Back home, Lucimia went straight to her father for a magic book, like a blade drawn clean from its sheath.

The reason was simple; storm clouds of action were gathering, and she needed to be ready.

Bazeroth had been laying Magic Arrays for years, veiled by special tricks; with his Deceiver’s Blessing, any passerby saw only mist.

But Lucimia seemed above a Blessing’s tier; that oil-slick glamour barely touched her, maybe not at all, so she didn’t worry.

She only needed a few spells to crack cover and haze, to pry up the stones hiding Bazeroth’s handiwork.

She also had to hone her high-tier spells; Whirlwind Dance had sat like a dancer untrained in the gale.

She had two plans, like two paths diverging in a moonlit grove.

One: find the Sacrificial Ritual early and sabotage it, snuff the candle before it burns, and avoid Bazeroth.

Two: find Bazeroth, then fly and catch the church’s route, shadow him like a hawk, and track him to the ritual.

That meant a head‑on clash, sparks tumbling into dry grass.

Not knowing his strength, picking the shallow ford over the torrent felt safer.

It would take study; afraid it would run into night, she asked Yuna for Reversion, so time’s tide could roll back for calm learning.

She worried most about nightfall; like a fox at the henhouse, Bazeroth might act while the church rested.

First she checked concealment spells—Invisibility Spell, misdirection, smoke and mirrors on a stage.

To see through them, your mastery must be higher than theirs, and you use a spell called the Magic Eye.

It sounded a bit demonic, like a bat’s gaze; it wasn’t—“magic” here only meant arcane craft.

“Seems… pretty hard.” She skimmed the page and met a mountain wall.

The book’s threshold for Magic Eye was tier eight, a cliff face of cold stone.

“This is too…” She wanted to complain, then swallowed the bitter seed.

Fine. Learn it. She tightened her bowstring.

With Yuna’s Reversion helping, Lucimia felt pure battle magic might lose to a Swordmaster, but magic shone like starlight in other fields.

Magic Eye was heat vision, radar sweep, satellite map; a lantern behind walls, even a touch of x‑ray sight.

Barely grasped, she tried it once. She peered out the window, and in a distant house, a couple lay entwined.

They burned like a hearth under a winter quilt, trading each other’s scent, faces lit with simple happiness.

“Uh…” For propriety, Lucimia shifted her gaze, a startled sparrow’s flit, and looked at Yuna.

Awkward—Magic Eye slipped past Yuna’s clothes like water through silk, fair skin laid bare, and…

She canceled the spell at once, yanking the curtain shut.

“Is this spell… proper?” Lucimia exhaled, steam leaving a kettle.

Propriety sits with the caster, not the spell. The effect was excellent; she’d rely on it to find Bazeroth’s Magic Arrays.

Next she refined Whirlwind Dance, spinning like a cyclone over fields of grass.

She had Yuna roll time back to noon; Lucimia changed into clothes cut for motion and tightened her laces to depart.

“Wait at home, like last time. If I don’t return, use Reversion. Roll back to now, not the very start.”

“Mm…” Yuna nodded, dew settling on a leaf.

Ready, Lucimia slipped out the window, a swallow tipping into the sky.

She rose and flew, clouds peeling like silk from a loom.

Her Flight Spell had grown smooth; no need to think then channel—one twitch, and she lifted, like fins to a fish.

Before leaving, she traced the church’s route, a river line inked on a map.

From the Royal Capital of the Kingdom of Sipan, they headed south to the Town of Tranquility, past cities and towns, following the river’s vein to the Lancelot Family.

Usually that path was an arrow—straight and true.

This time it bent; Regino traveled with the church to the Town of Tranquility, a new stone placed on the board.

Regino’s Val Town lies northwest of the Town of Tranquility. The northern church veered to pick him up.

A lake sits between Val and Tranquility; they couldn’t go straight. They had to angle southwest, a bowstring drawn into curve.

A straight road turned into an arc across water.

So Lucimia would start south or west of the Town of Tranquility, walk the church’s road, and probe for Bazeroth’s Sacrificial Ritual.

