Suddenly, Lucimia felt a razor of pain, like an unseen blade slitting a wall of heavy fog.

Her mind snapped clear, like being hauled from a black tunnel into cold, open air.

“Ha—!”

Her eyes flew open; she took one deep gulp, then breathed fast, like a fish dragged from water.

She lay still for a heartbeat, then noticed the familiar bed cradling her like a soft cloud.

The mattress was tender under her; comfort floated around her like warm silk.

A faint glow pooled in the room, the magic lamp burning low like a caged star.

Outside the window, town lights shimmered; the half-ajar door spilled hallway gold.

She turned and took it all in—her room, her shells of memory anchored like stones.

It was night, thick and gentle, like ink across rice paper.

What’s happening? What did I miss?

She sat up carefully, the white dress she used as pajamas cool against her skin.

Her heart thudded like a drum in a temple; she pressed a hand to her chest and rubbed.

Soft. Warm. Real as breath on glass.

“I… am still alive?”

Confusion rose like mist; she chased it back through memory’s reeds.

She remembered it clearly: Elyssus hunting her down, her body heavy as earth on stone.

She’d thought the ending was sealed.

But Yuna tore off that black blindfold; her pink eyes burst with light, and her senses blew out like candles.

When she woke, she was back in her bedroom, as if plucked by a gentle hand from the dark.

Wait—Elyssus said something at the end, didn’t he?

Blessing. Was it Yuna’s Blessing? What is her Blessing?

And where’s Yuna?

Lucimia glanced to the bedside with a spark of hope, and it guttered.

Only the quilt lay there, not the pink-haired girl.

Where did she go?

She hopped off the bed, bare feet kissing the floor like cool water, and pushed open the window.

She looked out; the town blazed with lanterns, a river of light winding through calm streets.

Hawkers cried like birds at dawn; taverns bubbled with laughter like fermenting wine.

Children squealed and tumbled like sparrows; peace nested over the roofs like quiet snow.

It was exactly the same as before she became a Dark Deity, as if the past four days were a dream brushed away at sunrise.

Is this real? Was it a dream?

“Yuna’s Blessing…” she murmured, the words falling like pebbles into a pool.

Maybe Yuna’s Blessing pulled her back in time, like a thread rewound through silk.

If so, it explained why Yuna wasn’t here; at this point in time, she hadn’t been offered as a sacrifice.

Then the question: Which point did she land on?

Lucimia studied the quilt, flipping it open; both sides were clean, no blood blooming like roses.

She checked the Storage Ring on her finger; the sacrificial pig, dead and pitiful, wasn’t inside.

So the conclusion stood like a pillar: she’d returned to a time before she became a Dark Deity.

She just didn’t know if it was that very night, or earlier still.

If it was that night, then sleep would bring the Sacrificial Ritual like a tide into her dreams.

By morning, the pig would be on her pillow, warm breath fading like smoke.

Then would come the Deceiver’s assault, then meeting Yuna; stepping out to find Julie slain.

Familiar faces swapped like masks; the banquet purging those Deceivers by moonlight.

On the third day, the Exorcism Ritual would proceed as normal.

At dawn on the fourth, the whole city would be replaced—and she would run.

If Yuna truly sent her back, then she had to do something, anything, to bend the iron line of history.

She wanted this harmony to last, to stay in this warm home like a bird in its nest.

First things first: prove she’d gone back, and pin the exact time like a needle through fabric.

She padded into the hallway, bare feet sinking into the long, soft carpet like moss.

She planned to find her father in the study.

But at a corner, she met the maid, Kaeli.

Kaeli held a cloth and wiped a ceramic vase as if polishing moonlight off stone.

Lucimia slowed; she stopped, breath steadying like a quiet lake.

Kaeli was alive. Thank goodness.

Words welled up like spring water, but her lips stayed sealed.

If she truly was reborn, then this Kaeli was the real Kaeli, no chance of a Deceiver’s mask.

The maid heard the sound behind her and turned, smile curving like a crescent.

“Hm? Miss, you’re still up? Trouble at your door?”

“You can tell me anything. Kaeli will take care of it.”

Lucimia said nothing and just looked at her, windless as a stone lantern.

Come to think of it, Kaeli’s night uniform differed from the daytime one like shade from sun.

Daytime was modest, skin wrapped tight; even her chest was buttoned like a sealed book.

At night, the maid’s cut loosened a little, especially at the chest—skin shown like a pale moon.

Lucimia realized only now that Kaeli’s… generosity was grand, a horizon broad and bright.

Kaeli noticed Lucimia’s silence and the fixed gaze planted at her chest.

Her expression cleared like fog lifting; she smiled.

“Don’t worry, Miss. You’ll have it too, in time!”

Eh? What? What is Kaeli talking about?

Lucimia blinked, slow and innocent, like a deer under willow shade.

Kaeli must have felt that a simple comfort wasn’t enough; her voice warmed like tea.

“If it’s hard to grow, tomorrow I’ll ask the chef to make food that promotes development.”

...Promotes? Development?

Lucimia froze for a few seconds, glanced at Kaeli’s chest, then at her own, small as folded silk.

Only then did she realize what Kaeli meant.

Kaeli thought Lucimia was staring because she worried about that.

Such a perceptive, kind maid.

“...Actually, that’s not it,” Lucimia hurried to explain, words soft as snowflakes.

“Then what is it?”

“Well, I wanted to ask: how many days until the Exorcism Ritual?”

“The Exorcism Ritual…” Kaeli touched her chin, counting like beads through fingers.

“If we include today… one, two… The Holy Knight squad should arrive the day after tomorrow.”

“The day after that is the Ritual proper.”

“I see. Thank you, Sister Kaeli.”

“No need for thanks. It’s my duty.”

“Good night, Kaeli.”

“Good night, Miss.”

After they parted, Lucimia ran back to her bedroom, bare feet whispering over carpet like wind.

She confirmed it: she’d returned to the time just before learning her true identity.

She sat on the soft bed and smoothed the quilt, the fabric flowing like quiet water.

If she lay down now and slept, her dream would bring the Sacrificial Ritual like a distant drum.

By morning, the sacrificial pig would be there beside her, sharing her pillow like a grim omen.