The banquet ended, the lantern glow ebbing like spent fireflies.

Lucimia took her leave of everyone, like a tide drawing back from shore.

The church’s Holy Knights and nobles from afar were lodged in a guest apartment, lamps hung like quiet moons.

Lucimia returned to her bedroom, washed, and lay down early, pillows soft as drifting clouds.

Sleep promised better odds tomorrow, so she hugged Yuna and shut her eyes, heartbeats weaving a lullaby.

Comfort rose first, warm as spring water; Yuna’s Reversion wrapped her in safety like a warding veil.

No death was needed like in those stories from her past life; a brush of light on her eyes triggered Reversion.

In bed, thoughts spun like silk from a cocoon, fine threads catching on small thorns.

She began another deduction, laying pebbles across a river in careful stepping lines.

She was cautious, weaving many outcomes like nets cast over dark water.

If sabotaging the ritual still can’t stop the city’s replacement, what then, a crack running under the paving?

Where would the flaw hide, like a hairline fracture in porcelain?

Holy Water... maybe, clear as a mirror in a bowl yet hiding ash.

A bold guess could be tossed into that fog, a coin vanishing without sound.

But logic said the odds were low, like rain refusing a parched field.

Why, a thorn pricking, simple and sharp?

Bazeroth’s memory held steady like an iron anchor, and Father judged with a steady sun.

Holy Water was guarded by Bazeroth, Desty, and Purification Knights, checked at distribution like grain sifted clean.

Could a mole among the church mages taint it in secret, ink drip by drip into a well?

In theory, yes; but there’s a glitch, a knot that won’t pull free.

Lucimia now knew Elyssus wanted the whole city replaced for its summoning, a net of shadows to harvest souls.

Through a Sacrificial Ritual, those swapped souls would fuel its descent, lanterns carried into a moonless pit.

Knowing the Deceivers’ goal, she supposed tainted Holy Water still couldn’t replace those carrying a Blessing.

Those tentacled things only managed Blessing-level contamination, like ink clouds that never reach the deep.

At Blessing-level, her parents, Desty, Bazeroth, and other Purification Knights wouldn’t be replaced even if they drank it.

Yet last cycle, everyone changed but Lucimia, the city wearing masks like a festival gone wrong.

To replace Blessing holders, it must be Authority Power-level contamination, a black tide with iron weight.

But Elyssus wasn’t summoned then, sealed in unknown void like a jar sunk in night seas.

That glitch made Holy Water contamination unlikely, while the ritual itself shone with sharper doubts.

Still, not impossible, like a hairline crack hiding under glaze.

She had inferred from known pieces; if there was missing data, fog would swallow the path.

Whatever the result, she didn’t fear; she’d use Reversion and walk the road again, step by step.

No Sacrificial Ritual appeared that night, the dark pond holding no ripples.

...

On the third day, with Yuna at her side, she went to Desty’s bedroom, morning light pale as milk.

“I want to see how the ritual is set up,” she asked, words drifting like feathers on a stairwell.

Desty stood in the doorway, shorts and a tank top, yawning as if the sun were slow to rise.

She raked her long hair with her fingers, red strands like flame licking a log.

She didn’t care about image, wearing ease like a loose robe in summer wind.

At the banquet she’d eaten hard, thunder and drum; after being caught, she insisted she wasn’t a glutton.

She blamed her role with a shrug, then returned to the feast like a sparrow to grain.

“I study magic,” Lucimia said, building a harmless lie like a paper boat. “Watching a Magic Array might help.”

“I’ve never seen one laid out,” she added, curiosity peeking like a cat at the door.

Desty brushed her red hair, thinking a moment, silence pooling like tea in a porcelain cup.

“Fine. We’ll report to the Chief Executor first. I’ll take you,” she said, voice steady as a blade’s spine.

“Thanks,” Lucimia replied, gratitude fluttering like a small bird in her chest.

She waited at the door while Desty changed, leaning on the wall like a willow by a pond.

She’d barely tilted her shoulder when Desty appeared in azure armor, hair smoothed, blue deep as a lake.

So fast, like lightning stitching a seam across cloud.

No wonder she’s a Holy Knight, time drilled tight like a soldier’s drum.

“Alright, let’s go,” Desty said, waving, sword in hand, stride bright as a drawn line.

“Okay,” Lucimia followed, her steps falling into rhythm like rain on tiles.

Soon they reached Bazeroth’s door, the corridor smelling of wood, a river of dust motes.

Knock, knock, knock, the wooden door thudded like a slow drum.

Desty knocked, posture straight as a spear planted in earth.

“Reporting, Chief Executor. It’s Desty. I have something to report,” she said, voice clear as a bell.

“Come in,” the answer floated out, soft as smoke through a reed screen.

Desty pushed the door, hinges sighing like old reeds in wind.

Bazeroth sat at his desk, reading, lamp halo warm as honey.

Anxiety rose first in Lucimia, cool as mist from a stone well; last time, Desty stabbed her here.

She had fled in disorder, a fox bolting through brambles, heart snagged on thorns.

She glanced at the red-haired girl behind her, wary of a blade’s kiss at her spine.

But it was just worry weaving shadows; Desty tilted her head, puzzled like a sparrow.

Desty stated their reason; Bazeroth looked up at Lucimia, his nod crisp as snapped twig. “No problem.”

“Let Desty take you,” he added, words placed like chess pieces.

“Thank you,” Lucimia said, politeness smooth as a silk ribbon.

Desty led Lucimia toward the Exorcism Ritual site, streets threading like loom strands under a pale sky.

Five large Magic Arrays were to be set: four at the town’s corners, one in the central plaza.

She wanted to study structure and placement, maps in her mind like lanterns lighting alleys.

With that clarity, sabotage and edits would be easy, a scalpel tracing clear lines.

She also wanted to see how the mole would alter an array, hoping to spot anomalies early, like smoke before fire.

Walking the street, Lucimia asked, “Are the arrays in the four corners the same?” Her voice small as rain.

“Yes,” Desty said, patient as a river. “Only the center differs. You can see it yourself soon.”

“Oh, got it,” Lucimia answered, understanding settling like dust after wind.

They arrived quickly, feet tapping stone like beads clicking on a string.

Mages had cleared space and were tracing outlines with their own mana, lines of light thin as frost.

No one loafed or looked around; heads bent, diligence beating like steady hammers.

Lucimia pointed at the geometric pattern. “You’re sure the Magic Array should look like this? No issues?”

“Hm? What’s wrong?” Desty asked, eyes bright as wet stones.

“Nothing. Just curious. Don’t you check?” Lucimia said, a question held like a lantern.

Desty found sense in it and leaned in, studying top to bottom, edges to heart like a hawk’s gaze.

She even took out a blueprint, matching lines one by one, stitches aligned like a tailor’s seam.

She was young enough for play, yet worked with solemn care, a temple bell in a child’s hands.

Seeing Desty, the mages made space for her, bodies shifting like reeds opening for wind.

Her standing in the church must be high, a banner lifted above a marching line.

“What is it, Miss Desty?” one mage asked, words careful as a ladle near boiling broth.

“Nothing. I’m just checking the array for errors,” Desty said, tone steady as winter pine.

An older mage stepped up, wrinkles fine as dried riverbeds. “Relax. We’re old hands at this.”

“We’ve done it for years,” he said, confidence like a brick wall warmed by noon sun.

Desty nodded, still stern. “Even so, we check. It’s the rule,” she said, law firm as carved stone.

“Yes, you’re right,” the old mage said, stepping back and giving space like a door swung wide.