“Ugh… it hurts…” The pain from her back drilled into bone, cold and merciless.

Lucimia realized it—Desty and Bazeroth had been replaced.

She’d thought Purification could dodge replacement while Exemption couldn’t, chalking it up to method. It wasn’t that at all.

It was a logical hole: if Exemption couldn’t evade it, Purification wouldn’t either.

What was happening? How did everyone get replaced overnight? What trick did the Deceiver use?

“Damn…” Yuna’s words echoed—don’t give up.

Lucimia exploded. Mana roared off her like a storm front, walls and roof bursting apart. Tiles shot skyward, then crashed down, shattered to dust.

Desty and Bazeroth were blasted back several meters. Rubble avalanched, pinning them both.

“We move!” Through gritted teeth, Lucimia snatched up Yuna.

Her toes kissed stone. Whoosh—she launched like an arrow, and in a blink, she was sky-high.

The false Desty and false Bazeroth shoved rubble aside and looked up. Lucimia was already a fleeing streak.

“…Such dense mana,” the false Desty breathed.

She scrambled up, grabbed the fallen dagger, and asked Bazeroth, “We let her slip. What now? Border guards won’t stop her. And her magic’s weird—my arm got bruised from pure blast.”

She lifted her arm. The wounded skin, once pale, began to corrode, and the rot crept outward, melting away her entire human shell.

A Blue Ringed Octopus uncoiled on the ruins—unexpected, slick, and terrible.

It had been released.

“If she gets out and warns the Bishopric, this town’s replacement counts as failure. Our great Lord, Elyssus, will be furious!”

“…Hmm.” Bazeroth frowned. “Why weren’t the two of them replaced? That’s too strange.”

“No idea. The point is catching them—especially that black-haired brat. Her magic is a nightmare.” The Blue Ringed Octopus shuddered, a memory scar across its mind.

“Don’t panic. Looks like her magic needs a clear injury to trigger its special effect.”

The false Bazeroth flexed his arm. “See? I’m unhurt. Nothing happens.”

He lowered it. “Your blade is soaked in venom. It’ll kick in soon. She can’t have gone far. Call the other Deceivers—pile on and grab her!”

“But… last time my toxin only worked for a bit. She broke it down herself. That’s tied to her Blessing,” the Blue Ringed Octopus warned.

Back in the bookstore, it had planned to wear Lucimia down with poison. Before the final phase, the toxin died.

“Still, it helps. Catch her before she decomposes it. Didn’t you restrain her last time? We’ve got so many octopuses, so many tentacles—how can two girls slip us?” Bazeroth dusted himself off.

“Even if we can’t, our goal is basically done. Start the ritual. Wiping them out will be easy.”

Lucimia knew none of this. She was pouring mana into flight, keeping herself aloft.

The wound in her back frayed her control. She bobbed up and down, unstable as a kite in a squall.

Sawtooth pain pulsed, cold sweat beading on her brow. Rain bit colder, needling skin and nerve.

She reached to her wound, then pulled back. Her eyes fell to her hand—small, slick with blood. Red mixed with rain, winding down her wrist.

It was her first real injury—blood on skin, vivid and undeniable. This wasn’t a dream.

Before, she hadn’t taken a scratch in any fight.

Careless. Ambushed.

Deceivers were vile.

She couldn’t fathom how they replaced so many without a sound.

Nor how the false Desty knew she hadn’t been replaced.

In the end, she hadn’t been cautious. She could craft a mask, and Deceivers could too. Playing disguise before them was swinging a blade at the smith.

She chose force—break through, reach the Royal Capital, and tell the Bishopric what happened here.

She looked back, wanting a last glimpse, and froze. The town below had turned restless, a pot at boil.

From high above, her view was clean. Every townsman tilted their head up, eyes bloodshot, lips pulling into grotesque arcs.

Then, one by one, they melted. Skin turned viscous, sloughing away, revealing their true bodies—octopuses.

A chill needled up Lucimia’s spine.

She’d expected it, yet seeing a whole town replaced still rattled her.

They came in many colors, but most were pitch-black.

Countless octopuses lifted, a black tide blotting the sky, surging at Lucimia.

Lucimia made no sound. She put everything into flight, driving straight ahead.

The rain fell hard, then harder, a curtain and a weight. It fought her, made her swipe water from her eyes, keep sight clear.

Her black hair was soaked through. Not a patch of her was dry.

The downpour hindered her, but gifted the octopuses a perfect field.

Everyone knew octopuses belonged to the deep; their affinity for water needed no words. Riding the rain, they flew faster, closing in.

Lucimia read it in a heartbeat—the rain was boosting them.

Fly like this, and they’d catch her. She had to stop them.

Her brows knit. Thought sharpened.

The deluge powered them, but it also primed her spells.

Against so many, casting from herself would take forever and drain her dry. Use the ready-made droplets, and effort halves itself.

Affinity is just affinity. It doesn’t grant immunity to water magic.

With Lucimia’s peculiar-effect magic, dealing with them would take a flick of the wrist.