“Behind you!” Lucimia shouted at Ritch, her voice slicing the air like a snapped bowstring.

But Cole was fast; by the time her cry flew, his silhouette flickered behind Ritch like a shadow slipping at dusk.

He whipped his greatblade, a brutal arc aiming for Ritch’s neck like a guillotine dropping.

Thanks to Lucimia’s warning, fear slammed Ritch’s chest, then he pitched forward and hit the ground, skimming dirt like a thrown stone.

He didn’t know what had erupted behind him, but if the Lancelot Family’s young lady said watch your back, you dive and live, like a carp cutting under a net.

The missed strike carved the air, a sharp whoosh like wind torn by steel.

Cole lunged to press the attack, but Lucimia snapped a water orb from her palm like a bursting spring.

He had to halt and raise the blade as a shield.

The orb slammed into steel with a thudding wave, making the sword shiver like a struck tuning fork.

Cole blinked, a prickle of surprise like frost along a blade; he hadn’t expected such force, and his grip stung like raw skin in winter.

He skipped back two steps, switched hands on the greatblade, and shook his numb fingers like a dog shedding water.

Their first clash ended like two storms pulling apart before the second wave.

What just happened, like a card trick in smoke?

The spell had seemed to pass through Cole, missing like rain through a ghost; did it fool Lucimia’s eyes? No—Cole had fooled the spell itself, like a mirror lying to light.

He cheated the magic into thinking it struck, while in truth it didn’t, like a phantom hit on water.

He used a Deceiver’s Blessing, cold as ink bleeding through silk.

Then why not cheat the water orb and avoid the block? That meant the Blessing wasn’t free to spend, like a bow that needs breath before the next draw.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Lancelot’s… what’s-your-name?” Cole rested the blade on his shoulder, his smile flicking like a cat’s tail. “Weren’t you supposed to be some pampered noble girl who knew only pleasure? Look at you now—Mage? Whirlwind Dance? A composite spell, like wind braided with water?”

Lucimia didn’t bite; wariness rose like a tide in her eyes as magic gathered in her palm like frost knitting on glass.

Ritch had scrambled up, gripping his sword like a lifeline, breath steaming like a horse before a charge.

The hulking man looked utterly unruffled, even picking his ear with lazy fingers, voice drifting like smoke. “Wind element, water element, and composite—at least a third-tier Mage. Tsk. You aren’t even of age, right? Scary. Talent-wise, you probably beat both your brothers, like a hawk outsoaring crows.”

Ritch dusted himself and opened his mouth to speak, but Lucimia cut in; tension sparked like flint as she raised a ground-spike under Cole’s feet, the stone lance darting for his groin like a viper.

Cole stamped and slipped aside, dodging with ease like water sliding off oil.

“Oh, so baseline is a fourth-tier Mage. Too strong,” Cole said, his grin lounging on his face like sunlight on a wall.

This time, anxiety prickled Lucimia’s skin like nettles, hard and sharp.

Praise didn’t puff her up; the lighter his compliments floated, the tighter her chest cinched, like a drum-head stretched before a strike.

She’d suspected it earlier: even knowing her strength, Cole had set an encirclement like nets cast for a shark, not minnows—his power wasn’t anything like those little octopi.

Now it nailed her suspicion down like a peg hammered into ice.

Facing a fourth-tier Mage, he stayed calm, the situation rippling under his control like a lake untroubled by wind.

He carried absolute confidence, thick as armor; was it the Blessing? Yet the Blessing shouldn’t bite deep into Lucimia, like rain skimming off oiled silk.

Or was it his raw strength, solid as iron sunk in stone?

“Tsk tsk. I saw you a few times before—thought you were quiet. Didn’t expect fangs. I wasn’t even done talking,” he said, voice playing lazy notes like a reed in shallow water.

“Cole! I used to think your conduct was a bit off, but you at least did your job. I didn’t expect you to be a Dark Deity’s dog!” Ritch shouted, anger rising like fire through dry grass.

It was Ritch speaking, and fury shook him like wind shaking a banner.

Cole flicked a glance at Ritch, lips peeling back in a grin, and he let the blade slide from his shoulder like a falling beam.

“Ritch… heh. You don’t grasp Elyssus’s greatness. You know how I got my position? I scammed it with a Blessing,” he said, words spiking like thorns.

