“I... I’ve got no way.” Yuna shook her head like a scolded sparrow under a cold eave.

But the next beat, she said, “Lucimia, sis. Since we can’t dodge it, then break the ritual, right?”

Lucimia’s eyes widened like lanterns in sudden wind, fixed on the pink‑haired girl before her.

She re‑scanned that harmless face, head to heel, front to back, inside to out, then gripped Yuna’s shoulders with frost‑cold fingers. “Yuna, I think you’re more of a Dark Deity than me!”

No, that couldn’t be right; this child was always sweet as peach blossom. Why drop a thunderbolt like that?

So the gentle shell hid a nest of tricks, like silk hiding thorns?

Pink fluff outside, midnight inside?

Yuna’s portrait in Lucimia’s heart smudged like ink in rain.

“If they catch me wrecking the ritual, the noose tightens, and I’m dead. Besides, the ritual purges the remaining Deceivers; smashing it cuts good wheat.”

“But the ritual also purges you, sis, like a net that doesn’t spare the bright fish.”

“...” Silence fell like a stone into a deep well.

“We can, change the way, Lucimia, sis. We can, modify the Magic Array, and trick them the ritual’s done. Wouldn’t that, be fine?”

“And the Deceivers should already be gone, like smoke after rain.”

“You that sure? Aren’t you the one who can’t see anything?”

“...I’m guessing. Even if some remain, Holy Water will out them like dawn exposes shadows. The ritual’s effect is small.”

“That... sounds reasonable.” Lucimia bit her knuckle like a fox thinking under clouded moon.

Wait—why is Yuna helping me? I’m a Dark Deity, a storm in the chapel’s eyes.

Her thoughts stalled, then snapped like a string, and a cold ripple spread.

Right, why help a Dark Deity? From the start, she never feared the night in me.

Lucimia had trusted Yuna like spring trusting rain, with no suspicion, which wasn’t her iron habit.

Yuna was a seized sacrifice; in a world that hates Dark Deities and kneels to the Church, she’d help a Dark Deity against the tide?

Does that hold water?

Maybe she wore a mask from the start—soft eyes, willow‑light voice, then sell me to the Church with a fan’s flick.

At the banquet, she stayed alone like a shadow in lantern fields; deals could’ve been struck in whispers I never heard.

She could use my urgency to break the deadlock, guide me to sabotage, then the enforcer Bazeroth would spring a steel trap under fallen leaves.

My identity might already glimmer on the Church’s panes, while I sit in my room like a moth unaware of the candle.

A chill climbed Lucimia’s spine like frost vines, and looking at that harmless girl, a blade of winter rose in her heart.

Yuna wasn’t cute anymore; pink outside, pitch black within, like sugar hiding soot.

And I even brought her sweets, now bitter on the tongue.

What now? Strike now? Kill Yuna? No—beat the grass, the snake bolts into deeper reeds.

Unease drummed in Lucimia’s chest like rain on a drum.

I should’ve killed her at first light; “Dark Deity taint” was smoke without proof.

Yes, that’s it; there’s no taint, just this pink‑haired current steering my boat toward rocks.

If I can’t startle the snake, then I’ll ride the current and turn the rudder later, and bolt like a fox at dusk.

But how do I run? Is there still a gap in the hedge?

Damn it. Holy Knights ring the town like iron around a barrel; they knew, and under the banner of purging Deceivers, they sealed my roads.

Honestly, fleeing would be fine; I could carry coin like embers and light a new hearth elsewhere. If a true Dark Deity is caught—the first—they’ll lock me in a cold cellar and study me like a pinned butterfly.

I won’t endure that; glass will crack under that ice.

What do I do? What do I do?

She stepped back without noticing, like a shadow shrinking at sundown.

“Lucimia, sis?” Yuna asked softly, like a warm lamp in fog, a thread of care in her tone.

It reached Lucimia’s ear as ash and bile, a taste of soot.

“...Yeah. Let’s do that.” Her voice lay flat as a winter pond.

“Mm!” Yuna nodded, a spring bell chiming once.

Lucimia chose to go along, wearing a mask like silk over steel.

Don’t alert the other side. She still clutched the running option like a fox clutching a last path; it was the only path left.

She needed time like spun thread, enough to weave an escape net.

What about my parents? Are they in fog or in light?

Forget it; drop that burden. Flight comes first, like a bird before storm.

Round and round, it still comes back to running. She felt bleak, like a chessboard reset; three days’ effort washed like footprints in rain.

Back in her bedroom, she opened her grimoire; pages lifted like wings.

Ground roads were snares; try the sky, ride the wind road.

She didn’t know if the Church had strung nets in the clouds, but that was the lone bridge.

If she couldn’t escape, she’d snuff her wick before capture and save her own moon from stains.

She’d died once; a second fall was just another leaf.

A bitter, self‑destructive taste rose, like tea over‑steeped.

Time slid to evening on quiet rails.

A new maid dressed her like a willow combed in rain; her parents led her to the town square under star‑salted sky.

The square was broad as a lake, enough for the whole town; at the center lay a pool with an artful sculpture like a swan of stone.

It was near nine, tipping toward ten, and the crowd was a tide of faces already settled.

Vendors shouted under lantern smoke, hawking trinkets and snacks; steam and spice braided with laughter, festival bright as fireflies.

Exorcism Day was a festival, after all, a ritual wrapped in lantern light.

At a distance, the Church handed out Holy Water like moonlit glass; she’d “drunk” it last night and didn’t need another cup.

There was still time before the Exorcism Ritual; a loose rope of free minutes was hers.

Yuna urged, “Lucimia, sis. Now, go modify the Magic Array?”

“Mm.” Lucimia nodded like a reed in wind.

For the Exorcism Ritual, the Church carved arrays at the town’s four corners, then cut a fifth core array at the square’s heart, a web of runes over stone.

She didn’t truly follow Yuna’s plan; she drifted through food stalls like a busker through smoke, bought plenty, and tucked them into her Storage Ring like stars in a small sky, ready to flee with warmth.

Under Yuna’s urging, she slipped to quiet spots, pretending to trace changes, chalk whispering like moth wings.

“I’m modifying it.”

“Mm‑mm, quicker is better,” Yuna said, acting as if the stage were real silk.

“Done.”

“Let’s, go to the next one.”

“Okay.”

They did four rounds like circling crows, and Yuna finally voiced doubt, a pebble tossed in a pond.

“Lucimia, sis. Are you really, seriously, modifying it?”