A hidden clue surfaces here, like a faint trail in morning frost.

The one who initiates the Sacrificial Ritual should be a Deceiver among the faithful. Its voice travels like a cold wind between altars, not into beasts.

Just like Lucimia’s rite, held by her own believers, candles ringed like little moons.

Evil Entities are spawned from Elyssus’s core body; they’re monsters lacking true wit. They rise like shadows sloughing off a moonless lake.

Besides the Blue Ringed Octopus that can spit out two lines, the rest just babble, like bubbles popping in brine.

At the first Sacrificial Ritual, Bazeroth hadn’t reached the city. That means there’s a second Deceiver here—maybe more, masks behind a curtain.

This Deceiver will hold that first ritual on night one, under a veil of smoke and moonlight.

All Lucimia must do is stop it, cut the thread before the loom starts.

As for why the Holy Water carries an Authority Power‑level contamination? A pure spring tainted by unseen ore.

Likely, Elyssus has gained reach to meddle here. So it can pour down Authority Power‑level contamination, like ash from a distant volcano.

Wait—doesn’t that mean the first batch of Holy Water might be fine? Back then, Elyssus hadn’t run its summoning yet, first rain before the storm.

Or not. Before that, Elyssus might’ve gleaned a sliver of influence through slow, piecemeal rituals, roots creeping under stone.

Who can swear which thread is true, fog over a crossroads?

Lucimia feels it in her bones: the more she’s sacrificed to, the heavier the stain. Enough stain, and one day she’ll change, patina thickening on bronze.

Like Elyssus, offerings from the last Reversion carry into the next. That’s why Yuna saw a memoryless Lucimia before, yet she remembers now, echoes rolling across the same valley.

Once the offerings reach a threshold, her Authority Power stirs awake, a buried ember breathing back to flame.

Still, it feels off. Lucimia’s here, whole in this world; she wasn’t banished like Elyssus, a lantern lit inside, not blown out to sea.

So chalk it up to Sacrificial Ritual versus summoning—two different rivers, one slow, one torrential.

Can’t nail it down. Drop it for now. Humanity needs to push harder exploring the Dark Deity, like miners digging toward a buried star.

Lucimia shares her guesswork with Yuna. Yuna looks stunned, eyes wide like a deer catching torchlight.

“So, tonight… what do we do?” Yuna asks, her voice like a bell muffled in fog.

“Mm…” A weight presses in; Lucimia lowers her head, brooding, thoughts pooling like ink.

If she shadows Vittor and saves him, the octopi won’t lead them to the ritual site. The thread snaps before it points the way.

If she doesn’t, the octopus will swap him out, a pawn lifted off the board.

Tell Vittor not to go see Julie tonight? Will that even hold, like trying to dam a stream with reeds?

To do that, she must know one thing. Did the octopi meet Vittor by chance, or plan to swap him and offer his soul to Elyssus? Chance dust on the road, or a net in dark water.

That matters, a nail in the beam.

Maybe this: invite Julie and Vittor to her house. With her father there, danger should shy away, wolves hesitating at a lit gate.

The octopi would have to think twice before striking, tentacles testing the reef.

Then she’ll take to the sky, tracing Vittor’s path to Julie’s and the roads near their estate, hunting for octopus tracks. She’ll shadow them quietly, find the ritual set in the city, and wreck it, a storm through paper lanterns.

Once the ritual shatters, the field belongs to Lucimia. Even with carried memories, Elyssus can’t lay a board. In the end, she only needs to swap the Holy Water; smashing the rite will be enough, pieces scattered like leaves.

As for the Holy Water… a clear bowl with a shadow under it.

Uh… the logic hiccups. Think again, gear teeth slipping like rain on stone.

Lucimia bites her finger and runs the simulation again—abacus beads clicking in dusk.

Bazeroth’s Authority Power‑level knack for tainting Holy Water likely gets granted during tonight’s Sacrificial Ritual. Elyssus hands it to the first Deceiver in town; the Deceiver passes it to Bazeroth, a black seal pressed from hand to hand.

Say, Elyssus sends down its own “Holy Water.” The first Deceiver receives it, then hands it over when Bazeroth arrives, moonlight corked in glass.

So if Lucimia wrecks the ritual, doesn’t that mean Bazeroth can’t taint the Holy Water? She might not need to swap it at all—just do one thing, cut the root and let the vines wither.

Granted, Elyssus is formidable. It and its believers cheat and disguise, tricks blooming like night flowers. Elyssus itself can carry memory through Reversion—that part’s a headache, drums beating under earth.

But in theory, Elyssus has a weakness, a crack in the jade.

Before the first Sacrificial Ritual opens, its carried memory can’t be leveraged. It can’t issue orders, a general without a trumpet.

Until then, the field is Lucimia’s. She must break the ritual, or Elyssus will link to its believers and counter, thunder before rain.

If Lucimia’s plan lands, Elyssus can’t roll out its scheme. Bazeroth might do nothing, just keep lurking in the church and wait for the next plan, a snake coiled under pews.

Right—how does he lurk inside the church, like smoke in rafters?

Forget it. Not tonight’s problem, set that stone aside.

The simulation helps Lucimia a lot. When she hits a snag, she runs it, map lines drawn in sand.

By staging it in her mind, she sees the whole scene and the cracks in its logic. Hidden clues bloom; from clues, more truths, lanterns lighting along the path.

Take the Holy Water. At first, her plan only covered wrecking the ritual and swapping the water, two stones set on a chessboard.

After a mental run‑through, she sees the taint comes from night one’s Sacrificial Ritual. No need to fuss about swapping the water, cut the dam at its source.

Along the way, she infers how the believers move, footprints weaving like reeds in mud.

Of course, even without swapping the water, Lucimia will keep Bazeroth pinned. What if he uses Blessing‑level contamination? Treat it with care, eyes on him like a hawk over a field.

Besides, there’s a bonus, a hidden spring under the rock.

In this arcane world, there’s a common item—the Imagerecording Stone, a little moon sealed in stone.

Lucimia plans to use one to record Bazeroth’s acts. If he really deploys Blessing‑level contamination, the stone will capture it whole, frost etching every breath.

She’ll quietly swap the Holy Water, then after it’s over, hand the stone to the church. Let them have a good look, truth laid out like fish on a slab.

That way, rooting out the mole Bazeroth is nailed down, a spike through rotten wood.

That’s Lucimia’s full plan, a scroll tied with red cord.

She sees it clearly: a match between her and Elyssus. Whoever completes their plan takes the win, two players across a board of dusk.

…

Outside, the sun blazes, gold poured across tiles.

Lucimia shrouds Yuna the same way, steps out, and slips past the maid Kaeli’s eyes, like a breeze through beaded curtains.

Oh, and what if Kaeli catches her tonight, a lantern turned suddenly?

No worries. She’s already prepared her excuse, words folded like paper charms.

She’ll say she was practicing a Flight Spell, spotted something odd mid‑air, and curiosity led her to the octopus ritual, a swallow veering toward a glint on water.

Just a coincidence, two raindrops meeting on a window.

Lucimia finds this cleaner. Explaining time Reversion is hard; belief is harder, knots on knots, fog on fog.