"Respond..."

Uh.

"Respond..."

Hmm... why does this Reversion feel different, like a river running backward under new moon light?

"..."

Why isn’t it done yet? Why is everything ink-black, like a covered well?

"Answer us... answer me..."

Huh? Odd. A whisper grazes my ear like night wind through bamboo—respond?

"Great... Olivya..."

"Ugh!" A spike of pain lanced Lucimia’s heart, like a hidden thorn. She snapped her eyes open like shutters in a storm.

Snowy static filled her sight, like an old TV losing signal in a white blizzard.

Then, as time dripped like dew, the image cleared.

She saw herself at the altar again; ahead, black-robed figures kneeled like a field of shadows in a steady wind.

What’s going on? Did Yuna set the Reversion point to the night she first appeared at the Sacrificial Ritual, like a clock rewound to a fatal hour?

No. Something’s off, like a lute struck out of tune.

The priestess isn’t dancing; she’s kneeling too. Every robe bows like wheat bending under the breeze.

Instinct pricked first, like a fish tugging the line. Lucimia stepped forward, expecting the old paralysis—the frozen-body dream. But her limbs flowed like water; she could move.

Huh?

She stared at her own foot landing like a leaf; then the other tapped down on the empty stone.

"What is this...?" The question rose like mist parting.

She realized she truly could move, like a carp breaking through ice.

"Eh? Wait, I can talk? I have a voice?" Joy popped like firecrackers; she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Hey? Can you hear me?" Lucimia called toward the priestess, her voice a bell in fog.

But the priestess didn’t stir; head bowed, she kept kneeling like a carved idol.

Lucimia stepped closer, leaned in, and crouched, like a cat peering at a hidden thing.

She wanted to see the priestess’s face. Before, the hood hid all but lips and chin; the whole visage stayed veiled like a moon behind clouds.

From below, she finally saw. A pale face, not cutesy; features cleanly hewn, a woman ripened like autumn grain, intellect shining like a still lake.

Her eyes stayed closed; no ripple, no response, like a statue at prayer.

Lucimia stood and glanced at the sea of black robes below, like crows clustered on snow.

By the way, what do they see? I’ve never seen the altar whole—only shards, like broken mirrors.

With that thought, Lucimia meant to turn. She’d look from a black robe’s angle, from the priestess’s gaze, to grasp the altar’s true bones, like a painter stepping back from the canvas.

Before, she’d been stuck in the altar’s heart, seeing only the flanking structures, neck stiff as a pillar, barely able to tilt left or right.

Now it was different. She could turn, like a weather vane catching new wind.

So Lucimia turned, like a leaf wheeling in an eddy.

She hadn’t known; the turn hit like thunder.

What lay behind slammed her with shock, like lightning splitting a night tree.

A giant half-length woman hovered above the altar, a phantom rising like moonlight over ruins.

She wore a cascade of black hair and nothing else. Her skin was flawless snow, naked to the air, with two trailing locks curtaining what mattered, like silk drapes over jade.

Eyes closed, fingers interlaced, fists folded before her lips—a pure prayer stance, still as a winter shrine.

Who was she? The question rang first, like a stone dropped in a deep well.

"...She looks... like..." Lucimia murmured, voice thin as mist over water.

She realized the woman looked a lot like her. Even the brows held that cool, distant air, like frost on pine. The lines differed slightly, but the likeness stood like a twin’s shadow.

From the curves of that body, the maiden face, the fullness on her chest, Lucimia judged she was older—grown, like a bud already in bloom.

Who was she? The question returned, an echo rolling through a canyon.

Was she Lucimia, but grown, like tomorrow’s reflection? Or was she... Olivya, a name rising like a pearl from deep water?

But why would Olivya mirror her face, like a reflection in still water?

Was Olivya a person or a god who’d existed before, like a star with an old name? Or was that the name for Lucimia after becoming a Dark Deity, like a title carved upon night?

The woman gave nothing back; eyes shut, she prayed like a stone lantern in rain.

Huh? There’s a bookshelf behind the altar?

Lucimia spotted, behind where she stood, a bookshelf built of stone, like a tomb’s niche.

The kind you see in a church, made to cradle a single book, like a petrified lectern.

She walked up. A book lay there, already open, like a bird with wings spread.

She leaned in and paged through, leaves whispering like wind in reeds.

"Hmm... the Magic Array layout, choosing the offerings... Huh? Is this a book about Olivya?" Curiosity lit up like a lantern; she kept reading.

She found it very old. Some text was ruined, washed away like ink in rain.

The content matched her guess. It told of Olivya, the Dark Deity—the Sacrificial Ritual, the summoning rite, what offerings to use, what the faithful must prepare—like a manual of shadows.

Would it list her Authority Power, like a seal pressed in wax?

It did, but sadly the ink was mangled, like moth-eaten silk.

It read: Olivya’s Authority Power: [the script blurred like fog].

She couldn’t read it; nothing to do—like trying to grasp smoke.

She also saw the offerings and preparations weren’t fixed. The book only listed possibilities, like forks on a dark road.

Dead pork, living humans, lovely maidens, sturdy men—like a butcher’s ledger crossed with a fever dream.

For the believers’ prep, it said to dress... provocatively, like a stage before a storm.

All in all, it felt off, like a note bent half a step.

Still, it proved one thing: Olivya likely existed before, like a buried city under sand.

She flipped a few more pages, found no new river of clues. At last, by habit, she closed the book like a lid on a box.

That single click revealed a shock, like lightning trapped under the cover.

On the cover, bold letters cut like knives: The Resurrection Plan of Olivya Lancelot.

What—

Lucimia’s pupils pinched tight. A cold current climbed her spine; her body shivered like reeds in winter wind.

Those few words struck as hard as Elyssus’s revelation, like two hammers on one bell.

First, the name Olivya Lancelot alone left her gaping, like frost-bitten stone.

Olivya was... of her family, like a ghost from the Lancelot lineage?

Was her family a Dark Deity line after all, not an Exorcist Family, like night wearing a judge’s robe?

Who was she? Which branch? Her father had a genealogy; there was no Olivya on it, like a name erased from bark.

Wait... don’t tell me...

She remembered. Her father had said one thing: the Lancelot Family once had an ancestor who slew a Dark Deity, but the name was lost, like a page torn out.

Could it be...

Lucimia swallowed, throat dry as sand.

She lifted her gaze back to the black-haired girl in the sky, hanging like a new moon.

Could it be that the ancestor who slew a Dark Deity was Olivya—the black-haired girl before her, like a legend given flesh?

But if so, why was she now... a Dark Deity, like dawn turned to dusk?

Or had she been one before? Use a Dark Deity to kill a Dark Deity, like poison to cure poison.

As an old man once said: use magic to beat magic, like fire to fight fire.

So Olivya was a Dark Deity, and she killed other Dark Deities, like a hawk among hawks?

Or else, Olivya hadn’t been a Dark Deity. To slay one, she chose to become one, like stepping into night to end the night.