Before heading out, she changed into clothes that flowed like water, pulled a hooded cloak from the wardrobe, and drew its shadow over her face. She set one on Yuna as well, and the two slipped out like swallows leaving a nest.

Lucimia stepped onto the slick, rain-dark street. Her voice came first, a taut string pulled tight. “Yuna, do you know something?”

“I…” Her words hung like mist that wouldn’t gather.

“Tell me. Do you have some special knack? A rare spell? Or… do you carry a Blessing too?”

Yuna wavered, her gaze rippling like water. “I… I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

Suspicion pooled in Lucimia like a slow storm. From the very start, she hadn’t feared me, spoke in riddles, nudged me at turns—and, right, bailed me out more than once.

The pink‑haired girl carried a secret, a well without a visible bottom.

With silence weighing like fog, Lucimia tried again. “Then I ask, you answer. Does that work?”

Yuna mulled it over, thoughts fluttering like moths. “Not… now.”

“Not now? Why?”

Frustration scratched at her brow like grit. Lucimia rubbed her forehead. “Forget it. Let’s go confirm a few things first.”

“Mm.” Yuna nodded, meek as a fawn, fingers pinching the hem of Lucimia’s skirt like a lifeline.

With her skirt snagged she couldn’t run. Lucimia caught Yuna by the wrist and jogged to a place called Delicious Fare, feet tapping like rain.

She’d come to see if Vittor, like Kaeli, had returned to the world like a ghost stepping back into candlelight.

She eased the ajar door and pressed half her face to the gap. Inside, a man with short black hair and stubble sat at the front desk, counting money like clicking beads. Not a stranger—Vittor.

Braced by the thought, Lucimia didn’t flinch. She lifted herself like a whisper and slipped away.

Vittor was alive. Their names flickered like relit candles—so Julie was alive too.

Yet these weren’t the people I knew; they were masks. Deceivers wearing borrowed skin.

What about the rest of town? Were they Deceivers too?

Lucimia looked around. People moved like a calm tide—some walking in silence, some picking through vegetables, some leading laughing children. Every face was a mask of routine; she couldn’t tell at all.

She dared a grim premise: what if everyone had become a Deceiver? Then why mimic us, why live by our rhythms like actors glued to their roles?

What do the Deceivers want?

She had another truth to test: Bazeroth, the Purification Church’s executor, and Desty, who bore the Blessing of Purification. Had they been replaced? Or were they, like her, still themselves?

Lucimia slipped into an empty alley. She cast her Flight Spell and rose into the air like a heron. She found where the church people were lodging.

It was a place like a soldiers’ outpost, with a gilt apartment planted in the middle like a jewel.

The Lancelot Family used it as guest quarters.

She didn’t greet the Holy Knights. She flew straight to Desty’s room, hovering in place. With a whoosh, a Wind Blade kissed the window lock, and she slipped through like a breeze.

“Who?!” A sharp cry. A sword flashed, wind muscled along its arc as it struck toward Lucimia.

“Wait—it’s me, Lucimia!” she blurted.

The long sword stopped a few centimeters from Lucimia, quivering like a trapped hawk.

Lucimia let out a breath, a small tide receding.

“Lucimia? Why the window, not the front door?” Desty wasn’t in her deep-blue armor.

She wore only a short vest and shorts. Bare legs, pale feet quiet on the wooden floor like petals on a pond.

Desty asked, then slid her sword back into the scabbard with a clean sigh.

“…Were you asleep?”

“Yes.” Desty nodded, all earnest steadiness. “So why the window? What did you need?”

Resolve cooled over her tongue like rain. Lucimia sidestepped the window talk. “I found a place with amazing food. I want to take you for breakfast.”

“Breakfast? Tasty?” Desty leaned the sword by the bed and sat on the soft mattress. “What is it? Where?”

“It’s—never mind. Get dressed first. I’ll take you.”

“Alright.”

Caution draped over her shoulders like a cloak. If she said outright that people were replaced, she’d mark herself. She needed to hint, then read the ripples in Desty’s face.

How to whisper it? Simple. Bring Desty to Vittor’s place and let her reaction draw the outline.

Soon, Desty was back in her armor, blue steel gleaming like morning ice.

Desty headed for the front door. Lucimia didn’t indulge it. She cast her Flight Spell, grabbed Desty, and they slipped out the window like twin swallows.

“Why not the front?”

“The front feels wrong for me. The window’s quicker. I can fly,” Lucimia said, calm as a still lake.

Soon, three girls dropped from the sky and touched down in an empty alley, like leaves drifting to stone.

“This way. Follow me.”

“Okay.”

She led Desty to where Vittor worked.

“This is it.”

“…Delicious Fare.” Desty rubbed her chin. “Straight to the point for a name.”

“Right? It’s still early. Not sure they’re open. Let’s ease the door and peek inside.”

“Hm? Why not knock?”

“This… ah, just take a look with me.”

Unable to resist Lucimia’s tug, Desty leaned with her at the door and peered in, faces lined up like moons.

“Well? Do you see him? Is someone at the counter?” Lucimia asked on purpose, words soft as bait.

“…Looks like it. Black hair, stubble—wait, isn’t that—?!” Desty almost cried out. Lucimia clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Shh—” Lucimia pressed a finger to her lips, a hush cutting the air.

Desty caught on, understanding blooming like a quick flame.

Good. Desty hadn’t been replaced.

Relief rose in Lucimia like warm light.

Yet joy carried a thorn. Desty bore the Blessing of Purification and hadn’t been replaced. My parents carried the Blessing of Exemption, so close in nature. Why were they the ones taken?

Was it the method of replacement?

Then why was I untouched?

“I think we should speak to the executor first,” Desty suggested.

“Bazeroth?” Lucimia weighed it, then told Desty what had happened that morning. She shared her guesses too—like the whole town being replaced.

“Are you sure Bazeroth couldn’t be replaced?”

“I’m sure. The executor bears the Blessing of Purification as well. If I can’t be replaced, he won’t be either,” Desty said, firm as iron.

“In that case, let’s go to Bazeroth.”

He’s the Purification Church’s executor, after all. If he acts, almost nothing should be beyond reach, right?

Only… my family—

Soon, the two reached Bazeroth’s quarters. Desty knocked first, knuckles tapping like rain.

“Executor, it’s Desty.”

“Come in.”

The door swung open. Bazeroth sat at his desk, reading, eyes steady as winter rivers.

The two laid out the situation to Bazeroth.

“What?! Such a thing?” Bazeroth stared, disbelief cracking his calm. The white along his mustache trembled.

“Mm, it’s true. This morning at the restaurant I—ugh!” Lucimia’s words snapped. A stabbing pain burst from behind, cold as an ice spike.

She spun. Desty’s smile split wide, grotesque as a crescent carved too deep. A dagger glinted in her hand, its blade sunk halfway into Lucimia’s back.

What… is happening?!

Desty is a Deceiver? She fooled me?!

Then Bazeroth—?!

She turned again. Bazeroth stroked his mustache with one hand and smiled, strange as moonlight on a knife.