The first day was a taut bowstring for Lucimia.

She would first invite Vittor and Julie to dine at her home, like drawing friends to a warm hearth, then hunt clues on the Octopus or the Deceiver, and find their ritual hidden under the town like roots.

So at breakfast, with steam curling like morning mist, she told her parents she wanted to invite them home, and her parents nodded like steady oaks.

After all, Vittor was family, an ember from the same fire.

And the Lancelot Family, as an Exorcist Family, kept its gates open like a village well, not perched like proud towers, so inviting the well-known Julie was natural.

After smoothing things with her parents, she headed out like a swift sparrow to find Julie and Vittor.

Lucimia chose the moment when Julie first headed to Vittor’s place, timing her step like a shadow catching up with the sun.

When she saw Julie herd a gaggle of kids into the shop like ducklings, she waited a few heartbeats, then walked to the door like a tide rolling in.

Lucimia set her hand on the wood, a palm calm as a pond, and just as she was about to push, voices rippled out.

“Thank you so much, Vittor.” The gratitude rang like silver bells.

“No, no, it’s nothing—by the way, tonight…” His words trailed like smoke.

Bang! The wooden door slammed the wall like a drum, then bounced back like a spring.

Julie flinched like a startled deer, then turned and saw Lucimia like a lantern lit in the doorway.

Vittor stared, his eyes round as coins.

The children froze like little rabbits, even their bread hung in midair like paused birds.

“Uh… hi?” Lucimia’s wave fluttered like a leaf in a breeze.

“Please, Lucimia, can’t you be gentler? If this door breaks, what then?” Vittor rubbed his brow like soothing a cramp.

He had been just about to invite Julie to dinner, a word poised like a drop at the eave.

“…Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it.” Her apology landed like soft rain.

She absolutely meant it, a pebble tossed on purpose into a still pond.

The moment she heard Vittor start to invite, she cut in like a blade through thread.

“Forget it, small thing.” Vittor’s temper rose and fell like a summer squall. “Why are you here? Food, or something else?” His questions flicked like pebbles across water.

“Mm.” Lucimia nodded, her resolve steady as a stone. “My father and I invite you to dinner at our house tonight.” Her words laid out like a mat.

“Tonight?” Vittor scratched the back of his head like a confused bear, his face twisted in knots.

“Oh, and Aunt Julie too.” Lucimia turned to Julie like turning a lamp. “We’d like to invite you as well.” Her smile curved like a crescent moon.

“Eh? Me?” Julie flustered like a dove in a gust. “I’m not of your family, right? Is that okay?” Her voice trembled like a plucked string.

“No problem.” The assurance fell like a stone in place.

“But tonight I…” Her sentence frayed like old cloth.

Vittor was about to speak, but Lucimia turned, her back a screen, and blinked at him like a firefly.

Vittor froze for a beat, then caught on like dawn catching rooftops, understanding blooming like light.

“Oh—alright, alright.” Vittor clapped his hands, the sound popping like small fireworks.

“It’s settled then. We’ll go to your place tonight for dinner, and you come too, Julie.” His smile opened like a door.

“T‑this doesn’t seem proper…” Julie hovered like a hesitant step on a narrow bridge.

“What’s improper about it? Or are you busy tonight?” Vittor’s words prodded like a stick at a campfire. “Okay, maybe it’s a bit sudden.” His tone cooled like evening air.

“N‑no, not that.” Julie waved both hands like birds taking off. “It’s just…” Her voice dwindled like a stream in sand.

“Just? Ah, I get it.” Vittor laughed it off like dust from a sleeve. “We’re all friends. Don’t mind the other stuff, it’s all small. Right, Lucimia?” His glance slid to her like a beam of light.

“Uh, yeah!” Lucimia nodded, her agreement crisp as a snapped twig.

“Alright, okay.” Julie agreed at last, like a knot loosening, then thanked Lucimia, her gratitude warm as tea. “Thank you for the invitation!”

The rest of the day, Lucimia borrowed a grimoire from her father, the pages heavy as rain, and he once more pressed that gift ring into her palm like a glowing ember.

With the book in hand, she buried herself again in Instant Movement and Spatial Leap, her focus a needle threading the night.

She could craft a teleportation circle like a seal on stone, but that didn’t mean she’d stop honing the two spells like sharpening twin blades.

Evening came fast, like shadows spilling from a bowl.

Dinner was simple and warm, steam curling like ghostly ribbons, and she excused herself first, her parents doing the same, leaving Vittor and Julie alone like two lamps on a quiet table.

