Lucimia gave Ritch a quick sketch of the octopi—nightmares in borrowed skin. Ritch grasped it at once.

“So, those two got swapped by octopi? The dinners I treated them to—once real, now turned hollow?”

“That’s right.” Lucimia nodded.

Ritch narrowed his eyes like a drawn bow and clenched his longsword. Anger simmered. “How do we work together? You’re the pro. You call it.”

“…Hmm.” Lucimia thought a beat, then said, “Can you behead both of them in one instant?”

Armor blunts blades, but the neck is bare, the apple stem. So Lucimia wants Ritch to strike there.

Once Ritch severs their necks, the skin-suit will melt and show the true octopus. Her magic will follow and erase them before their scream breaks free.

Bringing Ritch was a wise move.

Lucimia’s magic has strange efficacy, but the shell blocks once. She needs a second strike, and the gap gives screams room. If she mistimes it, the octopi will cry out.

“No problem. Leave it to me.” Ritch almost vibrates. He steps before Lucimia.

They agree on a hand sign. Three-count, and move on one.

Three.

Two.

One.

Ritch moves!

He moves the instant only one of her fingers remains.

He uses odd footwork, tiptoeing in a sprint—swift and silent like a cat on snow.

From the shadow, Ritch swings forward from behind. Before the two soldiers can react, their heads are gone.

The skin liquefies and shows a black octopus within.

The octopi try to scream—raaah—but Lucimia’s magic hits in their wake. The sound jams in their mouths. Bodies lock, then crumble to powder.

All this unfolds in seconds. Two posted Deceivers fall with ease.

Ritch lets out a long breath and drops onto the ground. His sword hand trembles.

He gives an awkward grin. “First time killing people—no, killing octopi. Feels so weird.”

Lucimia sighs. You’d expect comfort from a girl, but she says, “You killed people. I killed octopi.”

Ritch freezes, speechless.

As someone seasoned by Deceiver incidents, this doesn’t stir Lucimia much.

“Let’s go. We need to break the rite fast.” She slips past Ritch and into the corner the octopi had watched.

“Alright.” Ritch stands, dusts his rear, and follows.

“Still, you’re truly the Lancelot Family’s lady. Your magic is fierce.”

Lucimia doesn’t know how to respond.

Along the way, they meet more posted octopi and end them quietly the same way. After another corner, Lucimia notices clear differences. The infiltration runs deeper now.

“Here… it suddenly feels wide,” Ritch murmurs.

Before, the sewer paths were narrow. Now, they open out.

The ceiling rises high like a vaulted hall. The floor spreads wide enough for seven or eight abreast.

Like a plaza inside a sewer, a broad rectangle cut from stone.

“Hush.” Lucimia presses a finger to her lips and signals him on.

She hugs the wall and slides forward like a shadow on bark. With sightlines blocked, she won’t risk speed.

At every step, she checks the path below and the dark above for lurking things. Only when it’s clean does she move again.

Before long, Lucimia finds the goal of this run.

An open ground ahead holds stone piles shaped into odd buildings. They carry a heavy religious tang. Set all around, they form a crooked altar.

At the altar’s center stands a statue. Stone-carved, an octopus with countless tendrils and a hollowed face. Abstract, yet it resembles Elyssus.

Followers crowd around and kneel like a field of grain. A quick count—at least dozens.

Only the northern apex of the altar holds one man—Cole.

Cole lifts both hands and mutters low words no one understands. The octopi around the altar echo him, chanting in kind.

This can’t stand. They’re holding a rite. We can’t let it finish.

Lucimia’s brows draw tight like a knotted cord.

“What now?” Ritch whispers. “So many octopi—can we fight them?”

“…I can,” Lucimia says under her breath.

She draws two deep breaths. Black hair veils her brow and the upper half of her gaze. She raises one hand and whispers to herself, “Whirlwind Dance…”

It’s her first try at this group-attack magic.

Gentle breezes bloom from her palm and coil around the space.

In the stifling heat, it feels cool at first. Then the wind grows teeth.

The whoosh turns to a low, booming moan. The sewer spins like a tornado.

Dust rises like mist. Water in the channel leaps up the same way.

The wind screams like a beast freed from its cage. It leaves clawed scars along the walls.

Water whipped into air makes the sewer rain.

The twister, edged with biting droplets, drives straight into the Deceivers at the altar. Drops beat the octopi without mercy and rip raw screams from them.

It happens too fast. The octopi don’t even react and take the spell head-on.

Every one struck triggers her magic’s peculiar bite. They’re wiped clean.

Even the statue of Elyssus is left scored and scuffed.

From dozens, only seven or eight remain, shivering behind cover.

Ritch thinks he sees even Cole fall to that high-tier spell.

Yet Lucimia doesn’t relax. To her eyes, Cole wasn’t hit at all.

He used a crooked trick to fool the attack. The drops passed through him, touching no flesh.

Cole finishes his strange art and sets a hand to the greatsword at his back. He bends, one hand to the ground, like a runner on the blocks.

The next heartbeat, he lifts his head, shows wicked eyes, and vanishes.