Lucimia’s brows tightened, unease curling like smoke—his post was scammed? How do you cheat a rank?

Cole explained, voice rumbling like distant thunder: “Long ago, beasts invaded the Town of Tranquility. Alvis rallied a mass of guards. I was just a common soldier, empty-handed. I was angry—worked dutifully for so long and no promotion, while the ones with power in the guard pressed down on the lower ranks like stones on grass.”

“Alvis wasn’t on the front because of other matters. Those higher-ups sent soldiers to die while they sat in warm offices sipping tea, like fat cats by a brazier. When Alvis was around, they fought to be first like hounds for meat.”

“Later, during the defense, I chanced upon a statue of Elyssus and formed a bond. It gave me a Deceiver’s Blessing. In those days, one soldier was ferocious—others could handle one or two beasts, but he cut down ten alone. His merit shone like a torch in a storm.”

Cole stopped there, silence hanging like a blade over the throat.

“The brave soldier? That soldier was you…?” Ritch asked, doubt flickering like a moth to flame; a heartbeat later his eyes widened like doors flung open. “Wait! Don’t tell me—?!”

“Hahaha, that’s right!” Cole laughed, the sound harsh as gravel. “I used the Deceiver’s Blessing to fool every eye there. They all saw that soldier as me, like fog repainting the world.”

His face warped into something feral, a sneer and a gnash trading places like storm clouds crossing a moon.

“Everyone took that soldier for me. They crowned me the hero! Back home, they promoted me on the spot. I became captain, got power, got reach. And that brave soldier? I made them all see him as a beast. Exhausted, he was cut down as a monster by his own, like a stag torn by its herd! Hahahaha!”

Cole tipped his head back, mouth gaping, laughing with a jagged edge like a hyena under a red moon.

“You bastard!” Rage roared through Ritch, his sword-hand trembling like a bowstring under strain; finally, he snapped and charged with his blade like a wave breaking.

“Wait, don’t rush!” Lucimia called, panic blooming like a spill of ink, but it was too late, like rain after the fire catches.

Seeing Ritch strike first, Cole shed his lazy mask; seriousness settled like iron, and he raised the greatblade and chopped down on Ritch’s charge like a falling tree.

Ritch lifted his sword to block, the motion clean as a swan’s wing cutting water.

The two irons rang together with a crisp clang, like ice snapping under a heel.

Cole’s strength was clearly greater; from below, Ritch was driven down, knees sinking like earth under a battering ram.

Cole saw the opening, lifted his leg, and kicked Ritch in the gut, sending him flying like a kite cut loose.

Ritch skidded along the ground for meters before stopping, blood spilling from his mouth like crushed berries, and the pendant on his chest shattered like glass.

“Cough, cough…” The sound rasped like sand in a reed.

The whole exchange took less than five seconds, swift as lightning across a night sky.

Lucimia saw it all, shock curdling in her gut like milk in heat.

She’d warned him not to rush—why didn’t he listen? The thought clicked like teeth in cold wind.

Exasperation spread over her face like a shadow; charge blind at an unknown level and you eat dirt—in her previous life she’d read countless novels and comics that did it just like this, the pattern like a drumbeat.

Still, she understood why Ritch burned, empathy rising like warm water.

She grasped Cole’s tale well enough, the picture forming like charcoal strokes on rice paper.

A brave, skilled soldier had his honor stolen by Cole and was hacked down by his own comrades as a beast, like a lion mistaken for a wolf.

Even Lucimia felt it was cruel beyond measure, the Deceiver’s malice crawling like ants under skin.

She imagined, dread first like a cold wind.

Then thought: if it were her—if a Deceiver were taken for Lucimia by her parents and everyone she knew, all their love poured onto the impostor.

The best food served to the fake, her clothes on that body, her bed warmed by that thief, her name used to commit worse acts like ink blotting a family record.

No matter how Lucimia screamed that she was real, no one would understand.

They’d take her for a daydreaming drifter or a monster, like a stray chased from firelight.

And if the latter, they’d hunt her, torches in a winter wind.

The mere thought raised gooseflesh along her arms like a field of rippling grass.

Your life replaced, your face stolen, and you watching helpless, hurt by those you love like roses cutting the hand that tends them.

Too terrifying, cold as a blade beside the throat.