Back then, Lucimia judged Cole might already have been replaced by a Deceiver, the thought coiling like a snake in tall grass. Now, doubt thinned like morning fog. She’d never seen him turn into an octopus; if he was a Deceiver, a few missing stones clicked into the riverbed.
On the first day, the Blue Ringed Octopus had no contact with any Deceiver, and Lucimia struck it hard, like a storm snapping a silver reed. Then she found the guards and sent them to check that corner, hoping they’d catch a spark like crows spotting fire. But when she returned to confirm, the soldiers said nothing had happened, their tone flat as still water.
That meant the soldier who reported up had likely sent Cole to inspect, and Cole hauled the Blue Ringed Octopus from the net like a midnight fisherman, then swapped out the blond witness. After that, he staged a play with the Blue Ringed Octopus, trying to erase Lucimia, the stray ember in his dry field. Cole was the mind behind it, acting right in front of her, the clumsy performance a crooked mask under lantern light. If she swallowed it, the fallout would be a landslide.
With the logic lined like roof tiles, Lucimia could mark one bright point: Cole might be the Deceiver hiding in town, and the soldier beside him might be the octopus in borrowed skin. Yet nothing was absolute; uncertainty fluttered like a moth at a window.
Right—if Cole was here, then where was Deputy Captain Ritch? The question lit like a firefly. Lucimia skimmed the streets, her senses flowing like wind over grass, and soon pinned her target. Of the two soldiers Cole had sent away, one was the green‑haired Ritch. He’d been pushed to the perimeter, standing watch like a lone pine against the night.
Lucimia fixed Cole’s rough location in her mind, a cold pin of light, then flew toward Ritch like an arrow through dusk. She landed on the cobbles not far away and walked toward him, steps soft as falling ash. Ritch, on post like a stone marker, saw a figure peel out of the darkness and stepped forward, his voice a thin blade. “Evening. Routine check.”
Lucimia slid a hand under her hood, flicked it back like a curtain, then shook loose the hair pressed by cloth. Her face showed, delicate as frost on porcelain. Ritch blinked— a little girl, here at midnight like a stray cat? Confusion rippled in his chest like disturbed water. He looked closer. Black long hair, ink flowing under moonlight?
Realization struck like a bell. He bowed quickly, the motion crisp as a snapped reed. “Ah—Miss of the Lancelot Family. May I ask what you need from me?” “Hm?” The question pricked Lucimia like a thorn. “How are you sure I came for you?”
“This,” Ritch said, steady as a lantern in a breeze, “is my guess. I’m at the roadside. If you were heading elsewhere, you’d take the middle. You came straight along the edge toward me.” “And what if I just like the edge?” Her words skipped playful, like a pebble across a pond. “Ah… haha. The young lady of the Lancelot Family has a sense of humor,” Ritch chuckled, his smile flimsy as paper.
Lucimia folded the playfulness like a fan and asked plain. “I need to ask you something. You know Cole well, right? Have you noticed any problem? Any strange edge to him?” With Ritch, her trust was a thin silk thread.
“The Captain? Why ask like that?” Ritch’s brows knit like willow branches, yet he sifted his memory like sand through fingers. “I didn’t see a problem. Same as always. Nothing unusual.” “Really nothing? For example, something set one day, then forgotten the next, that kind of slip?” Lucimia nudged his thoughts, guiding like a reed boat with a palm.
She asked to confirm if Cole was truly a Deceiver. If the memory stayed clean yet the acts turned crooked, then the Deceiver’s shadow was nailed down. Ritch listened and thought again, more careful, like counting beads. “I don’t recall anything like that. The Captain’s temper is rough, and he likes power like a cat likes warm stone. But he never forgets his work. He’s never had that flaw.”
So be it. That meant Cole truly had a problem, a thorn under silk. “Thanks for the answer. Then, goodbye.” Lucimia turned, her cloak a soft wave.
“Please wait!” Ritch called, the word winging off like a startled bird. Lucimia turned back, her gaze cool as morning dew. “What is it?”
“I want to ask… does the Captain have a problem? Are you heading to… fix something?” His voice was careful, like stepping on thin ice. “Why ask that?” Her tone pulled taut like a string.
“This.” Ritch went on, reasons laid like stones in a path. “If it’s just a bad temper or power abuse, we’d use the law. But you, of the Exorcist Family, came in the middle of the night like a shadow. That suggests something we can’t air out. Naturally, I thought of a Dark Deity or an Evil Entity.”
That was surprising, a spark in dry grass. Suspecting Cole was normal; leaping straight to Evil Entities was a bold bridge. “Why think that?” Lucimia asked, curiosity flickering like a candle.
“Oh, because if the Captain’s fault were ordinary, daylight would handle it. But the moon called you, and your family handles the unseen tide.” His answer was clear, water drawn from a spring. All right, the man had a sharp eye, a hawk for small prey. In the first loop, of so many soldiers, only he noticed problems with wounds, detail catching like burrs on cloth.
“So, was I right?” he asked, hope glinting like a fish. Should she tell him? Lucimia weighed it like scales under starlight, then chose the straight road. “Yes. As you thought.”
“I see.” Ritch exhaled, wind through grass. “But I still don’t quite believe the Captain is tied to a Dark Deity.” Lucimia went silent, a pause heavy as rain. You guessed the dark river, and now you doubt the current? What are you doing?
Forget it. Don’t waste the night; time was a burning wick. “Sorry, sorry.” Seeing her face cloud, Ritch waved quickly, hands fluttering like sparrows. “I meant, the Captain has faults, but he bears a soldier’s duty like a yoke. Patrols, for example. Other soldiers rest; the Captain is on duty every day, never absent.”
Ritch sketched Cole’s deeds, words set like fence posts. Lucimia blinked and countered, her voice a cool blade. “Ever think he works every day precisely to hide bad acts in the flow?” Ritch fell silent, the quiet wide as a lake.
After a moment, he nodded, slow as a leaf drifting down. “You make sense.” His fists tightened, knuckles pale as bone, his body trembling, excitement rising like heat off stone. Before Lucimia asked, he blurted, “You’re going to eliminate an Evil Entity, right? Could you take me?”
“You want to go?” Her tone was moonlight on steel. “Yes.” Ritch nodded hard, then drew his sword; cold light slid out like water.
“You’re a Purification Knight?” Lucimia asked, eyes narrowing like dawn slits. “No.” Ritch shook his head, firm as a nailed board. “Do you know the traits of Evil Entities?” “I do. They beguile and seize thoughts, like ivy on old walls.”
“Then if you’re not a Purification Knight, how do you fight them?” Her earlier respect cooled, mood dropping like evening. He’d seemed sharp; now he sounded hot‑blooded, a page from a fevered tale.
“About that.” Ritch slid a hand into his shirt and pulled out a pendant, holding it up like a shard of sky. “I have this, so I’m not afraid.” The pendant was a long rectangle, deep azure like lake ice.
“What is it?” Her voice fell soft as snow. “It’s a sacred item of the Purification Church. Feed it mana, and it grants me an hour of immunity to pollution, like a glass bell. It’s single‑use; once spent, it breaks.”
A sacred item? The Purification Church had something like that? Not impossible; a church might sell such things like incense for coin. Lucimia didn’t know the Church well; her knowledge was a thin map.
“This pendant was a gift from my father.” Ritch’s eyes warmed, embers glowing in ash. “When he was young, he saved a Purification Knight. The knight gave him this, said it could grant brief protection.” So that’s how it was. Lucimia nodded quietly, a small wave settling.
