Honestly.

Lucimia thought Cole was a beast of a man, a bull charging through a thunderstorm.

He moved with inhuman speed, hacking wildly, catching every Wind Blade like a whirling fan.

Her spells tore him open, yet he regenerated, like weeds sprouting after rain.

High‑voltage shocks charred him like burnt cedar, and he still ran.

Fire swallowed him like a hungry tide, and he still wouldn’t die.

If he’d made it out of the sewer, he might’ve lived, like a rat finding night air.

Only her final strike blew his head apart, a clay jar smashed under a hammer.

Annoyance pricked first; she had underestimated him and walked in underprepared.

Her earlier fights had been too smooth, and this world still hid edges like unseen thorns.

That shadow‑cleaving blade cutting shadows had jolted her like moonlight slicing mist.

Still, in the end, she killed Cole; steel wrapped in silk, she was formidable.

Cough, cough...

No time to brood; flames still gnawed at the sewer, and smoke pressed her chest like a lid.

Foot on the ladder, Ritch reached to help, a hand like a reed in the wind.

She refused with a small shake, brushing him off like rain from a sleeve.

She pushed, and in a few quick pulls she climbed out of the manhole like a cat up a tree.

What about the fire down there?

Ritch panicked, his blaze a spark that could run like prairie fire.

Lucimia cast a look back, neck turning like a swan over dark water.

The flames rolled fast, consuming where she’d stood, surging outward like a crimson tide.

"Let the other mages handle it," she answered, voice steady like a stone.

They should’ve felt the commotion by now; the tremors and booms came in waves.

Maybe Father would bring people to settle it, rain following thunder.

"Move quick."

A familiar voice cut the fog like a bell.

Speak of him, and he arrives, like a shadow stepping out of dusk.

From afar, Lucimia heard a mass of soldiers marching, footsteps drumming like rain.

Her father led them, murmuring orders like low river flow.

"I’m leaving first."

She didn’t want to meet soldiers or Father head‑on, dodging the storm’s front.

"Huh? Wait!" Ritch called after her, voice skipping like a tossed pebble.

Lucimia gave him a look that asked, What, a crescent brow lifting.

"If you leave, when they ask, what do I say?" Ritch scratched his head like a puzzled sparrow.

"Do I get any credit?"

"Could you recommend me to the Purification Church to become a Holy Knight?"

"..."

Silence settled like dusk.

She weighed it, thoughts circling like crows.

Did Ritch deserve credit?

He helped with the initial infiltration.

In the fight with Cole, he was no help—kicked away like a leaf on wind.

But at the end, he did help.

Her mana was low, a drained well.

If she cast a Fireball Spell, she couldn’t then shape a flaming arrow.

That arrow needed to punch through Cole’s skull like a comet.

So he had some merit.

After a beat, Lucimia said, "Relax. I’ll recommend you. You did earn something."

"Really? That’s great!"

"As for when they ask you..." She paused, words dropping like pebbles into water.

"Say you stopped Cole, and don’t count me in."

"Huh? How’s that right?"

"Wouldn’t that steal your credit?"

"No, that’s like Cole; I won’t." Ritch waved his hands like shooing birds.

Ah, she hadn’t expected Ritch to be that straight, but that wasn’t the point.

Lucimia rubbed her eyes, weariness pooling like ink.

"When the soldiers arrive, say it like that in front of them."

"I’ll tell my father the details in private, like a candle behind a screen."

"This... oh, I get it," Ritch said, a light dawning like sunrise.

"You want me to keep it secret, right?"

"That the Lancelot Family’s young lady is actually strong—keep it under wraps?"

"So don’t say it in front of everyone."

"I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it secret." He thumped his chest like a drum.

Lucimia just nodded.

She was tired, words heavy like wet clothes, and she hurried away.

Tonight’s battle left her body and spirit drained, a candle guttering in wind.

She needed rest for the third‑day ritual.

No matter what, she’d sabotage the ritual, throw sand into the gears.

Before that, she’d watch Bazeroth, hawk‑eyed.

After Cole’s death, would he still follow the plan like a cart on ruts?

If he still tried to taint the Holy Water, she’d use an Imagerecording Stone.

She’d record his every move like frost etching glass.

Then she’d report to Father and the Purification Church.

They’d seize Bazeroth, drag him to the basement, and beat answers from him, chains cold as night.

She took a side path, a creek skirting rocks.

Along the way, she saw townsfolk rising, faces peeking out like owls.

The commotion had been no small thing, rolling like thunder.

She ignored them and sped to the family’s back yard, vaulted the wall, and slipped home like a shadow.

Come to think of it, had Lady Kaeli noticed her?

A prickle of worry, then calm like a still pond.

Seems not.

Otherwise Father would’ve come already, not this late, thunder before rain.

Was it because she flew out the window?

Lady Kaeli didn’t know Lucimia had the Flight Spell.

And their Town of Tranquility felt safe, like a warm quilt.

So constant watching seemed needless.

At home, maybe there was no need to watch, walls steady like mountains.

That sounded reasonable, pieces fitting like a puzzle.

She reached her bedroom and pushed the door, night air cool as water.

Outside, a bell tolled.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

At the sound, Yuna’s hand shot toward her black eye mask like a swift swallow.

"Wait, Yuna!" Fear spiked like ice, and Lucimia called out in a hurry.

Thankfully, Yuna stopped her hand in time, a blade halted mid‑swing.

"...Scared me half to death." Lucimia patted her chest, calming a fluttering sparrow.

If Yuna triggered Reversion, she’d probably cry.

She’d barely won; doing it again would break her like climbing the same cliff twice.

"Luci, sis?" Yuna’s voice came soft and sweet, like warm honey.

So much better than Cole’s ghastly shrieks, a flute after a storm.

"Mm, I’m back." Relief settled like rain.

"That’s so good." Yuna exhaled, pressure easing like steam, afraid Lucimia had died.

The blast and quakes had been fierce; even in the bedroom, Yuna felt them like distant thunder.

"Is it... handled?" she asked, voice small as a moth.

"Mm, it’s done."

"Let them handle the cleanup."

"I’m taking a bath first!"

"Mm‑hm." Yuna nodded, a small dove bobbing.

Lucimia stepped into the bathing room.

She loosened ribbons, undid clasps, and slipped out of clothes, pale skin like carved jade.

But that fair body bore several wounds, one stark enough to stab the eye like red ink on paper.

Her forearms held many fine scratches, no longer bleeding, barely aching like dried thorns.

Each calf carried a cut, scored by sword aura; the blood was clotting, a thin line still slipping like a stream.

Worst was her left shoulder.

Cole’s great blade had pierced it clean through, and fresh blood still flowed down.

It coursed over her breast, slid to her belly, and kept falling like red rain.