“I’m heading out, Uncle Vittor.” Her farewell drifted like a feather.

“Ah, okay.” Vittor waved, his hand swishing like grass.

Lucimia cast one last glance back, a pebble-skip of sight, then slipped to her bedroom like a fish to water.

“Lucy, sis, will you take me with you?” Yuna’s voice peeked in like a curious kitten.

As she changed into clothes fit for movement, fabric whispering like reeds, Yuna spoke up out of the blue like a sparrow.

This question tugged at her heart like a hook, and she hesitated, her mind a pond wrinkled by wind.

If she brought Yuna to wreck the ritual, she’d have to split attention like slicing a candle’s flame, to keep Yuna safe; but if she left Yuna, and something went wrong, who would trigger Reversion in time like a bell?

After weighing light and heavy like a scale, she decided—not to bring her, a choice set like stone.

“Yuna, stay home,” she said, her voice low as dusk. “Father’s here, and except for Elyssus, other enemies won’t dare stir, like wolves wary of a torch. It’s safe enough.”

“W‑why?” The question wavered like smoke.

“Because…” Lucimia paused, gathering words like fallen leaves. “Because you’re important, and if you’re hurt, we can only use Reversion again, like turning back a river.”

“Then… what if you’re hurt?” Yuna’s worry beat like moth wings.

“Don’t worry, I can run,” Lucimia said, her confidence lit like a lantern. “At noon I set a teleportation circle in the bedroom, linked to my ring like a thread. If there’s trouble, I’ll jump.” Her plan clicked like gears.

“But…” Yuna still wanted to say more, her syllables snagged like cloth on a nail.

“Midnight’s almost here,” Lucimia cut in gently, her tone smooth as silk. “If I’m not back when the four o’clock chime rings, you use Reversion.” Her deadline struck like a stake.

Only then did Yuna relax, her breath easing like slackened string.

“…Okay.” The word settled like ash.

“Mm, I’m heading out then.” Lucimia swung on her cloak, the fabric flowing like a dark stream.

“Bye‑bye, be careful.” Yuna’s blessing perched like a sparrow on a eave.

“Mm.” Lucimia nodded, the sound small as a seed.

She pulled up her hood, shadowing her face like moon in cloud, and flew out through the window like a night bird.

A window’s still a door, just sideways, she thought, the quip light as wind.

Outside, Lucimia rose and rose, climbing the night like a kite, to a height where she could watch the town clear as a painted map, yet keep herself unseen like a cloud.

She circled without pause, carving loops in the dark like a hawk, and hunted for any trace of the Octopus.

If she found a lead and followed it to break the ritual, a clash might spark like flint, and clashes drained mana like water from a cracked jar; so to keep her mana full, she’d land on tiled roofs now and then like a resting swallow, and let strength pool like a spring.

Back and forth she went, a pendulum in the sky, until at last Lucimia caught a ripple of wrongness, thin as a hair in clear soup.

By night, the town always had patrols, lanterns bobbing like fireflies, and tonight was the same, a net cast over streets.

The anomaly hid among the guards like a thorn in moss.

The guards split into several teams, each tending a slice of streets like farmers in their fields, and they kept the pattern till dawn like a drumbeat.

But near Vittor’s warehouse, the captain in charge of that sector deliberately sent away two members like leaves flicked from a branch, then led the remaining three with purpose, their boots marching like a line of ants toward a fixed point.

“Is it them?” Lucimia wondered, her doubt a ripple of cold. “Looks odd. Do I follow?” The question perched like a crow.

She tipped her body in the air like a tilting sail, and glided after them like a shadow.

When she got close, surprise struck like a bell—she knew that captain, a face carved in her memory like a notch.

He was tall as a pine and muscled like knotted rope, and his name was Cole.

A brief look back tugged up the first loop, memories surfacing like shells in the tide, when Lucimia had stumbled into a trap set by the Deceiver.

Back then, Julie had been killed, and the talk of two soldiers had reached her clear as a bell over water.

One was this burly man, Cole, a hammer in human shape.

The other was Ritch, with light‑green hair like spring grass; he suspected the wounds were wrong, perhaps done by an Evil Entity like teeth in the dark, while Cole insisted, jaw locked like iron, it wasn’t.

To prove his hunch, Ritch sent other soldiers to investigate, ripples spreading like rings, which angered Cole; with one order, sharp as a whip, Cole drove Ritch off for overstepping.

Later a witness appeared, a lone spark in the fog, and Cole still insisted it wasn’t an Evil Entity, then took the witness back to camp like a shepherd with a sheep, strange from start to finish like a crooked path.