hounds on a trail."

"The Church’s exorcism team arrives tonight, like torches cutting dusk."

"Tomorrow we’ll hold an Exorcism Ritual, like sweeping ashes from a hearth."

"So don’t panic—settle your hearts and enjoy this month’s day of exorcism."

Relief seeped back into the crowd, fear retracting like a tide.

"Whew, that scared me. Thank heaven it’s just a regular homicide."

"For sure—if those filthy things were here, even our Town of Tranquility wouldn’t be tranquil."

"And with tomorrow the exorcism day, would those filthy things dare stick around?"

"Right—haha, disperse, everyone, like leaves in a breeze."

They left with shaky smiles, patting their chests, like waking from a bad dream.

Lucimia watched the entire shift of the scene like watching clouds break after rain.

Ordinary? In their eyes, a homicide was ordinary?

Maybe. In a world stalked by Evil Entities, a murder by humans might be a small ripple.

Even so, if a human did this, aren’t they worried the killer still lurks in town?

They relaxed so suddenly, like a string dropped slack.

She stayed at the edge of the scene until the soldiers carried the body away like a bundle of winter wood.

Only then did she leave, reluctant as a cat pulled from a sunbeam.

Walking down the road, she fell into thought again, mind drifting like mist.

She had stayed to study the neck wound, like a scholar stooped over a scroll.

As Ritch said, the cut ring was smooth; yet at the final connection, it turned to mangled flesh, like pulp beaten with a stick.

And the questions Ritch threw out kept circling her mind, like swallows under eaves.

If not vendetta or silencing, what motive drove the killer?

Why leave the body lying here like a stone left on a path?

Only one possibility came to her—Deceiver.

The Deceiver tried to replace Julie but was interrupted by something unseen, like a hand snatching a mask mid-swap.

The thing that cut Julie’s neck was likely a blade-like spine sliding from an octopus-like suction cup.

Between cups there are gaps; when the tendril struck, the last stretch wasn’t under the spines’ reach.

So the tendril hammered the final bit, leaving that blurred mess of flesh like fruit crushed in a fist.