At heart, Lucimia admits Olivya is right, like a bell struck in a quiet hall.

How could she swallow this bruise to pride? It felt like a thorn under her nail.

Other transmigrators go full war god or open harems, blades singing across the world, never eating dust.

She never poked hornets’ nests; she wanted a silk-soft life, yet the Dark Deity Elyssus drifted in like smoke.

Why would Elyssus choose the Town of Tranquility, like a viper coiling on a shrine?

If it chose anywhere else, she wouldn’t lift a finger; but it picked her courtyard of calm.

Heat rises through her chest; Olivya’s right—the board isn’t set to mate. She can roll the dice again.

Unaware, her thoughts tilt, like a compass needle nudged by a hidden magnet.

She decides: skip hunting Magic Arrays, fly straight for Val Town, and have Yuna cast Reversion to right after she smashed the Town of Tranquility array.

No rest, no tea; leave now, beat Bazeroth to the strike like a hawk beating dawn.

“Yuna, Reversion. Today’s morning.”

“Okay.” Yuna lifts her blindfold like peeling a veil.

White light floods her sight; when it ebbs, she’s in the tavern’s back yard, air tasting of damp wood.

She checks the manhole cover; the fresh ash she dusted sits there, a breadcrumb of time.

“Good.”

She clenches her fist like holding a warm coal. This time she’ll save hours and clock Bazeroth to the minute.

She springs up, rides the wind, opens her mana wide, and cuts a straight line toward Val Town.

Playing it safe, she wraps herself in an Invisibility Spell, a thin gauze over the moon.

At full tilt, Val Town’s marker buildings rise like teeth from the plain.

It’s the spot she was sniped before; caution pricks like needles. Magic Eye open, she sweeps the rims, glancing behind.

No shadow moves; the grass lies quiet as silk.

Maybe Bazeroth isn’t here yet. Good—she’ll break the Magic Array first, snapping the thread before the loom runs.

How to do it clean?

Gather cloud over the array, fake a rain mood, then lance it with lightning; let townsfolk call it coincidence, not sabotage.

It’ll work—clean as a monk’s sleeve.

She lifts her hand; clouds herd from four winds like black sheep.

Below, faces tilt up; the day dims like a curtain. People hustle home, yanking clothes off lines.

Drizzle starts, a silver comb on rooftops. As she primes the bolt, Magic Eye catches an ice arrow knifing up from her lower flank.

It’s sudden, wind howling around its spine.

Her heart clamps like frost. Prepared, she slips aside; the arrow scythes past her cheek and vanishes.

She looks down through the rain, peering like into a pond.

An old man stands on the green, still as a stone lantern.

It’s Bazeroth, and beside him a red-haired girl—Desty—the Holy Knight with a Purification Blessing.

So early? Surprise flutters like a sparrow. Did he start the Magic Array yet?

“Hmph. Who’s this bold soul, wrecking my exorcist Magic Array right under my nose?” Bazeroth strokes his beard, eyes cold as ice over a pond.

From his tone, the array isn’t active; he doesn’t carry the last timeline’s memory.

Lucimia drifts lower, peels off the Invisibility Spell, and locks eyes with him like two blades biting.

Her voice is winter-cold. “How did you find me?”

“Heh. You can use a Flight Spell, yet don’t know the Magic Eye? I’m a mage too. One look said this rain’s wrong—crafted. I stepped out and—well—an unexpected face.”

He pauses, fingers in his beard. “The Lancelot Family’s young lady… Lucimia Lancelot.”

Her brows knit like black bows.

She’s underestimated him; he uses Magic Eye, so at minimum he’s an Eighth Rank Mage.

Can she take him? The question hangs like a blade over water.

Rage flares first, hot and clean. He shot at her. Debt inked in ice—she has to kill him.

Her thoughts scatter like sparrows; a cold killing intent spills from her like winter mist.

Bazeroth’s gaze hardens; this girl isn’t lamb-soft. Hostility rolls off her like storm heat—did his mask slip?

His eyes flick to Desty, gears turning like old cogs. A plan clicks.

If one blade won’t, two might.

He’s an Eighth Rank Mage, yet careful as a hunter; the stronger, the more scars, the sharper the caution.

“Ahem.” Bazeroth clears his throat and turns to Desty. “This is the Exorcist Family’s young lady I mentioned. I didn’t expect her to wreck the exorcist Magic Array. It’s a grave sin. As a Holy Knight, you know what to do. Come help me arrest her.”

Desty stays silent, draws her sword; steel runs out like a river, her gaze steady on Lucimia, trusting him without a ripple.

Lucimia only glances at the red-haired girl. “Knight, you’ve got a Purification Blessing, right? The kind that cleanses corruption.”

“…How do you know?” Desty parts her lips, puzzled, eyes like dusk lamps.

“Heh.” Lucimia doesn’t bite the question. “Are you dense? Use your Blessing first. Then cut the magic veil with your sword work. Look at the town’s array. Look at that statue. See if it’s the Purification Deity.”

“Right… oh.” Dawn breaks in Desty’s eyes; she lowers her blade and scratches her head.

“What?!” Bazeroth stares, mouth open, dumbstruck like a fish on dry stone.

No wonder—without Elyssus’s briefing, Bazeroth didn’t know she could see through the cover he laid on the Magic Array.

Even an Exemption Blessing wouldn’t do; he added magical tricks, like in the Town of Tranquility. Exemption and any Deception Blessing clash; clash doesn’t mean full exemption—only pressure. The deceit still sticks.

But Lucimia isn’t bound by Blessing tiers; seeing through it is child’s play.

“Desty, don’t listen to her. The array is normal. She’s splitting you off to pick you first. You’re safer with me.”

“Uh…” Desty’s raised foot stalls. She looks at Lucimia, then at Bazeroth, caught like a leaf between two winds.