Has Regino gone mad farming goodwill? He keeps grinding like he’s ladling water into a sieve, and his score sinks deeper in the red.

He used Rock Armor because he flat-out couldn’t dodge, feet nailed to the floor. A Tier-3 getting blindsided by a Tier-2 kid—what a joke. Worse, when he couldn’t gauge the spell’s power, he wrapped his whole arm in Rock Armor to block. That’s brainless. If it failed, he’d lose the arm. A normal move is to pop a Rock Shield and parry top or bottom. Even if it breaks, you buy a heartbeat. That one heartbeat is enough to slip away like a fish.

It was obvious—Regino had zero real combat experience, a bookish student tossed onto a battlefield.

Even if he blocked, the backlash would numb his arm like frost biting bone. And that last punch—since when does a mage wade into melee? A melee mage? What’s next, a sword-swinging scholar?

Their magic felt dull, no sweeping spectacle, no storm-lit grandeur—nothing like the dazzling effects she saw in her past life.

As a Tier-3, Regino looked weaker than a single Blue Ringed Octopus tentacle, all bluster and no bite.

If that fire bolt were a Blue Ringed Octopus’s limb, his arm would’ve flown off like a leaf in gale.

The exchange ended; the winner was Regino, as expected. He stepped off the stage with his chin tilted high, pride puffing like a rooster.

The crowd churned with talk, a tide of voices rolling like surf after a storm, replaying the highlights with shining eyes.

Some Holy Knights quizzed their partners. “Facing that spell, how would you handle it?” they asked, steel in their tone.

Answers scattered like leaves in wind, and the back-and-forth kept them humming, delighted.

Alvis clapped right on cue, a clear bell that drew every gaze to him like moths to a lantern.

“Everyone, tonight’s banquet is about to end. Before that, Executor Bazeroth has something to say.”

Is it coming?

A prickle climbed Lucimia’s spine. She straightened, unsure what plan her father and Bazeroth had spun, or how they’d deal with false Kaeli and false Vittor.

Bazeroth rose. Two Holy Knights lugged a crate of small glass vials into view, glass gleaming like dew under lamplight.

“Huh? Isn’t that Holy Water? Wait, it looks different,” someone from a family murmured, brows arched.

“Yes. This is Holy Water.” Bazeroth lifted a little vial, holding it aloft where the light caught it like morning frost.

In the past, Holy Water came in midsize flasks. These were small, like single-dose elixirs you’d tip and empty in one breath.

“This batch is different,” Bazeroth explained smoothly. “Before, our Saintess birthed it through Blessing. Now, the Purification Deity Vosh has awakened. He has descended Holy Water himself. Its effect is more than tenfold.”

Gasps rippled through the hall like wind through wheat.

“Heavens—Holy Water descended by the Purification Deity!”

Hands came together in prayer. Faces tipped upward like flowers seeking sun.

“Gratitude to the Purification Deity,” they intoned.

Only the Lancelot Family stood untouched by the tide; they didn’t follow Vosh.

After the prayers, Bazeroth had the Holy Water passed around. He uncorked his own vial, smile bright as steel. “Because this Holy Water is different, there’s no need to wait till 11 p.m. We drink now. Holy Water descended by the Purification Deity can Purify even evil taint at a Dark Deity level!”

He lifted his throat and drank, one clean swallow, a leader’s toast before the storm.

Soon, everyone held a vial, cold glass kissing their palms. Lucimia too.

Her pulse tightened. She could read the gambit—use Holy Water to force the impostors out, and stress it Purifies Dark Deity-grade taint. A Deceiver wouldn’t dare drink.

She cradled the chill in her hand, mind knotted like reeds in current.

A Deceiver wouldn’t drink. She couldn’t either. If it truly Purified taint that deep, would she walk out of that wave whole?

She wouldn’t gamble. But as corks popped like rain on tiles, she had to follow the rhythm or drown in suspicion.

Drinking was out of the question. She didn’t even dare wet her lips.

Careful. Clever. She brushed the vial with an Invisibility Spell, cloaking the liquid like a thin mist. One hand rose to shield her mouth, a demure move any lady would make. She mirrored the crowd’s motions perfectly, a swan among swans.

She didn’t drink. She tipped the Holy Water into the plate before her, invisible as a breath in winter air. No one saw a drop.

“Mm? Kaeli, why aren’t you drinking?” Alvis had already swallowed his. He sat with fingers interlaced over his belly, one ankle crossed over his knee, eyes amused like a fox watching a rabbit’s trail.

Heads turned like sunflowers to the sun, curiosity tilting the hall’s gaze to the lovely maid.

Kaeli held her vial and didn’t move. She said nothing, still as a statue.

“Hey, you’re not drinking either?” someone called, a pebble tossed into the quiet.

Vittor this time. He gripped his bottle, frozen. He didn’t drink. He didn’t speak.

In an instant, the lively hall slipped under a Time Halt, silence turning eerie as frost on glass.

Everyone stilled, eyes pinned to Kaeli and Vittor. Not a breath of sound, only their shared gaze tightening the air like wire.

It held for dozens of heartbeats.

Then, in a snap, Kaeli moved.

She flung her Holy Water aside, a flash of glass, and lunged at Regino—hostage in sight, her steps like knives.

Regino wasn’t stupid. The mood had been a storm signal; he’d already guessed they were something else.

He didn’t know about Deceivers. He just knew this was an Evil Entity.

He bolted, legs churning, but he was slower. Mid-sprint, Kaeli’s right hand bloomed into a jet-black octopus tentacle, a slick shadow whipping through the lamplight.

Other Holy Knights surged, steel scraping from scabbards, but distance was a wall; they couldn’t close in time.

Regino broke down—tears, snot, panic. He wasn’t from an Exorcist Family. He’d never met an Evil Entity. After two steps, he stumbled and went down hard.

“D-don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” He hurled spells like sparks from a wet fire, every blast missing wide. Kaeli didn’t even need to sidestep.

At a meter out, Kaeli whipped the tentacle, snapping for his legs like a black scythe.

In that bullet-time instant: Regino’s face a smear of terror, snot and tears; Holy Knights charging, hands on hilts, boots pounding; his father with one hand out, crying “No!” into the crush of air; and Kaeli’s snarl sharpening into something feral. Together they painted a shocking tableau.

CLANG—!

The banquet hall rang like a struck bell. Pain bit ears; sound shook dust from the rafters.

The expected slice didn’t come. Regino grabbed at his legs, frantic.

“They’re still here—thank heavens!” He wiped tears and snot in one messy swipe, then looked up—and saw a scene he would never forget.

A petite silhouette stood before him. A calf wrapped in black silk stockings planted between his legs, steady as a pillar. Her body angled left. Her left arm pressed into a towering shield of ice, the weight forcing her to bend, spine like a drawn bow. Black hair spilled forward in a soft cascade, and her ribbon drifted down on a lazy breeze, landing on his chest like a fallen petal.

Regino stared, mute, at the girl. On her face, there was no fear, no panic—only cool resolve, a flint-hard gaze, brows drawn in quiet focus. Her skin was pale as jade, flawless under lampfire.

He knew, in the marrow, that the girl had saved him.

Small body, vast strength—winter’s branch bearing a storm.

The girl was none other than Lucimia.