Additionally, the events Cole described were storms Lucimia never stood in. They likely fell before her birth, or when her dawn was younger.

Alvis wasn’t there to see with his own eyes. Soldiers praised Cole like wind carrying fire, and he likely believed it.

He slipped through that gap like water through cracked stone.

One thing gnawed at Lucimia, like a moth at silk. Cole didn’t look like a puppet of the Dark Deity, mind chained under shadow. After meeting Elyssus, did he kneel by choice like a hawk stooping?

Are believers split in two paths like a forked river? One is fully controlled, iron under frost. The other leans toward shadow, a moth to flame. The Dark Deity feeds their wants, and they serve like tethered hounds.

What about Lucimia’s own believers, leaves under her wind? Are they ruled by her hand, or do they step forward by choice like seedlings seeking sun?

If it’s the former, Lucimia never cast any chains, a sky without nets. If it’s the latter, what do they want from her, like beggars reaching for a lantern?

She let that question drift downstream like a leaf. Handle what’s in front of her first, cut the knot with a blade.

After Cole’s story, anger rose in her chest like a red ember. It was her first time burning for someone else, a new fire.

She already meant to shatter the ritual and end Cole, a hammer to glass. Now she could avenge that soldier too, two arrows for one hawk.

Cole wagged a finger, arrogance like smoke. “Ritch, Ritch—Third Rank Swordmaster, but dust under my heel,” he said.

Lucimia pressed her lips, brows drawn like storm clouds. Caution pooled inside before movement, a cat coiled. She watched Cole’s every motion, eyes like frost on glass.

She knew she’d face Cole next, a lone blade before the storm. She weighed ways to kill him, thoughts like chess stones on ice.

The problem was his real strength, a moon behind clouds. He had to hide a card, a dagger in his sleeve, something fearless.

Cole fixed his gaze on the black‑haired girl like a hawk. He dragged a broadsword toward Lucimia, steel scraping like thunder.

Blade against cement shrieked like nails on slate, a crow’s cry.

“Lucimia, was it?” he clicked his tongue, words dripping like tar. “Good mind, not like that trash on the ground, or the panicked flock your age.”

“You like preaching, or judging?” Lucimia lifted her chin like a blade’s tip. “That confidence says you think you can beat me, doesn’t it?”

Cole tsked three times, sound like a sparrow pecking grain. “Exorcist Family blood—no wonder you’ve got iron in you,” he said.

He added, voice like wind over high ridges. “Little sister, don’t let a few spells crown you king among kids.” “There’s always a higher mountain, sky beyond sky.”

Lucimia’s brow tightened like a knot. “People? Aren’t you a dog?”

Cole laughed, a bark turned grin, anger fizzing like boiling oil. “Fine, fine—without a taste of color, you won’t fear,” he said, blade-bright.

His steps snapped forward like a released bowstring. After two strides, his right foot stamped. Boom.

He burst toward Lucimia like lightning, the stomped floor spider‑cracked.

“Die!” he roared, arm bending, the blade carving a cold moon across the air. The edge kissed her throat, a winter line ready to sever.

Shock struck her first, breath pinned like ice under stone. In one blink, he crossed dozens of meters, a hawk diving. In the next, steel rested at her neck, a frost ring.

Could a human do this, or was this shadow-born? No—he wasn’t human, a thing from the dark river.

She let the complaint pass like mist, then steadied. Panic drained in a second, calm pooled like still water. She stood unmoving, face smooth as a quiet lake.

“Careful…” Ritch rasped, mouth full of blood, words like wet leaves.

Whoosh.

As the blade was about to bite her skin, it stopped, a freeze in mid‑air. Cole hung there too, motion locked like a bug in amber.

Pop.

A second later, his figure burst like dust and blew away. Cole reformed dozens of meters away, shadow stitched back together.

“Shame,” he said, lifting empty hands like a man shrugging off rain. “Didn’t see the panic I wanted on your face.”

He had been testing her too, a mirror to a mirror. Just as Lucimia couldn’t read his strength, Cole couldn’t read hers.

A supposed waste suddenly showed a Fifth Rank Mage’s flame, a hidden sun. Maybe a secret weapon of the Lancelot Family, cards under silk.

Cole looked light on the surface, but caution coiled like a snake.

So he used a Deception Blessing, a mask under shadow. He knew she had Exemption, two forces grinding like water and fire. Even if it couldn’t fool her fully, it might nick the edge, shorten the swindle like dusk.

He hadn’t expected her to break it in a blink, a blade through gauze. That forced his guard higher, shutters pulled against storm.

Lucimia needed only a few seconds to read his mind, a lantern over ink.

If he truly had that strength, he would’ve cut her then, thunder to tree. He didn’t, which meant he couldn’t, a tiger without fangs.

Clear now, pride rose in her like a banner in wind.

She snorted, arms crossed like spears. “Do you know who my second brother is?”

“Your second brother?” Cole blinked, confusion like dust in the eyes. He thought, then said, words stacking like stones. “Saw him once—Eighth Rank Swordmaster, strong as iron.” “If I had to face him, I’d lose.” “But he’s not in town, is he?” “Using someone’s name to scare me? Cute, little sister.”

“No,” Lucimia cut in, voice a knife. “I mean I’m Eighth Rank too—an Eighth Rank Mage.”

“You?” Cole froze, surprise like a bird startled from brush.

Lucimia saw strain pinch his features, ease sliding off like rain. His eyes narrowed; he licked his lips, unease a thin tremor.

She played on his doubt, wearing a grand mantle like moonlight.

Cole tapped his teeth with his tongue, thinking like a drumbeat. After a dozen seconds, he laughed, sound greasy as smoke.

“So what?” he said, grin like a cut. “Whatever rank you are, does it change the next blows?” “If you truly are Eighth Rank, I can’t run—I'll accept death like night.” “If you’re not, I’ll beat you, then savor a noble lady’s taste like wine.” “After I’m done, I’ll have the octopus replace you, ha ha ha.”

Cole’s laughter dripped filth, a sewer overflowing.