Night rolled in fast, like ink poured across the sky.

As with the last two times, the Church’s squad led by Bazeroth arrived on schedule, boots drumming a steady march to the Lancelot Family estate.

Lucimia watched the elder at the front—Bazeroth—with a hunter’s calm, eyes cold as moonlit steel.

He was a Deceiver. That truth felt carved in stone.

Unease first, then thought: with Cole dead and the ritual failing, Elyssus couldn’t issue its plan. Would Bazeroth still swap the Holy Water, or coil like a snake and wait?

By her reading, Bazeroth should know the town’s Deceiver. He’d likely reach out tonight, testing the plan like fingers on silk.

Now that Cole was gone, what move would Bazeroth make?

“Oh—beautiful lady…” A voice brushed in, like a feather catching the wind.

Regino.

“Tsk.” Irritation flared first; Lucimia clicked her tongue, her thoughts snapping like brittle twigs.

“Uh.” Regino hit a wall of silence. This loop, he didn’t even finish his opening line before it died like a candle snuffed.

He hadn’t even pulled out the rose. Its petals still slept in his sleeve.

“Pfft.” Behind, Desty let a laugh slip, light as a sparrow hopping off a branch. Not the old disdainful “tch.”

Regino, cheeks hot like embers, looked back to catch the culprit.

Desty moved quick. Her expression folded away like a fan. Arms crossed like a shield, she scanned the room, then met his stare with a puzzled “Hm?”—eyes clear as rainwater.

But Regino wasn’t a fool. He’d heard it clearly. That laugh was a girl’s, bright as a bell.

And near him, which woman besides Desty?

It was plainly Desty making him the butt of the joke.

A thin film of resentment iced his heart. He glanced at the red-haired girl, then turned, dropped a stiff greeting to Lucimia, and left like a gust losing steam.

It seemed Lucimia’s small move had nudged the river of events a finger’s width.

No matter. Just a minor riffle in the current.

At the banquet, Lucimia kept her gaze on Bazeroth, seeking ripples in his gestures, cracks in his words. She found nothing. He sat like an ordinary man framed by lamplight.

Meanwhile, Regino drifted close now and then, eager to show off like a peacock. Lucimia, thoughts humming, gave him a simple “Mm,” an “Oh,” and let him fade.

He had no choice. He drank alone, drowning bravado in wine like stones in a dark pond.

After a while, as the music tapered off, Regino stood and proposed a match.

Lucimia blinked, surprise prickling like cold dew.

Surprise first, then doubt: a “match,” not a magic duel like before. What was he angling for?

She fixed her eyes on him.

Regino said, “As a decent student at the academy, I have a bold request. I wish to challenge the Church’s Purification Knight, Miss Desty, to a match.”

He tossed a provocative look at Desty, sharp as a thrown pebble.

Silence fell, heavy as snow.

“This guy…” Lucimia froze, lashes fluttering like moth wings.

Was his brain kicked loose? How dare he fight a Purification Knight?

Honestly, Regino was hard to like. Worse than in the first loop; that Regino had at least a cleaner sheen.

Hearing the challenge, everyone turned to Desty, who was wolfing down food like a small, focused fox.

Caught mid-bite, Desty’s pretty face flushed, petal-pink. She set down knife and fork, then wiped her mouth with a measured grace.

Eyes gathered like lanterns. They waited.

She rose and gave a standard knight’s salute, posture straight as a spear. Her tone was formal, steady as a chapel bell. “I’m honored by your invitation. It means my strength has earned your regard. However, as a Purification Knight, my duty is to destroy Evil Entities and protect the people. My blade strikes only at evil, not at others. Therefore, I cannot accept. Please understand.”

She sat, light as a leaf finding its place.

A young face voicing such resolve had its own flavor, bright and clean.

Lucimia’s respect for Desty deepened, a quiet spring welling. Destiny wore principles like armor.

Now Regino stood alone on the stage, awkward as a scarecrow under clear sky.

Sensing the air turn brittle, Alvis smoothed it over, laughter spilling like warm wine.

“Ha-ha, the youth brim with fire,” Alvis said, filling his cup to the lip.

“Come, everyone—drink.”

“Right, drink.”

“I toast you!”

The hall loosened. Laughter rose like sparks.

Regino slunk back, gloom clinging like damp cloth. He stared at nothing, the chair holding his weight like an old tree.

He’d wanted to flash strength like steel in sunlight. Instead, she refused with polished words, and he stood there like a clown painted in daylight.

“Waa—waa.” He sniffled as he skewered a chunk of grilled meat, stuffing it in like a child hiding tears with food.

Lucimia watched, speechless, her patience thinning like a stretched string.

The interlude ended. People drifted out like smoke.

Lucimia returned to her room. She steadied Yuna with a few quiet words, then slipped out the window alone, a night bird taking wing.

She would watch Bazeroth’s every move.

High above, she traced the flow below, streets like veins and people like shadowed ants. Bazeroth led his men toward another apartment, pace smooth as a measured chant.

Nothing odd. He didn’t leave early. He took everyone inside like a shepherd closing his flock.

He hadn’t used a Deceiver’s Blessing to slip out early?

Once they vanished indoors, Lucimia flew ahead to Bazeroth’s room, hovered outside the window, and watched in secret, breath held like a diver.

The door creaked open, cricket-soft.

A figure entered first—Bazeroth’s silhouette, steady as a pillar.

“Bring the Holy Water in,” he said, voice even.

Four Holy Knights carried in four wooden crates, edges dull as old bark.

“Set them here,” Bazeroth pointed to a corner where shadows pooled like ink.

The knights arranged the crates neatly and stepped back.

“Good work. Rest early.”

They saluted and left, footfalls fading like receding tide.

Bazeroth sat at the desk, stretched like a cat, then drew a stack of papers from his robe. He spread them out, eyes combing lines like a reader in starlight.

Lucimia noticed, edged closer to the pane, narrowing her eyes till they cut like blades.

The papers held complex Magic Arrays, circles and sigils nested like moons. After a careful look, she saw it was the array for the Exorcism Ritual, not anything strange or tainted.

So far, Bazeroth moved like a normal man, not a Deceiver. No scent of rot beneath the incense.

“I don’t buy that you’ll sit still all night.” Doubt coiled first; resolve followed, hard as granite.

She decided to stake herself here through the night. If he truly meant to keep lurking, so be it. Otherwise, any flicker of motion would be captured in the Imagerecording Stone, the night drinking his secrets as proof of the Deceiver he was.