Elyssus won’t let Lucimia and Yuna slip away, like a storm rolling over a quiet harbor.

For it, prying into this side of the world is rare, so it wants to show its claws.

It wants everyone to taste the terror of Elyssus the Deceiver, like cold iron on the tongue.

“Disguise and Deception”—that is Elyssus’s Authority Power, a veil woven from concepts.

It isn’t some Blue Ringed Octopus swapping faces to pass for human; it’s an idea with teeth.

It can paint a mask over anything, and trick anything, like fog swallowing a road.

Only now does Lucimia feel the dread of that Authority Power, like ice water down her spine.

Those little octopus tricks are child’s play, mere ripples on a pond.

Lucimia hobbles, one knee burning, and the instant Elyssus’s sly laugh returns, her vision goes red, like a blood-dyed veil.

“Hee-hee-hee… Heh-heh-heh… Hahaha…”

The world warps; soil, houses, trees, dropped trash—everything shifts like wax in fire.

All of it becomes black faces, mouths upturned in a praise-curved smile, identical to that Blue Ringed Octopus’s horrific grin.

“Heh-heh-heh!!”

“Kekeke!!”

“Hee-hee-hee!!”

“Ho-ho-ho!!”

Each face laughs in a different pitch, a flock of crows circling her mind.

Their clamor tangles together, a nettle patch snagging her thoughts.

Her heart drums; panic takes the reins.

She grabs Yuna and runs, feet skimming like startled fish.

They’re almost out of the alley when the exit folds; a stone wall slams down like a tomb lid.

“Hee-hee-hee!”

The wall’s skin twists into a wicked grin, laughing, jeering, like a demon carved in coal.

“Damn it. Magic—won’t come out.” Rage flares, then dies; her mana is a dry well.

She snatches a stone to smash that grin, but the stone writhes into a face, laughing as its mouth opens.

It bites her small hand like a rusted trap.

“Ah!”

Pain snaps up her arm; she flings the stone, which sits there grinning, eyes like pits.

Her breath goes ragged; her bitten hand bleeds like a cracked pomegranate.

So it isn’t a hallucination, she judges, a cold knife of thought.

That wall is real, a hard blockade; she won’t risk a blind crash—what if it eats her?

She won’t gamble.

No choice—take another path.

She pivots, steps once, and the faces change again, melting and reforming like shadows in wind.

“What now?”

Smiles twist. They sprout hands—no, strict truth, they sprout tentacles.

Their shadows stick to the wall like oil, then pierce through; countless viscous tendrils reach for Lucimia like swamp vines.

Her pupils tighten; terror bites deep.

She crouches fast, dodging the first lash like a reed in a gale.

This time she runs, pain blazing, ignoring her wounds like a soldier under hail.

She must not let those sickening tentacles touch her; no fate good waits at the end of those ropes.

She chants it inside, a drumbeat beneath her ribs.

Tentacles don’t just crawl from walls; they slide from trees, from a passing trash bin, even shoot out from a rag on the ground like snakes from a shed skin.

She startles, then slips aside just in time, like a cat missing a spring trap.

She drags Yuna and flees, breath like torn paper.

Pressure mounts; her spirit frays like old silk, and her stamina gutters.

Both calves ache, sour and heavy, like lead strapped to her legs.

Noise gnaws at her skull; she must watch every object, every shadow, while playing minds with Elyssus.

“So loud, so loud, so loud… stop laughing already! It’s killing me!”

She swears she has never hated laughter like this, like nails on porcelain.

Elyssus plays above like a hawk, savoring the chase, savoring the girl’s deepening despair.

Each time she’s about to get out, it kneads a wall into place, a clay god slamming doors.

Each time she dodges the tentacles, it pulls the ground from under her feet, a magician yanking floorboards.

Yet the girl is stubborn, iron under silk.

She’s badly hurt, hauling a near-blind burden, and still not once does she spring its trap.

Not satisfied, Elyssus lifts a single tentacle like a puppeteer’s rod.

The flat earth under Lucimia’s feet heaves up, hoisting her high like a plank on a wave.

Panic blooms; her throat tightens.

She can’t cast at all; up in the air she’s helpless, a bird without wings.

Another fall, and paralysis is certain, like frost killing a sapling.

The ground below twists; five or six tentacles spear out and loop her calves in a single squeeze, like ropes slick with pitch.

They wrap tight, denying movement, a cruel anklet.

Finished. All finished.

For a heartbeat, tears sting her eyes, a rain that finally finds the parched field.

So much has happened, and she didn’t cry—now the feeling breaks through.

She remembers her tragic last life, a gray road with no sunrise.

After reincarnating, she wanted quiet, no stealing, no fights, no drama—just a lazy, do-nothing life like a raft on calm water.

Even that small wish won’t come true; in this world of crises and Evil Entities, peace is luxury silk.

She finally understands a little why people honor the Purification Church—because the Church truly shelters them, like lanterns in storm-night.

The tentacles yank; she crashes down again, spine singing with pain.

This time Yuna goes down too, no cushion, two sparrows struck by the same stone.

“Cough… cough…” Blood sprays her lips, warm iron in the cold air.

She doesn’t know what broke inside; she only knows she can’t move at all, lying on her side, two fingers too heavy to lift.

In the dim blur, only Yuna’s figure remains, a pink flame in fog.

The quiet, pink-haired girl finally answers the world’s knock.

“S…sorry, Luci… sis.” Her voice wavers, like a reed in rain. “I made you hurt… I only wanted you to understand… the whole thing…”

“What… are you saying?” Lucimia’s thoughts are slow moths against glass.

Yuna reaches out and grips the black blindfold she always wears.

She pulls it free; her lids stay shut, then open, slow as dawn.

Lucimia sees those eyes—pink like her hair, eerie and beautiful, a blossom with a strange scent.

She wants to look longer, but the pink irises blaze white, light flooding her eyes and drowning Lucimia’s vision like snow at noon.

The glare makes her drowsy, a warm cloth over her mind.

As her consciousness sinks like a stone into deep water, she hears Elyssus speak, ancient and low, a cavern breathing.

“Oh? A Blessing I haven’t seen. What does it do?”

“…”

“I see. Heh. A curious Blessing. What kind of god stands behind you?”

“Fine. If you want to play, I’ll play. This round is yours. For the next round—don’t disappoint me.”

“You—and that god hiding behind you—don’t let me find you. Heh-heh-heh…”