Where would the Magic Arrays be sown along this line, like seeds tucked into furrows?

Odd: if Bazeroth changed the route, did he lay arrays on the new road? On straight paths, how did he layer them over years, drip carving stone?

Maybe he used the Deceiver’s Blessing to fog minds—one way to explain it, like marsh mist.

Or Regino’s family had dealings with Bazeroth in secret, roots tangled under soil.

After so many reversals, she had to think like a storm among masks.

Assume the worst; only a high dike holds back Elyssus’s flood.

Still, before the first loop, Regino’s vow to become a Purification Knight rang like true steel.

Maybe Regino himself didn’t know, and someone else in his family was the rot, good fruit on a crooked branch.

Wait—what’s the family’s trade? Wine, cellars running like dark rivers.

“If his family has issues, then their wine… might too?” Lucimia voiced it, a sweet cup hiding bitterness.

At the banquet, most drank wine. Maybe not only the Holy Water, but the wine too—Elyssus set two snares under one leaf.

She had to assume it. Don’t trust too easily; a century of planning hides ice under thin snow.

Every time she broke the game, it flipped into fear; she learned to hang lanterns along the cliff and cut off every variable.

“Then keep the Magic Eye open and head for Regino’s family. By tonight, the church should reach Val Town…”

Goal set, Lucimia opened the Magic Eye and flew fast, an arrow through dusk.

Along the way she saw birds resting in treetops, worms in soil, anglers by water, woodcutters at trunks—people busy like ants.

She also glimpsed a few things she shouldn’t, rose blush warming her face.

She shook it off; the octopus problem was a tightened zither string, not a jest.

Lucimia circled the route for a good stretch, her net coming up empty of any ritual array.

Val Town drew close. If she found an array there, smoke would point to fire in Regino’s house.

She checked the time—near sunset. The sun bowed, and evening glow painted the sky’s edge.

Searching cost minutes; she pushed speed, flying straight for Val Town, a spear thrust along the wind.

After a while, Val Town lifted into view, rooftops rising like scales.

Houses sat irregularly, unlike the symmetry of the Town of Tranquility; Val Town felt like stones scattered by a child’s hand.

A landmark pierced the skyline; she saw it from far off, a needle on a plain.

A grand tower shaped like a wine bottle, the Regino crest carved deep, its glass neck stabbing the sky.

No wonder—wine was their banner and the town’s main trade, a river of amber coin.

Nearer now, the town’s full face came clear, and her Magic Eye cast a wide net over it.

“Huh? What’s that…?” Through the Magic Eye, a vast Magic Array sprawled on the ground, a cobweb etched in stone, a statue at its heart.

The statue was familiar; exactly like the one beneath the Town of Tranquility—an ugly octopus, slick tentacles and all.

The array’s structure matched the sewer’s Sacrificial Ritual, mirror to mirror.

So it was Val Town? Wait—that array sat in the central square, a bonfire in the market!

Not buried in secret tunnels—out in the open.

Regino’s family really had problems. Wouldn’t Regino react to that octopus?

Maybe the Deceiver used a Blessing of delusion, and everyone saw the Purification Deity instead, a veil over their eyes.

Lucimia sank into thought. She must break the array next. How?

If townsfolk saw it destroyed, how would they react? In their eyes, it was a warding array; hornets would pour from the nest.

They might never find her, a shadow slipping through reeds.

Forget it—go invisible, drop spells from the sky, blow the array, thunder from a clear blue, then vanish.

She thought it, and moved—then the unexpected slid in like a cold blade from behind.

Thwack! An ice arrow punctured her head in an instant, the tip punching through her left eye, the shaft lodged in bone like winter iron.

“Uh… huh?” Her mind went dark, a lantern snuffed.

From… behind? That was her last thought. She lost body and mana, and fell like a bird struck mid‑flight.

She slammed into grass; bones shattered; organs too; foamy blood bubbled from her lips, crimson froth on green.

