Night.

Lucimia lay awake beside Yuna, the room still as a pond under ink-dark night.

Yuna slept, breath soft like drifting feathers; Lucimia’s mind wouldn’t settle, a hive of restless wings.

She chased the plan for cracks, thoughts looping like threads through a loom.

In theory it held—no gaps, no frayed ends, only clean lines like a blade’s edge.

Unless there was hidden knowledge, mist behind a mirror, and she judged wrong from uneven light.

It was fine; if trouble rose like a shadow, she’d turn the page and loop again.

Last time, this very night had been when Yuna was taken by the Sacrificial Ritual, a tide pulled by unseen moons.

If history bends its course, what will they offer now—new lambs to the altar, or no offerings at all?

Last time, at this same stroke, the Deceiver killed Julie and slid into Vittor’s place like a mask over a face.

She hadn’t stirred the Blue Ringed Octopus this time; would the waters still boil and the trap still snap?

Should she slip out like a cat and watch Vittor from the shadows?

No—leave it.

The thought came sharp, and she cut it clean, wary of thorns sprouting from one tugged thread.

Morning would be safer; she’d confirm Vittor’s identity with the same trick as last loop.

Nothing else pressed like a weight on her chest; she could finally rest.

She exhaled, long as a tide drawing back, swept her hair up like black silk, pulled the quilt tight, and closed her eyes.

She expected the Sacrificial Ritual to stain the night like spilled ink.

But when her eyes fluttered open, dawn had already poured in like pale milk.

She slept till her body woke on its own, a smooth river from dusk to daylight, and nothing disturbed it.

Puzzle pricked like frost; last time, after Yuna was sacrificed, the dreams of ritual stopped like lanterns snuffed.

Could Yuna’s sacrifice have granted those black-robed men a Blessing, so they didn’t rush the altar again?

Not impossible—like seeds sown that need no second planting.

Yet she had done nothing, and Blessing had fallen like unasked rain.

If that guess was true, what Blessing would Lucimia cast down on them, a color from an unseen sky?

If she knew their Blessing, she could sketch Lucimia’s Authority Power like a constellation from a few bright stars.

Lucimia sat up slow, black hair slipping to her chest like a river of ink.

She lifted her hand, clenched her fist, feeling the air weigh nothing and yet press like fog.

What is my Authority Power? Why can’t I sense even a spark, like embers under ash?

Maybe it needs time to awaken, like spring working under frozen soil.

It clashes with time reversal like tides colliding, evades the Exorcism Ritual’s net like a fish through reeds, and broke Elyssus’s honeyed lure like glass.

Taken together, it fits the shape of Exemption, a wind that refuses chains.

But the god of Exemption is Regana, not Olivya, a name like a bell from another temple.

She felt nothing when she tried to cast, only blank stone where there should be fire.

Could it be word-speech, a blade forged from spoken breath?

Worth a try, she thought, a spark in dry grass.

She set her gaze on a book on the desk, quiet as a brick in moonlight.

In her heart she whispered: Exempt its existence.

Silence held, unbroken, the scene flat as still water.

She tried again, voice laid out like a thread: Exempt its existence.

Nothing moved; the air stayed dull as a sealed jar.

Fine—let it go.

Maybe it wasn’t Exemption, just a mirage over hot sand.

She rose, dressed with quick hands, and went to wash, thoughts braided tight like rope.

Today was simple: test whether Vittor had been replaced; after that, borrow Father’s magic book.

Learn more spells, especially wide-area AOE, a storm you throw across a field.

And learn a better escape art—Instant Movement, space jump—practical and sharp, a bolt of lightning in your pocket.

Then a swarm of Blue Ringed Octopus wouldn’t hem her in like a net; she’d flicker and stand a kilometer away, untouchable as a star.

Mother had forbidden Dark Deity lore, not magic texts, so the path lay open like a clear road.

After breakfast, Lucimia took Yuna to the food warehouse Vittor managed, steps quick as birds.

On the way they passed the No Drunk No Return Tavern she’d seen in the first loop, its sign bold as a drum.

Morning felt bright as washed stone, yet laughter spilled from inside like wine, and glass clinks rang out to the street.

They lived their name to the hilt; most taverns blaze at night and hush by day, but this one roared from dawn to dusk like a market in spring.

No scene of Julie’s murder rose from the road; by not spooking the grass, familiar lives stayed steady—for now, like boats moored before wind.

She spared the tavern a glance, then slipped into Vittor’s warehouse, three steps and a turn like a swallow.

She pushed the wooden door; it creaked like an old tree, and Vittor sat at the front desk, grinning as he counted coins like little moons.

Same as always, a picture unchanged like a wall scroll.

He heard the door’s sigh, looked up, and his smile flashed white as a gull.

Hey, what brings you here? Got a craving? Tell me—what do you want?

Lucimia watched the scene and marked it with a pin: probably fine, a calm lake on the surface.

But you spot a Deceiver by memory, not by the mask of words and gestures.

She rose on tiptoe and leaned on the counter like a cat on a sill.

Uncle Vittor, I told you yesterday—you promised me roast today!

If he hadn’t been replaced, he’d slap the table like thunder, tease her for dreaming, then fetch a slab of roast with a laugh.

Roast? Vittor blinked, a pause like a dropped bead.

Mm. Lucimia hesitated, then nodded, a leaf caught on a small whirl.

Something felt off, a grain of sand grinding the gears.

Usually he’d bark a laugh and poke fun, a spark to dry tinder.

Vittor’s next words struck like cold rain.

Oh—you meant roast. Don’t worry. I already prepared it.

He slapped his big hand down, stood like a tree rising, and turned into the warehouse, steps sure as a drumbeat.

Eh? Lucimia froze, thoughts stumbling like a foot on a loose stone.

Why doesn’t the memory match?

She hadn’t stirred the Blue Ringed Octopus; how was Vittor still replaced, like a lantern swapped in the night?

It shouldn’t be possible; the path shouldn’t bend without a wind.

What’s wrong, Lucimia? Vittor glanced back, brows tilted like wings.

Nothing. She raised her hands to her chest and waved them off, a willow branch smoothing ripples.

Good, I’ll get it. Wait here.

Mm, thanks.

As Vittor slipped through the inner door, Lucimia’s hands trembled like reeds in a draft.

She reached for Yuna’s small hand and missed it, once, twice, like a sparrow pecking air.

Yuna felt the shake as soon as their fingers touched, nerves bright as fine wire.

Yuna wasn’t blind to Lucimia’s plan; she knew today was a test for Vittor’s truth.

And Vittor’s words rang wrong, a bell with a crack.

Yuna gripped her tight, voice soft as rain: Lucy… sis…

Mm… Lucimia squeezed back and drew a deep breath, a wave folding smooth.

Calm. Calm.

Last loop had toughened her bones; her heart steadied quick, a stone under river flow.

Then thought returned, crisp as frost on leaves.

Did she judge wrong?

Unlikely—the map still matched the mountain.

Last loop’s disaster came because she poked the Blue Ringed Octopus, splashing storms over quiet water.

To cut off a variable, they laid a trap: kill Julie, replace Vittor, show a deliberate flaw, then lure Lucimia to step into it like a snare.

But this time was different; she hadn’t stirred those waters.

The Blue Ringed Octopus shouldn’t replace Vittor just to trim a stray twig.