“Ah…” She couldn’t even scream; that thin thread of awareness held, and in holding, it burned—better to have it cut clean.

Soon two figures walked in from afar, shadows stretching long, until their faces resolved like clouds into men.

A pot‑bellied man with a handlebar mustache—Regino’s father, a wine cask on legs.

The other wore a cobalt robe, held a staff as tall as himself, and stroked a white beard with a smile. He was Bazeroth, an ice‑blue wave under a crooked moon.

…So it was them?

Hit, her first thought was Bazeroth’s sneak attack. But shouldn’t he arrive at night?

Why so early? Had he begun the Sacrificial Ritual?

Had Elyssus possessed him? Was it Elyssus that loosed the shot, crows of doubt circling her sky?

No one answered. She lay half‑dead in the grass, a broken kite on a field, unable to cast a single spell.

They strode up to Lucimia and stopped, like two vultures settling beside carrion.

Bazeroth spoke first, tone dripping sour-sweet. "Well, well. Guess I've got a knack for shooting—hit a tiny bird's weak spot from way out here. Maybe I'll retire as a hunter. Hahaha."

"Yes, yes. As expected of the Chief Enforcer, sir," Regino’s father fawned, words fluttering like moths to a candle.

"A pity though. It was a black-feathered bird I brought down. If it were the pink-feathered one, that'd be perfect. Ah." He sighed, theatrical as wind over a stage curtain.

"Looks like she didn't bring the pink-feathered bird. What next?" Regino’s father rubbed his chin, thoughts clumping like wet clay.

"Can't be helped. She has Reversion; we won't remember a thing later," Bazeroth murmured, voice cold as ash. "But my lord wants her drowned in despair. I'll layer on a Healing Magic, make her die slower. At least before she Reversions, she won't get relief. Heh."

Their words seeped into Lucimia's ears, like poison soaking through silk.

What were they saying? A Healing Magic to slow her death? To grind her down? The questions beat like crows against a window.

Bazeroth raised a hand; a wash of green light poured from his palm, like spring over stone, restoring a sliver of her wounds—then stopped, sharply, like a blade between notes.

"Ah... ugh... ah..." The sounds fell from her lips like cracked shells.

The Healing Magic teased dull pain awake; what had been blurred now sharpened, like frost etching patterns across glass.

A drilling, heart-bore pain ripped through her, as if her body were cloth torn by storm; the knives near her eyes were unbearable.

Warm liquid seeped from her sockets, trickling like rain from eaves. It had to be blood.

Her shattered limbs throbbed with a strange tearing, like invisible hands plucking meat into tatters, piece by piece.

Her face drained pale; cold sweat streamed like melted hail. Every breath carried barbs, yet she had to breathe.

Lucimia grasped her plight; fear and helplessness surged like a black tide. All she could do was wait for Yuna to trigger Reversion.

But she refused to bow. Alongside fear and helplessness rose a rare ember—anger—glowing like coal under snow.

"Hahahaha." Bazeroth threw his head back, laughter clattering like iron bells.

She stared at his face, features twisted by mirth like a mask warped by heat.

Lucimia's chattering teeth bit hard into her lip; her fingers clawed the grass, hauling up dirt like a feral beast. Her eyes burned with killing frost as she fixed on Bazeroth and Regino's father.

So much pain, so much ache—because of you; because of you—these words rolled like thunder in her skull.

I will… I will… kill you… The vow coiled like a viper.

I will… hack you to pieces… The thought gnawed like wolves.

No, I'll… eat you… I'll… Hunger flared like a furnace, black and nameless.

Monstrous thoughts flooded her mind, a red river in spate. In the blur, she heard a voice, sweet as a flute, whispering at her ear—

"That's right, that's right… don't swallow humiliation. Kill them… eat them… this is what you should do… this is who you—" The words coiled like silk around a blade.

"...Lucimia." The name fell soft, like snow.

"...Olivya." The reply echoed, like water answering stone.

The last four syllables arrived as twin, overlapping voices, like two mirrors facing in a dark hall.